religious matters, the greater my fascination with the Virgin’s feet, which leaves me feeling confused. You have to love the Virgin, I know that, but sometimes I think I love her a little like the heroes in the romance stories love each other. I love some of the girls at school, too. I feel even more confused because the clatter of the old ladies’ dentures as they pray makes me think of my aunts washing themselves on the bidet. I get them mixed up with the Virgin. Or I think of St. Rita going to the toilet with the door wide open, and I can hear the noise. I know it’s not nice, and I’d better not say a word to anyone. The atmosphere during mass brings some very strange thoughts into my head. The drone of the prayers, with the odour of incense and the murmuring of the faithful, puts me to sleep. Yet I walk out of church light-footed, in a state of grace, like a robot. I don’t even miss the walk with my father. All I want to do is go home and sleep. My brother feels drowsy, too, but he claims it’s on account of the Host.
Finally, my mother confesses her true intentions. She has succeeded in contacting the elderly parish priest, Canon Bezerril. They two of them plotted it all out ahead of time. The Canon is an obese character with a malignant look who cares only about the wealthy Portuguese of the parish. The difference between him and Giovanni is like Laurel and Hardy in the movies. Beneath his black robe, Giovanni is thin as a rail, and when he’s not in the confessional he likes children. Bezerril, on the other hand, is usually dressed in white, and always wearing his stole to look more important, like an army officer. Giovanni has the look of poverty about him. He has nothing to do with church decoration, or with reserving seats close to the altar. Those things are very important to Bezerril, especially since people pay separately for the flowers, and that brings in money for the parish. Decoration is at the root of all my problems. Bezerril was looking for two kids to hold the silver candelabras. I don’t know what my mother cooked up with him, but we were taken on as altar boys.
“Tall, blond, as innocent as angels,” said Bezerril as he welcomed us.
We had plenty of things to learn and not much time to learn them. We had to be on time to put on our robes and comb our hair. Then get down to the sacristy to help Giovanni prepare for low mass. A priest can’t get dressed by himself. If he’s not given the right vestments, he stands there frozen in mid-gesture, not budging a hair. Or he starts to shout. You can’t drop things either, on account of they’re sacred and he’ll have to kiss them despite the dust on the floor. Then you light the candelabras and escort him into the church. Stoke up the censer and swing it to and fro without making too much smoke and stopping the mass, and be sure you kneel at the right time. You ring the bell, but only when you’re supposed to. Don’t start fighting, don’t roll the candle wax into balls. Don’t fall when you carry the big book, don’t forget to genuflect, don’t stand between the priest and the altar. Don’t spy on people when they’re praying, don’t pick your nose and don’t giggle. And don’t cough when everyone’s kneeling and the priest is playing with the big Host. If the beadle isn’t there, you have to handle the little bottles of water and wine, then hold the plate so the Host doesn’t fall out of people’s mouths during Communion.
During low mass Giovanni helps us out. He tells us what to do or does it himself, and never loses his temper. Besides, it doesn’t matter if we make a mistake because the church is almost empty. The only worshippers are old ladies in black who don’t like crowds. But the solemn high mass at ten o’clock with Bezerril is a real nightmare. The church is bursting at the seams, the chorus and the organ struggle to get in tune, Bezerril has an attack of the flutters because he can’t put on his costume and rehearse his sermon at the same time.
He wears special vestments that we pull from the closet and brush before he dons them. The air is heavy. People are talking in loud voices and pushing their way towards the altar, pushed forward by others who are still trying to enter the church. Some argue over the best seats, and the women shout insults at one another. Our job is to clear a path with our candelabras and confront the hungry stares, showing neither tears nor fatigue. Bezerril hisses at us that the smoke is too thick, but it’s too late to stop it. To get the censer fired up, I opened all the ventilation holes to the maximum, and now the thing is red hot and burning smoke pours out, clearing the crowd around me. If I start swinging it back and forth things will get worse. The chains are too hot to handle. The beadle dashes over to help and I shrink into the shadows. The crowd shifts and takes a deep breath, and now Bezerril wades into the ritual with his customary aplomb. I crouch in a corner, halfasleep. My brother turns slowly on his toes, like a top. I have to use all my devices to keep my head up and survive until the sermon.
When the moment comes, the congregation sits down to listen to the Canon’s deep, mellifluous voice. He loves to talk and say the same thing over and over again, dragging out the pauses to put as many people as possible to sleep and give the beadle lots of time for the collection. The Portuguese are generous, and from high atop his pulpit Bezerril looks down and nods in approval at the most substantial donors without losing the thread of his argument. The beadle’s black bag grows heavy at the end of its long handle. His progress determines the length of the sermon. The faithful track the little bag with their eyes as if to weigh each contribution, admiring the gestures of the merchants. The collection proceeds with viscous slowness, to the contentment of the spectators.
Then we launch into the second half of the mass with the choir singing at the top of its voice and the rustling of gowns getting ready to kneel. Now comes the serious stuff, the ringing of the bell we must not forget, then silence. Bezerril fumbles around inside the tabernacle, pulls out the big Host and blesses the chalice. He mutters the elevation, making sure he pours out just the right amount of wine and takes Communion with broad movements of his lips and cheeks, just like people drinking cachaça in the bars as they nibble on grilled sardines. He savours the Host with closed eyes, then purses his lips as he swallows it.
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