Mukurob

by André Costa

  It was precisely that decision taken during her childhood that enabled her to be the mediator of religious debates in the parish and to soothe troubled souls at Tea Club meetings in her house. People who knew her intimately would say that Elizabeth’s compassion was unbreakable; her generosity, authentic and inspiring.

  David recognized all these virtues in the seventy-year-old woman—twenty of them separated from her husband by “the Lord’s will.” Besides, the affection that Elizabeth showered on David mostly filled the maternal void left by his mother’s passing. Despite his gratitude, and especially that morning, Elizabeth’s presence did not bring him any satisfaction. Noticing the young priest’s reserved mood, she endeavored to extract attention and words from him, while organizing the coffee table, as she did every Monday (repeated on Wednesdays, Fridays, and whenever physical therapy did not occupy her mornings).

  “Listen to this story about daisies, Father. In the Middle Ages, it was customary to feed the flowers to children to prevent their growth. People believed that the children would become dwarfs, and eventually serve as entertainment for nobles.”

  Elizabeth had hit a nerve. The story of that medieval stupidity drew David from his distant musings, and he replied, “I don’t know why I’m still surprised by human folly.”

  The sincerity of his words, coupled with his gaze firmly fixed on the bookshelf, confused Elizabeth, who decided to venture into a more robust and tangible arena. She reminded David that later that day, at a community hall near the church, the local society would participate in the national debate on the civil rights of homosexual couples. She had been recruited to mediate the meeting.

  Since December 2012, when Ireland established the Convention on Constitutional Changes, the Catholic Church had had to cope with the forthcoming referendum on the legalization of same-sex marriage. A year later, the Irish government announced that the national poll would take place in the first half of 2015. So, by late summer 2014, the Newcastle West community had immersed itself in the discussion.

  “I don’t feel able to chair the debate,” Elizabeth said with a sigh, looking at the floor and scratching the back of her neck. “Honestly, I have no idea why they asked me in the first place… It’s too much for my moderate spirit… While praying this morning, David, an inner voice convinced me that I wouldn’t be neutral enough and should rather withdraw from chairing the meeting. I just won’t be able to do it!”

  Elizabeth seldom called him by his first name, and when she did, it was clear that she was going to abandon her usual emotional restraint to get full validation of her acts. In those rare moments, even her countenance ceased the elegant lines as a lump rose in her throat.

  The news of Elizabeth’s resistance immediately tore David from his comfort zone. It was not entirely for religious or dogmatic reasons that he wished to stay away from the debate. Father Duane had taught him that every clash of ideas was merely an assertion of the ego, and that was why, above all things, he could not stand politics. “It’s the office where one most notices the fraternity of the Greek god Narcissus,” he remembered Michael Duane saying. “The so-called interest of politicians in the collectivity,” continued the old priest, “is the most cynical formula for fattening up their egos; they just never learned to love their neighbor as they love themselves, and perhaps they never will.”

  David drew in a deep breath to divert the wave of dark thoughts that had begun to fill his mind again, while Elizabeth cleared the dishes from the table. In her comings and goings, she used her fingers to test the layer of dust on the shelf and the piano, forgotten in the middle of the hall. For some reason, the musty smell was concentrated precisely in the space between the living room and the kitchen, a narrow passage of air and a transition of moods.

  “I think that Lis will give us a nice smile from heaven if we take better care of her bells,” Elizabeth said as she patiently wiped each of the small chimes on the piano.

  David stopped counting the number of times the old lady resurfaced in the living room and glued his gaze to the ceiling. Mrs. O’Brian, even with her senses occupied, had eventually realized how much Father Callaghan was talking to himself and resigned to the fact that he was unlikely to abandon his monologue. She left the house sooner than usual. Just before stepping out, however, she looked back and saw less melancholy in David’s face than she had expected.

  “So, can I count on you for the debate this afternoon, Father? I know you’ll be there, but do you think you can replace me? You are a priest… you have a great ear...”

  He had anticipated the question, but that did not make it any better. David stood up and looked down at her. That five-foot-tall woman, handsomely overweight, with a flushed face, firmly set eyes, and wide cheeks, was still the closest embodiment of an angel he had ever known. David did not have to answer, and Elizabeth left the house with her shoulders unloaded.

  When he heard the door close, he sighed with relief. During the past weeks, only his own presence had been tolerable. His plan now was straightforward. All he had to do was keep himself together until the mediation of the debate. A simple thing can be, however, the most uneasy task to bear. He returned to his couch cocoon and lay down.

  Anything—or rather, everything—happened. Back were the ghosts of dark thoughts—emotional violence, physical damage, shouting, torture, panic, raping, torn bodies. David felt vulnerable, claustrophobic. Uncurling from his fetal position, he dashed to the bathroom, putting pressure on his stomach as if that would hold in the vomit.

