As some of you may know, I was born a good Catholic boy...then by chance, discovered atheism in a gum wrapper and never looked back. Now I'm a grown man, ahem, and I did take a look back at my impish Catholic days and here's the result: young AAF's true confession, aged 12. It did happen. Honest. I used to drive Father Marchand nuts, I have to admit, and now I'm going to drive you to a drink! It's Friday Mojo or in TexDem's parlance, Friday Mojito!
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On a perfectly sunny winter afternoon there I was riding my bicycle, engrossed in impure thoughts and going downhill at great speed. Suddenly around the corner fate, in the person of Father Marchand who was also riding his bicycle on the footpath, materialized, and avoiding the good Father narrowly, I ended up in the thick rosemary hedges.
‘Fanfan, my son! Are you all right?’
‘Yes, Father, I’m fine,’ I said, brushing myself off. I had a couple of scratches.
‘My God! You’re bleeding,’ he cried. I wasn’t hurt.
‘It’s all right, it’s nothing.’
He wiped my arm with a handkerchief.
‘I don’t see a lot of you in church these days, Fanfan.’
‘Oh, well, you know...I’ve been studying really hard,’ I fibbed and looked at my arm with renewed interest, 'to mend quickly I should stick some disinfectant on it, don’t you think, Father?’
‘Yes. And you should also mend your ways with our Lord. I think that you’re due for a confession. I know you've been up to no good. Boys always seem to swear. Come tomorrow at three’.
‘I’ll be there,’ pedaling away before he had a chance to pin the original sin on me. I knew of course that he was right. I could swear in four languages: my knowledge of genitalia in Italian and Latin was impressive and when you added up the racy Arabic words I picked up at school from my friend Abel and a smattering of filthy Provencal, the end product was the foulest mouth in the South of France, the Harbinger of Obscenities, the Prince of Curses, the Wyatt Earp of Profanities...
The next day, about half way up to the church, I decided that I would snow Father Marchand with enough white lies to blanket a major portion of the North Pole. When it came to spin harebrained tales, I could hold a candle to just about anyone. I strode into the church and made my way to the little confessional box and made sure that Father Marchand was waiting inside, rapping on his door.
‘Yes, yes, I’m in. Is that you Fanfan?’, he said in a sleepy voice.
‘Yes, Father.’ I slid inside and sat on the tiny bench. I was actually looking forward to the session. He mumbled through the introductory Latin, cleared his throat and listened.
‘Well, I have sinned quite a bit, Father. In fact I’ve done two major sins. Which one should I tell first? The really bad one or the unspeakable one?’ I said with my earnest voice.
‘Major sins?’ he said, a trace of panic in his voice, ‘what do you call major sins, my son?’
‘Killing...and carnal something,’ I said, sotto voce.
‘What? Did you say killing?’ he asked, raising his voice.
‘I’m afraid so, Father.’ I could hear him wriggling in his seat. He cleared his throat once more.
‘Are you telling me...our Lord that is, that...that you’ve had evil thoughts and wanted to kill someone?’
‘No father,’ I replied calmly, ‘the killing is already done.’
I heard him gasping.
‘You mean you killed an animal?’
‘No, Father. Is someone that has two legs and two arms and can talk, a creature of God?’ I asked sweetly.
‘Yes...everything that moves and breathes is a creature of God...continue, please and tell me what really happened.’
‘Well, I’m coming to that, Father. It was a dark, moonless night...the wind was blowing north...’
‘Wait a second. What were you doing there in the middle of the night?’
‘It wasn’t the middle of the night, Father. I think it was about eleven o’clock.’
‘Same thing. You should be in bed at that time.’
‘Yes, Father. Can I finish?’
‘Yes, yes, hurry.’
‘It was a dark and windy night...’
‘Get to the point, Fanfan,’ he said in an exasperated tone.
‘Yes, Father,’ I said, wanting to stretch the tale as much as I possibly could, ‘but it is important that you know it was a dark night.’
‘Understood. Go on.’
‘Like I said, it was dark, so dark that I didn’t know where I was going...’
Father Marchand interrupted again, ‘where were you, by the way?’
‘Not far from Santini’s paddock,’ I answered naturally, remembering where the Gypsies camped.
‘But it’s kilometres away!’ he whispered loudly, ‘what were you doing there at ten o’clock at night when all good Catholic boys are fast asleep?’
‘I don’t know father.’
‘You didn’t kill a Gypsy, did you?’ he said in an urgent tone.
‘Oh no Father, I would never do that.’
‘Then what...who did you kill?’
‘I was coming to that, Father...but...’
‘But what?’
‘I forgot what I was going to say,’ I said, crossing and double-crossing my eyes in ecstasy.
‘It was a dark night...’
‘Yes, I said that.’
‘Then what?’
‘It was moonless,’ I muttered.
‘Yes, we already know that. Then what?’
