The Way to Paradise - Part 1/10

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The cathedral was almost empty of worshippers. This time of the day, very few came. There was a man in a polo -barong who ventured in, going directly to the stark, almost naked figure of a Nordic Christ nailed to a gold-painted cross, wiping his white handkerchief on the figure's nailed feet, kneeling down, mumbling a few words and immediately leaving in the manner of one suffering from a lower intestinal urgency. The statue depicting the crucifixion was donated by an aging businessman in the late nineteen-fifties, a Chinoy who truly believed that his generous offering was a worthy barter for salvation, inflated charitable tax deduction notwithstanding.

Several penitents were seated or kneeling some distance from the confessional box, waiting patiently for their turn to receive the sacrament of penance, a couple of the young ladies, whispering to each other, barely able to control the urge to turn their cell phones on and respond to the text messages that had accumulated in the Message In-Box over the last twenty minutes, the bra-less prettier one sporting a flimsy blouse that teasingly displayed the imprint of tiny but protruding nipples. She wore a pair of low-cut fake Levi jeans imported from China, exposing a winking innie belly-button that seemed to have a life of its own, jeans with that worn-out look, fashionably faded and torn at the level of both knees as well at the back part conveniently located to show ever so discreetly the fold of skin between the right buttock and the back of the silky smooth cellulite-free upper thigh.

The others were mostly older women who were well aware that they were in life's pre-departure area and that it was time for them to atone and to repent for all the naughty and delicious things they did during their younger days, glancing at the two juveniles with obvious disdain and not so obvious envy.

One could almost read their minds, "Pweh, the young people these days...!"

Inside the cathedral, the atmosphere was properly solemn, every cough echoing, every murmured prayer bouncing back and forth between the thirty-foot concrete walls; a hallowed place for contemplation and for a conversation with the Almighty, a marked contrast to the traffic outside which was still hectic, the drivers of gas-guzzling, soot-spewing vintage vehicles, unmindful of the holy place of worship nearby, blowing their horns at the slightest provocation and with unfettered maniacal glee, while on the side-walk in front of the church, some bored Christian and Muslim women were squatted at the back of their stalls, where, on plywood make-shift tables , candles of different sizes and colors, used and new scapulars of countless famous and not-so-famous saints, discarded plenary indulgence cards which guaranteed immunity from several years of eternal damnation but which were no longer in vogue, statuettes of the Holy Family, numerous little figurines of the Holy Child in golden princely attire, crown studded with artificial precious stones perched on top of the tiny head, and other shiny religious trinkets deemed essential to Catholic salvation, were displayed for sale, commercial endeavors perhaps not unlike a scene that once incurred the ire of a thirty-something-year-old Nazarene who was less commercially inclined. Conveniently located to the right side of the entrance to the cathedral were butter-fragrant popcorn, steaming siopao, and banana-cue stands.

"My last confession was about two weeks ago," she continued softly as she made the sign of the cross.

The harried young priest with premature worry-lines on his forehead had been attending to his pastoral duties since dawn, having been hastily called to the over-crowded City Correctional Facility where he had been asked to intervene between two suspects, who had been in jail for two years without the benefit of a trial, the judges' docket being several years behind schedule, les miserables who did not have powerful politicians to bail them out, who could no longer stand one another in their suffocating confinement and who smelled worse than the rodents that shared their windowless cell; the prisoners were trying to bite each other's face, the smaller one aiming to stab the older man with a rusty fork, while the guard, a city casual employee who had not been paid his minimum wage for two months, prudently stayed away from the commotion and harm's way.

Having pacified and chastised them by his cassock and mere presence, the priest then had to rush back to the church to celebrate his obligatory daily mass and just before he came back to attend to the confessions, he had been to the Santos Medical Center to administer the sacrament of Extreme Unction to a middle-aged man who used to be a wife beater, an addicted gambler and a dishonest government contractor, and who suffered a premature slow leakage of a cerebral aneurysm, and who had been on the brink of death daily for the last three months, (a just punishment from the loving Creator, so happily claimed the modern-day Pharisees) and who finally decided to die without fanfare when his wife, children, and concubine were out for their early afternoon merienda of Arroz Caldo at the eatery across the street from the hospital near where the internet cafes were, just under the shamefully overpriced overpass that was used by the young vagrants for their morning rituals.

The priest was seated on a hard wooden short bench on top of which was a circular faded purple velvet throw-pillow, now almost flattened by use and old age, an extravagant indulgence of the aging parish priest who suffered from recalcitrant hemorrhoids. He tilted his head slightly to his right so he could hear the whispered confession, separated from her face by a dusty aluminum screen and a recently laundered cotton mini-curtain that discreetly hid the identity of the penitent from the confessor and which also mercifully filtered and sanitized the fetid odor of poor dental hygiene which surely fifty per cent of the population of the city-of-a thousand-years were victims of.

He could smell the now familiar inexpensive but soft and gentle perfume that she wore and when she spoke, he immediately knew who she was.

"Yes, my child, go on." Over the last two years, he had finally gotten over the discomfort of having to call everyone "my child." Only thirty-two years old, he was ordained four years earlier and she was at least two years older than him.

"Father, I have one sin to confess and I am not even sure if it is really a sin."

"Yes?"

"Father, may God forgive me, but I think I have fallen in love with you."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
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