Memories of the Saint

Morning

Roberto walked through the corridors of the convent, biting his lip and frowning. The thoughts weighed too heavily on his mind to keep his brows up. He had barely slept. The night before he had managed to persuade Malthus to get into his car to take him home, however, for some reason, his friend insisted that he should not drop him off at his mother's house, but leave him at the convent. Of course, at first Roberto refused. How could he do that, and for what? Malthus' mother was waiting for him at home, and the convent was much further away. But there was a desperation in Malthus' eyes that Roberto had never seen before. Anyone would think that Malthus believed his life was hanging by a thread.

Once he had seen Malthus safely get inside the convent, Roberto had to stay in his flat in the city. He had no intention of leaving Malthus alone, nor was it worth going back to Santana dos Ferros to return the next morning, as it was almost morning.

Finally, morning came, leaning out of Roberto's bedroom window after a few hours of sleep. It was early, very early, but Roberto didn't care. He called Aramel so that he could tell Malthus' mother that he was well and in the convent. He didn't have the strength left to make up an excuse to shield his friend, but at least his mother would be a little reassured.

Roberto approached the entrance to Malthus's small room. Although the barred window that pierced the door was large enough to leave Malthus with no privacy. Roberto knocked as he looked away to respect his friend.

"Come in," Malthus replied after a few seconds. The rays of the morning sun had warmed the room, filling it with an inviting, cheerful light, which contrasted with Roberto's mood. Roberto on entering saw a smiling Malthus, already standing in the room, his hands folded in front of him. "How are you, Malthus?" Roberto's tone was cautious as he took a couple of slow steps closer to his friend. The young Saint seemed to glow in the same light as the varnish covering the Christ hanging on the wall behind him. Within three steps, however, Roberto was close enough to see the dark bags under Malthus' red, puffy eyes. His nose also looked slightly red and irritated.

"Very good, I've spent the morning cleaning my room and now I was going to read a bit, how are you?" Malthus' tone was strangely energetic "too energetic" thought Roberto as he watched his friend, with a stiff smile on his face, begin to remove the sheets from the mattress, not fast enough for Roberto to not see the sweat stain on them.

"Good, good, I'm fine" Roberto said without showing intent in his words, as he didn't even know what he was responding to. The confusion caused by his friend's behavior was leaving him too astounded.

"Excuse me, I have to go and clean this up, I'll be right back" but before Malthus could leave the room with the sheets in a jumble, Roberto grabbed him gently by the arm "Malthus, we need to talk". The voice and the eyes hidden behind the reflection of Roberto's glasses showed an earnestness that made Malthus more aware. For a few moments the Saint's face took the form of one of the many anguished icons that inhabited the convent. They all shared those slaughtered-lamb looks and half-open mouths. Malthus, however, would not let Roberto find out.

"Sure, tell me, is something wrong?" Malthus' smile returned. He sat on the now naked bed on which sun's veil was falling, increasing the whiteness of his alb. He really did look like a Saint, like those statues covered in gold leaf that decorated the churches. His affable expression together with his teary, tired eyes made him look even more like a martyr. The young man's seemingly naive response left his friend speechless, things were not happening as he had anticipated.

"Well" Roberto delayed briefly " To start off, I need you to help me think of something to say to your mother, she must be wondering why you didn't go home yesterday" The threads holding Malthus' smile lost their tension and his lips quickly dropped at the mere mention of his mother.

Roberto continued "I also wanted to apologize to you, when you started crying I realized how selfish I had been, I..."

"It was nothing, you don't have to apologize and I didn't cry that much either" Malthus' anguished character had once again taken over his body, making Roberto recognize him more. The Saint stood up and started pacing back and forth anxiously "I just had a bad day, and you just wanted to have a good time, there's not much more to talk about" Malthus' hands were once again folded, but this time it was because he started nervously pulling at the skin around his fingernails.

"Malthus there's a lot more to talk about. When you walked away from the van..."

"I don't remember it" Malthus knew Roberto wouldn't believe such a blatant lie, nor did he bother to disguise it, but he knew his best friend would be forced to stop insisting. He didn't want to think about the night before. That was behind him, way behind him. It was a new day, he had prayed, and again, as always, there was no more pain, no more remorse, and more important, no more anger.

Malthus had to force himself to look into Roberto's eyes. He felt like if he looked long enough he could convince him to drop the subject. But he only got an increasingly worried expression from his friend.

"Okay..." Roberto placed his hand on Malthus' shoulder as he approached the door of the little room, "you know you can trust me, right?"

Yes, of course he knew, Malthus knew that Roberto was the most responsible and capable person he had ever encountered. And he also knew that he not only had the heart of a writer, but the curiosity of a detective. He wasn't going to let the matter go so easily, few things escaped him. But this couldn't leave that open field, or last longer than that night. He had to bury those memories with the rest of his feelings. Malthus hoped Roberto would deduce his elusive attitude was being provoked by the shame of getting drunk. The truth was, Malthus didn't want Roberto to know that what he really wanted to avoid was to face all the hatred he felt the night before. He didn't want to see his mother, he was ashamed, not only of everything he had done, but also of the bad thoughts he had dedicated to her. His mother, who had given everything for him, who always held his face tenderly in her increasingly veined and wrinkled hands to admire God's beautiful creation. How proud she was always of him, and how happy it made him.

The day when his masquerade would be discovered must never come. Not that Malthus did not believe he was a Saint, but doubt sometimes leaked through the gaps his sins left in his faith, like honey slipping through the comb.

Roberto walked down the tiled corridor he had come through, leaving a melancholic glance through the bars of the indiscreet window at Malthus.

Everything will be fine, everything will be fine, Malthus kept repeating to himself, while Roberto whispered to himself in the convent gardens "nothing is fine".