When she raises her head Mass is over, and she did not go up to receive communion. The parishioners are leaving the chapel. No one glances her way. Kate enjoys the anonymity. Dressed as she is, she does not represent anything other than herself. She has ceased to be a symbol.
She watches as the elderly priest enters the ancient confessional in the shadows of the shrine to the Virgin Mary. No one enters. Footsteps echo as the last old woman shuffles out of the church into the early morning. She’ll go to confession, Kate decides. But what will she say? I love a priest? I’m burning up with desire? I’m sorry for my sins?
And what about the firm purpose of amendment she is supposed to make? She stumbles over the pew and hurries to the small black door. Inside it is pitch dark, and the smell of incense mingles with the scent of an old man, musty yet sweet. The priest coughs as he slides back the wooden door, leaving only a thin black linen screen between them. He waits, the outline of his face barely visible in the gloom.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she murmurs. “It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Her Spanish is halting, childish. She says nothing.
“Go on, mujer. Don’t be afraid. God knows all our thoughts and actions.”
“Father, I don’t know what to say. I’m in love, I love someone I am not supposed to love.”
He sighs. “Are you married, my dear?”
“Yes, no . . . I’m a nun.”
“Ah, I see. And is the man married?”
He waits. By now Kate is trembling, her voice breaks. “He’s a priest,” she manages.
Silence. Somehow a coldness has entered the tiny space. “Well, have you done anything?” the voice rasps.
“No. But I want to,” she blurts. Now the words come rushing out on her pent up breath. “Father, tell me what to do. I’ve taken a vow of chastity. Does that mean I can never love a man? How can love ever be wrong?”
“My child, God is love, as the evangelist tells us. But the question is what is this you feel for this man? Can it be love to want to lure him from his promise of celibacy? And what about your vow? You know in your heart what you must do. Renounce. It is the only way to peace. You will look back in the years to come and know that your love for God has been tested by fire and has come through brighter and purer than ever. Now go, and pray the rosary for strength to do what you know is right.” Swiftly, the old priest raises his arm and she hears the familiar words: “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The wooden panel closes with a firm click.
Kate stumbles out into the dim light of the church. He had forgotten to have her say the act of contrition. Could she have said it? “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.” But was she sorry? She prays the rosary, counting the decades on her fingers. It’s Monday, the joyful mysteries: the annunciation, the visitation, the birth of our Lord. Her head sinks down on the smooth wooden pew, she rests her bottom on the seat. Finally, she lifts her head to stare at the tabernacle, the sanctuary light gleams cheerfully in the dark church. Where are You? No answer.
As she walks back through the town, she smells baking bread. Children in white smocks dawdle on their way to school, gazing into shop windows. Most of the girls have their hair tightly braided, with shiny black braids hanging down their backs in a single coil. The boys’ hair is slicked down, wet and shiny in the early morning. The children’s high voices ring out in the quiet streets.
When Kate reaches the hotel, she hears the clatter of dishes from the dining room, where she finds her two companions cradling cups of coffee as they wait in silence to be served breakfast.
Sheila looks up and smiles at Kate. With a tilt of her head towards Diane, Sheila says, “This one has one big headache this morning. How’re you feeling?”
“I feel wonderful,” Kate says, hoping there is no trace of her tears on her face. “That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in three days. I’m ready to explore the winery and canal Pepe told us about last night. Are you?”
Diane looks up with a groan, and lights a cigarette. “I don’t know,” she says sleepily. “I was hoping to crash on the beach again.”
Sheila laughs and pulls her arm. “Come on, girl. I’ve seen you dance for hours after drinking gallons of chicha at the village festival. Surely you can manage a little sightseeing today.”
“Okay, okay. But you guys make all the arrangements. I’m going to sit in the sun on the veranda for a while.
Diane is dressed in plaid madras shorts and a sleeveless blouse, and she sashays confidently across the room.
By nine o’clock the women are crossing the foyer on their way to tour the winery when Kate hears a querulous voice behind her.
“Otto, I’m not sure I’m up to another day of tromping around in the heat. Wouldn’t you rather stay here by the lagoon and read your book?”
The speaker is a dainty, gray-haired woman in her late-sixties, Kate guesses, in a flowered summer dress. A straw hat shades her face. She is looking up at the florid blond man Kate had taken for German or Danish the night before.
“Oh come on, Mother,” he says. “We haven’t come all this way to sit around swimming pools. We can do that back in California.” By this time the couple are aware that their scene is being played out in front of English-speaking women near the front desk. The man walks toward them, holding out his hand. “Good
