Ave Maria

— “Do they ever answer?” she replied with an ironic smile.

— “You’d be surprised.”

— “Right”

What else could she possibly say? That she didn’t believe it? That she judged all those people stupid, or naïve for thinking that another could take decisions in their stead? That the world was such an ugly place that no God could ever condone it? That if the almighty existed, he could have prevented slavery, cruelty, disease and hunger to roam the world? What her parents had taught swept all those theories, burying them into the cold, hard ground. Take care of yourself, better you mind, help your friends and do not ever let someone else take control of your life. Frances was an intelligent woman – so much that her mind refused to relent, even at night. No peace for the brainiacs.

But the solace she found in this church … this was unexpected. What if …?

— “Have you ever recited an Ave Maria?"

Startled, Frances frowning at the priest.

— "No, I don’t even know the words."

Father Tristan stood, extending his open hand to the statue. Only then did she realise how tall he was.

— "Come. Maybe your grandmother will look upon you from the heavens.”

Frances stood, uneasy. Her eyes darted to the exit unconsciously, but father Tristan watched her intently, his face carved in stone. Daring her to fall back. Yet, his gaze was soft.

— “You have chosen Mary, after all, to light the candle."

Touché. Shrugging, Frances took a step forward, facing the plain marble carving who represented the Virgin Mary.

— “She is the mother…”

— “Of Jesus. This I know”

— “Good. She is also mother to us all, and knows the pain of losing our loved ones. Her heart is full of compassion.”

Frances could only nod, wondering if she’d ever tell to her parents that she had prayed to a marble statue. Father Tristan stood by her side, his face now entirely dedicated to the icon. His high cheekbones stood out, his features seemingly carved in stone.

— “Repeat after me,” he said.

Then he paused.

— “English or Latin?”

His tone was so casual, as if he’d asked whether she preferred vanilla or chocolate. Obviously, the man spoke Latin. Well … it would certainly feel more authentic in the original version, even though her knowledge of this ancient language was just acceptable. But Frances loved her movies in original version – to keep its soul – and would rather miss the meaning rather than break it altogether.

— “Latin, please”

If Father Tristan was surprised by her response, he did not show it, already lost in the trance that had engulfed him, he started the prayer in smooth tones. And Frances did repeat, one word after the other.

“Ave Maria,

Gratia plena,

Dominus tecum.”

His voice detached every word, music to her ears.

“Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.”

And as the words passed her lips, her body started to warm up, her fingers tingling with an odd sensation of plenitude. As if something was filling her up, coming from the top of her head and descending into her body like a wave.

“Sancta Maria,

Mater Dei,

ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.”

Frances shuddered then, and a warm blanket came to rest upon her shoulders, as if someone was hugging her … almost like an embrace. Emotions repressed surfaced, and tears slid down her cheeks anew. Unbidden, unstoppable, bleeding from a block oppressing her chest; the weight of many sorrows. She could not finish the prayer, struggling to keep her façade as father Tristan’s smooth voice said the words. The lump in her throat was so big, her breath hitching, her chest painfully constricting from too much energy, too much love.

When he turned to her, she knew what he expected. His eyes were curious and worried at the same time, his face almost elated. But Frances was barely breathing.

— “Amen” she whispered, her voice mingling with his own.

The young woman staggered back, her legs hitting the bench. His long hands extended by reflex but she shied away, regaining her balance fast enough to snatch her handbag.

— "Thank you, father Tristan,” she whispered unevenly.

Then she fled.

— "You are welcome, little one,” he whispered back, stunned by the strength of her reaction.

As she walked … no, almost ran to the exit, father Tristan frowned. Her little hand was clutching his handkerchief. At least, she would have this little piece of cloth to remind her that spirituality was not to be ignored. A chance it was his best one, and not one of the horrible tissues with tartans of greys and reds. He needed to accept to let her go, just like the faithful that sometimes came and went on with their lives.

Yet, this uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach told him this experience was going to have a huge impact on his life. He needed to seek guidance and pray.

I advise, as you read this, to listen to Clamavi de Profundis Lamentations of Jeremiah, 1:10-14.

The second time Frances set foot in the church, Father Tristan was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t matter, for she was only there to pass a message to her grandmother. Lighting up a candle, she took the time to remember fondly the moments they had shared together. And despite the tears still spilling from her eyes, she didn’t feel sad when she left. Her heart, strangely, felt full of her grandmother’s memories.

And so, whenever she went into town, Frances also took a moment to look at the façade of the church she had ignored for years. Sometimes, she stepped in, and sat on the bench in front of Marie. Other times, she just sent a thought to her grandma, and wished her well up there. Today, roughly two months and a half after first passing the threshold, her feet didn’t ask her if she was willing to spend some time inside the now familiar house of God. They just walked in.

