Armonía Somers - The Naked Woman

The priest, meanwhile, had paused once again, ostensibly to clear his throat. But as he pretended to be lost in thought, he surveyed the congregation and gauged their reaction.

“I say she does not exist,” he repeated, his voice taking on a prophetic timbre.

He looked over toward where the twins usually sat. A sunbeam shone through a small window high up on the wall, close to the ceiling. Refracted by the glass, it fell on one of the boy’s faces, making it impossible to see. Who knows what this solar phenomenon might signify? he thought. Perhaps it was accusing him of being an apostate. Or maybe the accusation was being leveled at the boy, who wouldn’t know where to begin defending himself. There was no doubt that it had fallen on one of the most inexpressive faces in the village.

“But even if she were to appear here now, she would still not exist. Not for the feeble minds of her discoverers, at least… Stultorum infinitus est numerus ,” he declared, admiring Solomon, the king who was always one step ahead, and blessing the fact that the Bible was written in Latin.

All heads turned toward the twins, both of whom were now bathed in the diffuse light. The priest was stunned for a moment, for this really did seem like some kind of sign. But fortunately he, an aficionado of color, was the only one to notice.

“Yes,” he added, bellowing to attract attention back to himself, “even if she does not exist for those who are unworthy of her, I shall continue my admonishment: Let he who did not sin in the shadow of paradise last night cast the first stone.”

He saw a cloud of unease fall upon each and every one of them.

“It is you , then, who are the dirty, naked ones—not her. And now unblock your ears, hear this, I have saved this news for the end. When our village has long since disappeared, as perhaps the heavens have ordained, this truth shall continue to float above the ashes like a winged creature: I, too, dreamed last night. I”—he repeated, beating his chest—“sinned wonderfully in my dream of her. And I do not ask forgiveness of God, my flock, or anyone else. This is the difference between you and me: you spit her out once you’ve had your way with her, even though you’re left wanting more, while I condemn myself on her behalf. And that is all for the day. Leave. Qui habet aures audiendi audiat .”

The little man in the pulpit had tested every limit imaginable: his courage, his voice, and the patience of his audience. He had already been flashed several fiery gazes and tempers seemed very close to boiling over when, in the last row of pews, a woman let out a bestial howl of pain that sounded like it came from the very bowels of the earth. First everyone froze, then the entire congregation ran to her aid. The priest slowly descended from his pulpit, patting at his sweaty forehead with a drenched handkerchief.

“Disgusting woman,” he murmured, “coming into the house of God to give birth. But nonetheless, John, I am grateful,” he said, stopping before the image of the church’s patron saint. “You’ve distracted the rabble…”

He had no interest in finding out what they were going to do about the birth or whatever the commotion was. He left through the small side door that led to the vestry. His desertion did not indicate indifference, he told himself perfectly reasonably, but was rather a result of what he had said from the pulpit. His words still scorched the air. If he bore any of the blame for what was happening, neither his help nor his presence would be appropriate. Better to leave them to their own devices. At least the barbaric pain they were about to witness would serve as a warning. It was a chapter from the ancient story they’d just heard. And God was rubbing it in their faces, presenting them with a woman split in two. He had clearly grown tired of mere suggestion.

He looked through the crumbling blinds, inhaling their scent with pleasure, and saw that the crowd had begun to break up, perhaps to make room for the more capable among them to do their work. He pictured them in his mind, wrinkled like apples over hot coals. But also with a mortal lump, something had shriveled inside of them, allowing their hatred to show. Yes, he had been sure of it from the moment early that morning when he had heard his deacon beating himself on the chest. Then, as he had let loose his sermon like a hailstorm, as each of them envisaged their punishment over eternal flames, the woman they wanted became more real, more intimate, and even more urgent. But there must be more to it , he thought, even if most of them are unaware . They were too brutish to fully understand their disgust with themselves, the nauseating sensation they had been feeling since the day before, and the only way they knew to express it was through hatred. They hated the unknown, they hated other people, and they hated themselves. The woman had shown each of them who they truly were, and it wasn’t the kind of revelation that was easily forgiven, at least while there was something still wriggling under the stone. She was free in her nudity, there could be no argument about that. But this demonstration of individual freedom only made their own plight starker. For example, the person who had neglected to wash their feet before they put on their shoes would feel the grit of manure between their toes and be ashamed in a way that had never occurred to them before. Another might worry about a vestigial tail. But minor details like these were just the start; there were much larger flaws that had long been carefully dressed up like a donkey at the fair. But even ribbons can chafe a wound, and so their shared revelations left them with no choice but to reject both the woman and each other. A single incarnation of freedom cannot exist without starting a war, perhaps because the splendor of its devotion is too great. How could they not condemn a nudity that reminded them so powerfully of their own imperfections? And wallowing in their disillusionment was as much as they were capable of, he concluded, still looking at them.

Meanwhile, he continued to detect the scent of sun-warmed wood in everything, whether oozing droplets of retained sap, or just the embalmed memory of its past. At least this , he thought, stroking the wood as though it were still alive, the stuff from which the village was made, never gets distracted by the latest scandal. It remains upright, in perfect equilibrium with itself and won’t ever get upset about anything. One of these days, if God or the village didn’t bring him to judgment first, he would take up their Sunday with a speech about wood: how it dies without rotting, meaning that it, in fact, lives on. Then there was that man, whose name he’d forgotten, the one who sat on a stone to take off his shoes and built himself a log cabin. One spring day, his eyes popping out of his skull in wonder, he saw that the logs, which had been sawed up and ruthlessly chained together, were sprouting once more. “Before they die for good next summer,” he had explained in passing, sure that the priest wouldn’t be satisfied with such a simplistic notion but tickled nonetheless by the captive branches. The priest told himself that he’d have to make it into a parable. The forest does not rot, not even the forest of the dead, whose roots delve deep into wormy tombs. But those who plant them do indeed rot, sometimes before they’re even dead, and this can have unfortunate atmospheric consequences for their neighbors. But what about him? He was just another pawn of time, he told himself objectively, and just as susceptible to mass decomposition. But he was without God and without fear. He lacked all the things that his fellow man had invented to protect himself: that was the difference. A man absolutely on his own. So, what could he use for self-defense if not the trees that had been rooted deep in the earth to prop up the heavens? At that moment he became entirely convinced that all this was truly happening. Even as he tried to persuade others that appearances could be deceptive, the alluring, fleshy reality of the evasive woman grew more and more tangible as she lay down upon the primordial greenery he had recently discovered, taking his brush out of his hand, wetting it with her own saliva to lighten the tone, and handing it back to him with her large palms. And that was when she no longer fit the unworthy canvas he had stretched out for her. Neither did she fit on the surface of his earth of green monsters. She remained in the dome of the sky. He would be forced to rely on the grace of God to create this immense fresco, whose innate fleshy roses would exceed all expectations.