  Chapter III

  Outside the house, the air carried the usual morning freshness. Dressed in a tracksuit and a pair of sneakers softened by overuse, David walked briskly along the sidewalk with steady steps. His gait was purposeful as if his feet were taking possession of every inch in their path, conscious of their duty to lead the body to a haven. At the first corner, however, familiar faces unbalanced David’s rhythm and disturbed his breath. He bent down twice, pretending to tie his shoelaces. Ten minutes later, he arrived at Newcastle West’s most well-known address: Desmond Hall Castle.

  The town, located on the banks of the River Arra in County Limerick, had been developed in the thirteenth century around a medieval castle, which consisted of a small two-story building and a tower. In his childhood, David had visited the castle countless times, running through its winding stone passages and bucolic gardens and bathing in the river near its main entrance. During his outings, he would wear the Knights Templar costume his mother had made—a well-cut white tunic with black line stitches, a huge red cross running from chest to belly button and a rope tied around the waist. David’s sword had been made using a long stick and a bit of imagination.

  The boy was not alone in his crusades. According to local folklore—supported by the discovery of countless seals and coats of armor of the mystical order during recent restorations—the castle had in fact once been inhabited by Knights Templar.

  Although the stories of the epic sagas of the “warrior priests” and the mysteries surrounding the fellowship aroused some interest in young David, their attire was what indeed appealed to him. His enthusiasm and exuberance caused him to stumble and fall over a stone wall one day. The incident had cost him a broken foot and a dislocated shoulder. However, he felt the greatest sorrow only after leaving the hospital: his beloved costume had become history.

  This very morning, David’s imagination was not as active as it had been when he was a child, and the desire to run barefoot was as weak as his willingness to mingle with the faithful. It was enough just to sit on a bench by the River Arra and to let his memories work their magic on the immense stone silhouette on the opposite bank.

  Right there, a few steps from where he sat now as an adult, and on a bench that no longer existed, young David had raised his sword against a man who used to beat his son in plain sight. The physical violence consisted of hitting the boy’s head whenever the poor child too
k more than two seconds to respond to a paternal command or question. One day, David slapped the father’s belly with his sword and ran away. The daring act had probably hurt the old Hook’s pride more than the slap of wood on his hefty paunch, but the joy of being saved by Uncle Buckley, who by “divine providence” happened to be in the vicinity, was the most vibrant memory surrounding the incident.

  Father Callaghan knew however that his thoughts were pressuring to unleash an even more sparkling evocation. He leaned back on the bench and welcomed it. In a few seconds, the remembrance of a little girl emerged as vivid as the castle’s rocks.

  When he first met Karen, both at the age of four, he heard from her parents that her name was a Danish form of Katherine, and that it meant pure and clear. He did not know what “Danish” was, but the meaning of her name stroked his mind for years to come. How? Not long after the encounter he would start seeing names as a form of labeling individual expectations. From the Hebrew origin, David meant “beloved,” and so he expected to be dearly loved as a reward for having to challenge the giant Goliath at some point of his life. Karen was to remain a gentle and loyal companion, an alter ego free from moral fault or guilt. Throughout their childhood, she had in fact been both his faithful servant Sancho Panza and his muse Dulcinea del Toboso.

  With his attention brought back to the bench, David noticed the daisies growing at his feet. He remembered the medieval story Elizabeth had told him and let out a restrained laugh. The state of grace lasted as long as it could. It was not much, but enough to help him through the day, like a beggar assured of the next meal.

  Rejoiced, he decided to pay Uncle Buckley a visit at his bar. On the short walk through the picturesque The Square, David slowed down his steps to pay tribute to the famous poet Michael Hartnett. He had never been interested in this particular literary genre, but the poet’s statue evoked the memory of his great friend, Father Duane. Duane, who had indeed been a contumacious devourer of Hartnett’s writings, considered the poet to be the greatest genius of Irish literature. “With the advantage of writing in both English and Gaelic, he was a definitive bridge between the two languages,” the old priest used to say.

  Having watched David grow from an introverted boy into a rebellious teenager, his family and close friends were astonished when, at his fifteenth birthday celebration, he expressed his wish to join the seminary. Some guests received the news with concern, and others thought it a joke. David thus felt it necessary to reaffirm his decision, this time with less agitation in his voice and a firm look at Father Duane, also present at the party.

  The relationship between the two, though they did not know it at the time, was about to unfold like a tunnel of continuous growth, but without the prospect of a final encounter. Michael Duane, a close friend of Lis Callaghan’s, had known David since he was a baby, even before baptizing him. The boy had confessed, at least until the time of the announcement, all his sins and deviations—mostly school-day pranks and intemperance—to the grave-looking priest. During their interactions, Father Duane had never detected any priestly inclination in the boy. However, many years later the old priest would tell David—after frustrated expectations from other parish boys—that he had been rejoiced by his decision. “The choice of the right sheep in the flock should never follow our hint, but solely God’s will,” Duane said during a morning Mass and while staring at his apprentice.

  Having convinced the Church, David needed to convince his mother that priesthood was his calling. Although she was a devout Catholic, Lis Callaghan had other plans for her only son. A few years before the announcement, still in the company of her husband, Lis had dreamed of transforming her backyard to provide for the remaining years of David’s childhood and to host their future grandchildren.

