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...Gabriel...

I looked at the clock on the wall, it read three o'clock in the morning, as if by instinct, I let out a tired yawn. Who had sent me to study theology? Since I was a kid I had a hard time studying the Bible, most of the time I didn't understand what the passages meant, the rest of the time I didn't even make the effort. I looked at the books and notebooks cluttered on the table. You could barely see the plastic tablecloth, at least this way you couldn't see the patches, scuffs and holes from years of use. I made an effort to concentrate again on the notes, but after reading the first sentence, I was distracted by something on the corner of the table to my left, a holy card with the image of St. Thomas in the robes of a friar. During the first year of my degree I had had to study about him. I picked it up and looked at it for a few moments, it had some marks, it had probably been bent at some point, one of the corners was broken. I turned it over, on the other side was a long prayer:

—"Oh, who would succeed, my Saint, in being a true disciple in virtue and letters, learning from the book of your virtues..."

I recited softly, remembering that during exam times they made us pray to him. I still remembered those weeks at the end of the bimester in primary and the term in high school, all of us sitting in mixed pairs, one bench behind the other in a row, praying in unison a prayer automatically.

I left the holy card where it was, bumping into a cup of coffee that I had forgotten at some point, I couldn't even remember when I had made it. I took a sip, it was disgustingly cold. I got up to dump what was left in the sink and look for something with sugar to replace it. Some cookies peeking out of the cupboard looked like enough to keep me awake all night, or so I hoped. I looked for a spot at the table where I wouldn't be in the way.

My concentration on my notes didn't last long, the ticking of the clock reminding me how late it was and how much I wished I was sleeping instead of reading book after book of fundamental theology. I drummed my fingers on the table. I thought of Santiago, surely it wouldn't be so hard for me to study in the wee hours of the morning if he were around. Two years ago he had gone to the priesthood like many men in the neighborhood, who went to the seminary or studied things related to Catholicism. I remembered the last year of high school, Santiago had decided to enter the priesthood from the first day of school, I admired his conviction about his future. I thought, for a while, to follow in his footsteps, to go with him as always. We had never separated, why should we now? In the end, indecision led to him leaving without me. I ended up deciding to sign up for a degree in theology, after all I had spent my whole life going to church with my parents and following the teachings of the Bible, how hard could it be? It was obvious that I had forgotten how bad I was at studying it.

My eyes filled with tears from another yawn. For some reason unknown to me and unbeknownst to me, I had completely pushed away the distracting thoughts. I heard the clock ticking again. I looked down at the pages of my notebook, forcing myself to study. Occasionally, the letters danced on the paper or became blurry as when the ink got wet. Surely I wasn't going to perform well with how tired I was. I was once again distracted by the clock, an hour had passed already and I had done nothing but ramble. I flipped through the pages until I came to the notes I had made while Father Basilio was explaining. I hoped that, with any luck, they would function as a lifesaver when I couldn't remember anything I had studied these past few days. If I had thought to ask him before, I was sure I would not be studying now.

I realized it was morning when I heard my mom's alarm clock from the bedroom. I raised my head and turned to the window above the sink, it was starting to get light outside. I heard her go into the bathroom and come out a few minutes later. She greeted me by patting me on the back before preparing breakfast, which consisted of nothing more than three coffees and a few slices of toast that we could spread with dulce de leche, butter or jam. I decided to gather my books and notebook and take them to my room. Did I still have time to review? I thought, counting the time I had to eat breakfast, get ready and leave. Could I take the bus? It always took me longer to wait for it than to get to school, it was out of the question. I put the notebook in my backpack and left the books on the bed, next to my cat who barely looked at me to meow.

— Then I put them away.

I told him as if he had reproached me for leaving them there. I went back to the kitchen, breakfast was already on the table, I sat down and took a sip of the coffee, I felt happy to feel it hot, not like the one I had left hours ago. Soon, the three of us were sitting at the table having breakfast. My dad, as was his custom, entrusted me to God, reminding me that he was going to enlighten me today, to trust him. I nodded silently. Those words no longer had the effect on me as they did when I was a boy. I felt the spell had been broken after spending the night reading about the Bible.

I left my house around seven o'clock with my backpack slung over my shoulder, but I had decided at the last minute not to show up. I had stayed up all night for nothing. I didn't care. I walked in the direction of the bus stop in a poor performance. Lying was a venial sin, I wouldn't go to hell for making them think I was going to high school and it could be fixed by going to confession. I preferred, instead, to go all the way to the parish, so I detoured a block later and circled around to get there. Fortunately, my mom worked at the health center at the other end of the neighborhood. My dad worked at a mechanic shop in Del Viso, so he had to go the same way as me to catch the same bus. I was grateful for the irregular schedule that the line had, two cars could pass in a row or within two hours of each other.

I crossed myself as I entered the parish door and walked, trying to make as little noise as possible, to one of the pews in the back. I dropped my backpack on the seat and knelt on the kneeler with my fingers intertwined to pray. I closed my eyes with the intention of atoning for my sins, but I was distracted when I heard voices, one was Father Basilio's, I could recognize it anywhere without much effort. The other forced me to open my eyes to find out who it was. It was a tall man, with brown hair neatly combed back, the clerical collar gave away his priestly condition. I had not seen him before, was he from San Cayetano? I knew that they sometimes came to see the priest from the church in Del Viso, but I knew them too, we used to go there on important dates. There was no other explanation, that man was new in the neighborhood. When they came a little closer, I could see him better, I had seen him, but where? Suddenly, the image of the previous day at the missionary meeting appeared in my head. He had been sitting on the side. I had barely noticed him, I was more concerned with writing down what Basilio was saying than paying attention to the new priest. If I hadn't been concentrating on what he was trying to use as a lifeline in the midterm, I was sure I would have struggled not to stare at him. He was an attractive man, not as attractive as Santiago, but I could easily stare at him for a long time. I tried to push those thoughts away, I couldn't think like that in church, let alone for a Father. This was a greater sin, not like lying to my parents to fail an exam. I was sure they would punish me worse if I told them I was gay than if I told them I had missed an exam that they were going to have to pay for again. They seemed to have noticed my presence, they spoke in whispers that were barely distinguishable as voices. Then Father Basilio walked out the front door, while the other man settled into the first seat. I didn't think too much, I grabbed my backpack, stood up and approached him with the intention of speaking to him, I had no idea what I was going to say, but my body was moving on its own.

—Good morning," I said shyly, sitting down next to him.

—Good day, Gabriel, isn't it?

—Do you know me?

—I saw you yesterday at the meeting of the missionaries. You caught my attention, you were the only one who wrote things down.

—I study theology, it helps me to come and listen to the talks and ask Father Basilio some questions —he nodded silently—. Does he come from San Cayetano? I hadn't seen him in the neighborhood.

—I arrived the day before yesterday. I recently finished my priesthood and they sent me to finish my formation.

I was about to speak, but Basilio's footsteps echoing in the parish distracted me. He approached us smiling kindly as usual, greeted me and introduced me to Father Manuel before asking me to accompany him. Manuel waved goodbye to me and followed the other Father out the side door. I sat there without moving. I thought I could be the perfect replacement for Santiago, but I repressed that idea as fast as I could, it went against the precepts of the Bible and all the values my parents had taught me since I was a boy. 

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