I could hear him wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
‘Can I go to the toilet, Father? I’m busting for a pee!’
‘Fanfan, you’re in the middle of a confession, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’m sorry Father...but my bladder, it doesn’t know we’re having this conversation...’ I said, a stream of butter melting in my mouth.
‘It’s not a conversation, Fanfan. It’s called a confession.
Be quick!’
‘Thank you, Father. Where should I go?’
‘Use the one in the sacristy...and don’t touch anything!’
‘Yes, Father.’ I bolted out of the tall box and sprinted to the back of the church and into the room where all the good stuff is: the wine, the sacred goblets, the vestments et cetera.
I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom. I just wanted to take a breather and think about my story and see how far I could get away with and maybe have a sip of sacred wine. Which I did. I went into the toilet cubicle and pulled the chain. Back in the confessional, I changed tack.
‘Father, would it be all right if I were to confess the other sin first...you know the one about the...well...it’s about, how can I say?’, I feigned the hesitating tone.
‘What is it?’
‘You know...the naughty things we’re not supposed to think about...but everybody does...all the time?’
‘Are you referring to...carnal desire?’ he said the last two rapidly as if they were pure filth.
‘Is that how it’s called, Father?’
‘Yes. I should hope that at your age you do not have impure thoughts on that matter.’
‘Oh no, Father. But...’ I waited for him to talk.
‘But what? Will you get to the point, Fanfan? We have been in here for twenty minutes and you have confessed to nothing.’
‘It’s just that I feel dirty talking about it, Father,’ I said in my little voice.
‘That’s why I’m here, my son,’ he said, toning down his voice, realizing that indeed it was his job to be patient with little turds like me.
‘You’re not going to repeat this to anybody, are you, Father?’
‘This is just between you and our Lord.’
‘What about you then?’
‘What do you mean what about me?’
‘Well you’re here too, aren’t you?’
‘Somebody has t...look! Are you going to have it out because right now you’re wasting my time!? And the good Lord’s.’
‘All right, Father. Are you ready then?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, it was a sunny day,’ I said, pulling all sort of funny faces to myself, ‘about the middle of the day, I think.’ I was really enjoying myself. Why didn’t I think about this before?
‘And?’ said the Father, mopping his brow, I thought.
‘And there I was, lying down, feeling really hot. I was thinking how good an ice-cream would be. Mrs. Innocenti's patisserie has two new flavors...pistachio and I think the other one is raspberry but I’m not sure on that one...’
‘You’re doing it again, Fanfan! Get to the point. What happened? Who did you see? What was she like? Did you have impure thoughts?’
‘I think so, Father.’
‘You think so? Well, did you or didn’t you?’ he cried. I suspected he was getting scarlet in the face.
‘I can’t be sure because I don’t know what impure thoughts are like.’
‘But you did say earlier you felt dirty talking about it so you must know what an impure thought is.’ His voice was getting hoarse.
‘That’s true.’ Silence from my quarter.
‘Well? Are you going to tell me now or do we have to wait until we put men on Mars?’
I thought it was a funny comment coming from our earthy Father. I asked him, ‘do you think we’re going to have men on Mars, Father?’
‘Don’t change the subject matter, Fanfan. For the last time, did you have impure thoughts and did you kill someone lately?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘That’s not an answer. Be specific.’
‘Is thinking about breasts...impure, Father?’
‘Yes it is,’ he sighed, ‘whose breasts were they?’
‘Well, as I was saying, I was lying on the beach...on a hot day...and thinking about the pistachio ice cream...and out of the water came this lady with a wet golden fleece...her eyes were like emeralds...her skin, white as ivory and...and...’
‘Go on, we’re getting somewhere.’
‘She had breasts shaped like two halves of grapefruits, Father,’ I whispered.
‘Those...breasts, were they covered?’
‘No, Father, they were not.’
‘Where did you see that?’
‘On the beach, like I said.’
‘Was she from around here?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Was this during last summer? Was she a tourist?’
‘No, it was two weeks ago.’
‘I see. Go on, then what happened?’
‘Her breasts were as cold as ice, Father.’
‘How do you know they were cold...as ice? Did you touch them?’ he bellowed.
‘No, Father, I just knew they would be.’ This time, I really had to go to the toilets as I was almost pissing in my pants with suppressed laughter.
‘Explain yourself.’
‘Well, I opened my eyes and she was gone.’
‘What do you mean you opened your eyes? Weren’t they open when you saw that...that heathen?’
‘I think I had fallen asleep, Father.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I opened my eyes and poof! She was gone.’
Father Marchand became silent.
‘Father? Does it count as an impure thought if you dream about breasts? And killings?’ I said in a wheedling voice.
‘Fanfan, I want you to say ten Paternosters and five Hail Marys,’ he said in a tired voice, ‘and please go home.’
‘Yes Father.’