his body went lifeless.
“Come now, Benito,” Giuseppe turned to his underling, “take not to heart what’s made in jest; speak your speech like all the rest.”
Benito strained to recall the gist of what Giuseppe wanted him to say, and therefore spoke with a hesitancy and ponderousness that was unlike his usual speech. But mostly, Benito was still thinking about Mari, and this did indeed lend a tenderness to his speech that caught the tavern by surprise. “Of these Ebrei,” Benito began, “I too am riddled with suspicion, but must confess, my doubt does wilt through a common ill-nutrition. Oh, my head does too move against my heart, but I know the bitter taste of a life apart. For Benito, no joyous children, no faithful spouse. It’s work at the mill, drink at the tavern, then home to empty house. And what for me is sour to swallow and goes down rank, does it not too leave an Ebreo’s heart blank? For hard enough it is for Benito to sleep in empty home, but at least this village, this tavern, I can call my own. Is it then right for Benito to do in kind, and make worse for them the loneliness that plagues my heart and mind? Is this what our Cristo would deem us to do, act unto another as you’d not like unto you?”
Well, that was not the kind of sentiment one had come to expect from Benito, and the tavern fell absolutely silent, Bobolito and all.
In which We Contemplate
the Difference Between Dirt & Earth
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” “Hmm,” the Good Padre chuckled, “really?” “Padre! Please, I have.”
“Oh, Mari,” he sighed amicably from behind the small rectangle of latticed iron that divided the confessional, “I don’t believe it.”
“Good Padre,” Mari did her best to keep from laughing, “I’m supposed to be anonymous.”
“Then what is the point of trust and friendship?”
The question stumped Mari and was an instant reminder why she adored the Good Padre. “Nevertheless,” said Mari, “it’s true, this time I have sinned.”
“Well, I assure you, God will no doubt forgive a daughter who serves her mother so selflessly, and a farmer who deals grapes and olives so deliciously.”
“But Good Padre …” Mari paused, desperate to tell him, to tell someone. “My … my … thoughts. My mind—”
“Oh, Mari,” the Good Padre gently interrupted Mari’s faltering speech. “The mind is a monkey. It leaps from branch to branch, tree to tree. The more you try to house it, the quicker it slips free. Concern yourself with actions, with kind words and busy hands. Rest assured, God more than enough rejoices in how you treat your mother and how you love your land.”
Mari’s heart swelled. Until the arrival of the Good Padre, Mari had been dead set against the Sacrament of Reconciliation. The idea of the old padre acting in persona Cristi sickened her. She went to confession the two times a year that she had to and no more, and she told only false trifles then. She would have sooner spilt her blood than given a true penance to that wretched old louse. But within a month of the Good Padre’s tenure she began to take a weekly confession. She knew half the village could hardly form a coherent sentence in his presence, but for Mari just the opposite was the case. Yes, something about him was indeed quite baffling, but he emanated a love that loosed both Mari’s heart and tongue. Heaven knows, her near-constant stream of vengeful, hateful thoughts toward her stepfather had begun to poison her mind, and one day, without plan or forethought, she found herself inside the church’s confessional baring her soul to the Good Padre.
Today, however, was different. Truly, she was too enraptured to much condemn herself for what she was feeling, but she feared God and village might. And she sought confession to both share her excitement with someone and gauge the potential unholiness of her desire through the Good Padre’s reaction. After all, if she really thought about it, which she didn’t often do—she kept herself too busy with olives—the Good Padre was her only true confidant.
“Thank you, Good Padre, you are most kind. But my mind has been …” Mari searched for the courage to admit her feelings. “My thoughts have been … they have been replete with lust and desire.”
“Well,” said the Good Padre cheerily, “’Tis certainly a nicer thing to think than thoughts of blood and vengeance, no?”
“But Good Padre,” Mari paused, again