13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [12]
The men talk loudly—they gesticulate—they must be excited about something. Something must be at stake. Perhaps they are getting a bit hot under those tight collars of theirs, a little worked up. The one in the black suit takes his jacket off, sliding it off his shoulders without so much as looking at it, and folds it over his arm. He is utterly absorbed in the conversation. Perhaps he is not even entirely aware that he has removed an article of his clothing. Perhaps the heat in his body did not reach the higher parts of his brain before his will responded to it.
Louise looks at the face of the man in the black suit and decides that he is her favorite. He has a handsome jaw: sharply masculine, with a faint hint of scruff, as if his virility is simply too much to be contained by a mere morning shave. His profile is sharp also, with a well-defined nose and a slightly prominent brow ridge. The sound of his voice suddenly bristles with terse authority, and the other two men grow quiet and listen to him for a minute. He continues to speak, as is clearly his right.
Louise is fond of this man, and wonders what his name is. She squirms in her seat, readjusts her position. She rests her hands on her lap, fingers entwined as if in prayer, for after all, she is on her way to church. Today is the last day of October. Tomorrow is the first day of November: All Saints’ Day. This is the day on which every good Catholic must visit the graves of their loved ones and clear the weeds around the headstone. Every good Catholic must sweep the family crypt. Every good Catholic must lay fresh flowers at the site where the ones they have lost rot politely and silently into the earth.
Louise will not do this, not even for her mother. After all, she has no memory of the woman; she died when she was born.
IT SMELLS LIKE COLD stone and mildew in the church. Louise genuflects before the altar and crosses herself with the holy water: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit—amen.” She takes off her wedding ring and places it on her right hand. She is lucky today: there is no one ahead of her in line. She goes into the confession booth without having to wait.
It is dim inside the booth, and wood creaks as she kneels.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.”
It has been a bit longer than that, but this is a small lie.
“I am listening, my child.”
The gravelly, disembodied voice behind the grid startles her as if she hadn’t expected it. She closes her eyes, clears her throat, and begins: “Last night I consummated a sexual union with a man to whom I am not married.”
She pauses for emphasis. The labored wording she exchanges with the priest during these times is part of what makes the entire ritual so compelling: it is part of what makes her smile to herself in the shadows. She continues.
“His name was Jean-François. I don’t even know his last name: we met only yesterday in a public garden. He was so handsome, with a rough sandpaper chin and a jaw you could cut things with. His voice utterly hypnotized me—I was a helpless girl, Father. He took me to his apartment immediately. He told me I was beautiful—and repeated it! He did everything with such ease and charm— oh, Father, he must do this with a new woman every day! I surrendered so completely that I nearly fell asleep in his arms—but then he undressed me, so quickly that I did not know what happened! I didn’t say no. It felt too good. He told me that I was a gorgeous thing, but that I must not fall in love. I laughed then, when he presumed to forbid me such foolishness! Do you know, Father, I began to come the moment he penetrated me? Oh—the entire time it was so warm and slippery—such a long time—he did not make a sound, except right at the end when he ejaculated—he groaned then, and I thought I would faint from the pleasure of it, Father, though I knew exactly how wrong