  She was, in fact, determined to grow old surrounded by toddlers, witnessing the first light of day amid giggling caresses. Not in tune with his wife’s fantasy of a perfect family, Lewis Callaghan explained that the exorbitant cost of building and maintaining a swimming pool was not justified since Irish weather rendered it useless for most of the year. Lis’ envisioned skateboard lane was considered equally ill-conceived and never materialized, and the trampoline remained an unfulfilled Christmas promise.

  Nevertheless, the most important thing, although Lis would not dare to say it aloud even to the walls, was that she did not see doctrinal solidity in her son. Deep down in her heart, she believed that David would, sooner or later, rebel against the sacraments and the religious institution itself.

  Faced with this maternal resistance, David sought support from Uncle John. They had become very close after Buckley gave him an electric guitar for his thirteenth birthday, adding to the gratitude of that memorable occasion when his uncle had saved him from the clutches of a furious father. As a form of retribution, David began to show interest in the classic idols of rock ’n’ roll, especially those from heavy metal bands. Despite their closeness, however, Buckley was even less enthusiastic than his sister about the idea of his only nephew becoming an ordained priest. In fact, religion was the least of his affairs, and he was deeply disappointed to realize that his influence on David was limited to the boy’s appearance—long hair, weary sneakers and black shirts.

  In the face of such a lack of support, David insisted and even begged his mother.

  “What about Karen?” asked Mrs. Callaghan as the last move before throwing in the towel.

  “What about Karen?” David repeated to cover up Mrs. Callaghan’s heartfelt question with a tint of nonsense.

  Lis Callaghan considered herself a good faithful, not precisely a fanatic, but watchful that her actions did not stray too far from religious doctrine. David, on the other hand, attended Mass reluctantly and was rarely seen in the confessional. Lis’ concern with her son’s newly inaugurated vocation was therefore of two orders: spiritual and profane. She was preoccupied with her child’s apparent fragile devotion to the religious doctrines, his taste in music and clothing, and signs of his mundane attitude. The latter often manifested in behavior such as tying ropes to the neighbors’ dog, tossing eggs at couples posing for photographs in the castle gardens, and staring at Karen’s blooming silhouette. “Childhood pranks that will be forgotten as an adult,” John Buckley said. Yet constructing a personality for the priestly and sacred life in the face of all these deviations demanded more imagination of Lis than she could muster.

  She later formulated a theory that the irresistible inclination of her son for disobedience was the very foundation of his decision to become a priest. Contrary to common sense, this theory comforted Lis, because she reasoned that David’s innate rebellion would not expose him to delinquent actions as she had once feared, but rather push him into the Christian faith. In short, Mrs. Callaghan suspected that her son, so used to receiving sermons for his many pranks, might have concluded that his punk-rock outfit was just enough to show his disdain for the system, but not enough to change it.

  Drawing on memories to support her theory, Lis was thus convinced that David chose his weapon of rebellion through the cassock. “Well, then so be it,” she thought, “priests lost the sense of revolt against what is wrong a long time ago, and very few today would confront scoundrels as Christ did in the Temple of Jerusalem.”

  Nevertheless, Mrs. Callaghan’s acceptance of her son’s desire did not appease her anguish. She felt deeply lonely, and even more so after her brother’s decision to leave Ireland, which, to her misfortune, occurred in the same month that David entered the seminary. With their departures, Newcastle West became a frighteningly large and impersonal city.

  Now sitting on a bench next to the poet eternalized in bronze, with lowered shoulders and immersed in remembrances that put the urge of visiting his uncle to rest, it must be said that the young priest’s humanitarianism had been harshly damaged two months before, at the end of spring. One morning, Elizabeth O’Brien—not carrying her gardening paraphernalia as usual—had bee
n the bearer of the news. She had opened the front door carefully to find an unsuspecting David in his pajamas on the chaise. A few minutes after seven o’clock, with the aroma of coffee retained in the foyer, Elizabeth had silently hung her thin knit coat. From there, the tragedy approached in short, pious steps. The fate of David’s lifelong friend since kindergarten, who had been missing for a few weeks, was suddenly unfolded by the international media.

  David did not have a television in his house, and for days he had meant to renew his Internet subscription. The combination of these two facts explained why, in the globalized world of communication, he was the last to learn what had happened. When he heard the news, he wished to be hoisted back to ignorance.

  Karen O’Neil had been kidnapped, raped, and brutally murdered by religious extremists in Syria. The media described her as a determined and eloquent journalist and social activist—not exactly the timid muse David remembered from his childhood and adolescence. “The young woman had been close to being repatriated when terrorists stopped the car she had been traveling in,” the story follows.

  He no longer wished to see Uncle Buckley. Instead, he wanted to ask every passerby about the meaning of human existence besides producing a repertoire of abominable facts, just like Socrates did in the streets of Athens. He was nonetheless aware of how the ancient Greeks had reacted to the philosopher’s impertinence. Not a good idea, concluded David as he stood up.