Frances was greeted by a deep voice that echoed inside the empty church, sending strange echoes into her heart. Frowning, the young woman stopped in her tracks before she could overcome the stoup. She wasn’t a religious woman, and despite everything she had read recently, still disliked what the catholic church and the Popes had rained upon Europe and its people in the past. Yet… those voices, raining from the loudspeakers fixed on the pillars touched her.

Something stirred within her soul. The strange smell of hot, scorching air laden with dirt seemed to surround her. The smell of a desertic place, barely keeping the sand at bay as it tried to survive. The voices filled the transept, lonely, yet attuned to each other, creating a litany that didn’t reach the point of a melody. Not a song… a lament. A lament for people who would, as soon as they passed the doors, get lost in the immensity of the desert that hosted Jerusalem.

Frances blinked, shaking out of her reverie. As usual, the church was nearly deserted except for a few faithful praying in the chapels. But in the midst of the dancing voices, Father Tristan stood tall before the altar. His back was to her, his hands clasped behind him, perfectly motionless. Despite the eeriness of the moment and his imposing presence, the young woman cracked; she’d seen Equilibrium this week end – her boyfriend enjoyed movies - and the sheer posture of the man reminded her of the ecclesiast. Stifling her laugh, the young woman watched in horror as the man turned around. She found herself once more rooted to the spot under the intensity if his penetrating gaze, but managed a weak smile. The faint rise of his eyebrows told her he recognized her, and when he started walking down the aisle, she wondered if it was too late to hide.

The movie came back to her full force as she watched his purposeful strides, the cassock nearly flying around his ankles. She’d never seen a man of the cloth move with such energy, and the smile returned as she averted her eyes. Truth be told, father Tristan had nothing to envy to Christian Bale. And there were so many buttons on this frock, a crossover between Severus Snape’s attire and the Equilibrium look. This time, Frances had to bite her lip. Unfortunately, father Tristan caught on her mirth and didn’t give her time to hide it.

— “Good afternoon, Frances. I am glad to see such an expression on your face, what brough that smile about ?”

Blushing furiously, the young woman was so embarrassed that she didn’t even remark that father Tristan have remembered her name. Unable to form a lie, she gave him a sly look before blurting out.

— “You made me think of Christian Bale in Equilibrium. Do you practice martial arts ?”

Was it the comparison or the question that took him off guard, but for a moment, his careful poise seemed shaken. Then his composure returned, his shoulder settling comfortably in a non-threatening posture.

— “As a matter of fact, I do”, he retorted with a sly smile.

Frances’ chocolate eyes opened wide, betraying her surprise.

— “You do ?”

— “Yes. Tai-chi. I teach to the youngsters of the foyer down the street, it helps them focus”

Frances cocked her head aside; she knew Aikido, but not Tai-Chi. Chinese to Japanese, what would be the difference ? Before she could ask, though, father Tristan wanted to know more about this Christian Bale’s comparison.

— “But come, you must tell me about this movie”

Relieved that he didn’t take offense about her laughter, Frances followed him to the Marie bench, as she had dubbed it. Funny, how he seemed to remember everything of their previous encounter.

— “Are you interested in movies, father Tristan ?”

— “Yes, I am.”

The conversation was hushed, and Frances couldn’t help but remark how he was a man of few words. Would it be off limits to ask her boyfriend for the file of Equilibrium ? Thinking of it, it probably still lingered on her desktop; she had not taken the time to clean it yet.

— “It doesn’t play in theatres anymore. But if you own a computer, I can probably get it for you on a USB device”

There was no need to talk about illegal downloading, right ? How attuned to the outside world a man of the cloth could be ? Where did he live ? What people did he meet ? What were his hobbies ? Suddenly, Frances realized that she was neck down into preconceptions; nowadays, priests didn’t live like monks of old, hidden in a monastery.

Father Tristan nodded to her.

— “It would be enjoyable. But I don’t want to impose”

— “Oh, it won’t be a problem. I’ll bring it about the next time I pass through here.”

The priest gave her a discreet smile before silence settled, the voices of the lament capturing much of Frances’ attention as they drifted in the quiet church, echoing along the walls. Her gaze roamed over the soft stones of the building, marvelling that, hundred of years before her time, the faithful had put so much effort and skill into shaping such a magnificent piece of work. To lift stones that weighed several tons, and position them accurately without the help of modern techniques. Even in a simple, small church like this one, pillars were carved, and the acoustics was such that the voices seemed to respond to each other. Who would do such a thing except for people that genuinely believed in the mightiness of God ?

On a whim, Frances turned to the silent figure beside her.

— “Can you tell me about what you believe in ?”

The priest addressed her a speculative look, gentle, yet wary. In the dim light of the church, she couldn’t determine whether his eyes were brown or grey.

— “What would you like to know ?”