Page 5 of Heathens
A foil-wrapped package sits in my entryway. “Thanks. Have a good day, Rosemary.” She mumbles something aboutsweating her fucking tits off. I grab my bags, unlock my door, and push the package into my apartment with my foot, closing and locking the door behind me. Jekyll rubs against my legs, and I bend down to pet him before setting everything on the entry table. I smile and pick up the package.
It’s addressed to someone named Morfran Porthcawl.
I frown and study the gold and red foil. The address is correct, but it must be for the old tenant. Curious, I slide my finger along the seam and bend down to sniff it.
A fruit basket. Definitely a fruit basket. And a rotting one at that. Grimacing, I walk it over to the trash and toss it in.
Sorry, Morfran.
Jekyll meows as if he, too, is disappointed.
I unload the groceries and walk to my desk, sighing and inhaling a deep puff of smoke as I lean against the wall. Blowing it out, I sit down in front of my laptop and type in ‘Morfran.’ It meansugly demon. Smiling, I scribble the name and its amusing meaning on the obituary section ofLe MondeI have laying open.
What a wretched name. Stubbing my cigarette out in one of the many ashtrays scattered about, I loop my old Hasselblad film camera around my neck, grab my keys and a sweatshirt, and head out, suddenly inspired.
Be Back Soon
Salem Tempest
Paris, Present
I see her again today. It’s the thirteenth Wednesday afternoon she’s spent in the pews. It looks as though she’s in deep thought, deep prayer, each and every time. She closes her eyes and sits there—in complete peace and serenity. Everyone fidgets. I fidget. But she doesn’t. Today she’s wearing a black hoodie and ripped, baggy overalls. Her long, golden brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and I don’t think she’s wearing any makeup.
I try not to stare. It’s difficult. I don’t know who she is, or what she does, or how she manages to get here every Wednesday afternoon at exactly three oh five. She sits in the same row—the same seat—every time.
Ignoring the murmurs of the tourists.
Ignoring the pealing of the bells.
Ignoring me.
When she leaves at exactly ten past five, I lean back in my chair to watch her go. Today she turns back to the altar and stares at it for several seconds before shaking her head and continuing her walk out the main door. I watch her profile, wondering if she can sense me watching. It’s a big cathedral though, and I’m one of many here. I see her drop a twenty euro note into the donation box before she pulls the large, wooden door open and walks out.
Just like every other week.
Sighing, I run my hands through my messy hair and adjust my collar. Just over an hour before evening mass, which Father Monsignor will lead. And one day I will lead evening mass, too. One more year of seminary—one more year until I have my Masters of Divinity. One more year until I’m ordained as a deacon, and from there it’s only six months before I become a priest. One of the youngest priests to serve in Paris at just thirty years old.
A knock sounds from my study door and Father Monsignor enters, his white robe billowing behind him. I speak to him in French.
“How are you, Father?”
He sighs and takes a seat, rubbing his face. “Long day, Salem. I’m utterly exhausted.”
I watch him for a second before replying. He’s in his late fifties, a widower, and extremely casual in his practice. He fought to become ordained—fought the cardinal about his previous marriage. But after meeting him and realizing how devout he was, they relaxed their rigid rules a bit. His dark, thinning hair is combed back, and his small, round glasses are slightly fogged up, as they always are.
“Can I help with anything? Replying to your letters, perhaps?” I run my eyes over my desk. I’m swamped, but if I stay up late again, I could probably squeeze in some time to read through his mail. Being the only multilingual priest at Notre Dame de Paris means he gets an exorbitant amount of letters. Seven languages. The man speakssevenlanguages fluently.
“Thank you for the offer, but I can see that you’re already busy. I just needed a small break before heading back into the confessional.”
“Don’t tell me you put up your ‘be back soon’ sign?” It was a point of contention between Father Monsignor and the church. Technically, one does not take breaks from hearing confessions.
He stands and chuckles, giving me a mischievous smile. “And how long have I been gone? Not even a minute. If one more person tries to fornicate in the booth...” he trails off and looks at me with a deadpan expression. “I really shouldn’t say this, but whoever thoughtthatwas a good idea deserves the sad and lamentable reality of eternal death they will surely get.”
I stifle a laugh. “You need a spray bottle or something,” I suggest, trying to keep my expression serious.
Father Monsignor cocks his head and gives me a wan smile. “That, my friend, is not a terrible idea.”
He walks out, chuckling as he goes.
