Memories of the Saint

Hair

Malthus was walking thoughtfully around the convent at a slow pace. It was a sunny morning. The sun's rays warmed the young man's tunic, giving a comforting sensation on his skin. It was not yet midday, the time when the heat became most aggressive and when all the priests and young apprentices lifted the skirts of their albs and flapped their cloths in search of a little coolness. Summer was hard on those who respected modesty.

Malthus with his head lowered watched his silent shoes step on the patterns of the tiles. The sunlight bathed him interruptedly through the columns of the corridor that gave a view of the inner garden. Some of his companions passed by on his right, used to seeing the young Saint with a worried expression. They were all familiar with the murmurs he uttered.

For the next couple of days everything had gone according to plan. Roberto did not bring up the subject again. And once Malthus had gathered his courage, he went to confess to Father Nelson. However, he was not able to confess as much as he would have liked. He only mentioned his accident with the wine. Father Nelson was benevolent to him, looking at him with sympathetic eyes and a tender smile, like a father seeing his son fall off his bicycle for the first time. The glazed eyes covered by those wrinkled bags of mature, wise skin had left Malthus purified and at peace with his conscience.

As he raised his head and left his reflective posture, the young man's eyebrows tingled and his eyes stung a little. His hair had grown and was beginning to caress his eyelashes.

He continued walking until he arrived at his tiny room to take a simple bar of soap, a pair of scissors and a small towel and then headed for the communal showers. He took the opportunity of the fact that it was mid-morning, knowing that at that time of day none of his peers ever used the bathrooms. Malthus hated showering in company.

The young man entered the bathrooms. He felt small in that wide, empty and cold space. To the left, a smaller room was divided from the rest of the large, gleaming cubicle, although it retained the horrible porcelain sheen of the tiles that covered both the floor and the walls throughout. It was terribly liminal.

Once inside the smaller space, that contained a few of the convent's only mirrors and a single shower, Malthus began to slowly remove his clothes. His tunic was still warm from so much time spent sunbathing, without it, every bit of bare skin exposed to the cold bristled. As he took off his shoes, he felt like hopping as he touched the floor, which felt like ice.

As he usually did when he didn't feel like or have time to ask a colleague for help, Malthus grabbed one of the benches in the shower room, sat on it, put one of the buckets they sometimes used to collect and reuse water and placed it on his feet. With only his underwear on, his legs spread and scissors in hand, he began to cut his fringes. Bending down, Malthus tried to get the little tufts of hair to fall into the bucket.

He didn't bother looking in the mirror while he did it, he just wanted his hair to stop bothering him. He had once made a mess and had cut too much, or it had not been symmetrical, but after so much practice it hardly happened anymore. Besides, it's not like he can allow himself to worry about his physical appearance. Vanity was something that the men in the convent had to leave behind when they decided to dedicate their lives to God.

Malthus saw how his friends and classmates began to comb their hair more and wear well-ironed clothes as they grew older. The girls in the town also began to wear slightly more elegant dresses and high-heeled shoes. Of course it was not comparable to the exuberance that existed in Bello Horizonte. The women wore dresses with "Dior new look silhouettes" in feminine colors and delicate prints. Their hair was no longer tied up in braids or buns like the girls and ladies of Santana dos Ferros, but was worn loose with sensual waves that seemed to imitate the movement of the sea. Almost all of them wore makeup, especially blush on their cheeks that made them seem always happy and alive. Her heels were slightly higher and brighter in color. Malthus liked to listen to the sound of the heels of women walking and smiling through the streets. When they passed by him he used to greet them and lower his gaze quickly out of shyness, so he always ended up looking at their shoes while he heard that "clonc, clonc, clonc" walk away.

He thought about the white shoes worn by the blonde who kissed Aramel in the open field; at that moment they were stained with dirt. She also thought about Aramel and how he eagerly grabbed the blonde's waist. Malthus could clearly see how his friend's fingers dug into the young woman's skin covered in white and blue spots. He forced himself not to think about it anymore, shaking his head as he stood up and walked over to one of the only two mirrors in the little room.

His reflection stared back at him. His hair looked decent enough, the only annoyance being the stray strands that had fallen onto his cheeks and eyelashes. He shook his head, causing more hair to cascade over his shoulders. Then, the young man allowed his more curious and playful side to take over, a side that only emerged when he could enjoy some privacy. Malthus began to play with his hair, pushing back the bangs to reveal his forehead, tousling it, attempting to style it like Roberto, Aramel, and the other boys his age usually did, albeit with little success, he didn't even have any hair gel. He glanced at the empty sink in front of him, except for the mint green soap bar. He thought of Roberto and Aramel's place, with their bathroom filled with perfumes and creams, mostly belonging to the blue-eyed young man. Aramel had always been a heart-breaker. All the girls would fall for him, seeking his attention through love notes and letters. Malthus wondered if any girl would ever tuck his hair shyly behind his ear upon seeing him or laugh at one of his jokes with an flirty laugh.

His eyes left his hair and gradually lowered to his chest. He noticed that his face was more tanned than the rest of his body, likely from wearing his alb. There were a few freckles scattered on his paler skin.

Malthus took two steps back to observe more of his body. He raised his arms, mimicking the actors in Hollywood movie posters who would puff out their chests and show off their strong arms, before quickly feeling embarrassed and lowering them. He felt stupid; he looked nothing like those actors. He hated being alone, when he became more aware of his own physicality. He rarely saw his own naked body; he wouldn't be able to point out where he had moles or scars once dressed. Father Nelson didn't allow the apprentice boys to clean themselves without clothes, see their naked bodies, or spend too much time enjoying a bath.

When Father Nelson praised or congratulated him, or when he walked the streets and people approached him, kissing his hand and seeking blessings, it was in those moments that he felt at peace with himself, when he felt his body expand and form something that neither begins nor ends, a figure created by the gazes of those who called him Saint. However, in his solitude, he faced the cruel reality of his heavy, organic, imperfect body, like a homunculus made of clay that sins and errs. He had scent, his nails got dirty and grew, his hair grew, and his lips cracked. Sometimes he envied the statues and paintings in the various churches and cathedrals he had visited. Always untouchable, unchanging, and perfect.

Once in the shower, Malthus positioned himself under the cold water, letting it rain down on his goosebumped skin. There was never hot water in that convent. With the soap bar, he began to lather his back, while among the strands of his hair dripping, he watched as the cut hair fell from his shoulders to the shower floor. The sound of water echoed throughout the shower room. As he ran his soapy hands all over his body, Malthus began to find a certain pleasure in the cold water; it wasn't inherently pleasant, but the young man enjoyed how intense the sensation felt, allowing himself to close his eyes and enjoy his own caresses. He was just relaxing, he told himself, nothing more. His hands had already started to rub his chest, lightly touching his nipples hardened by the cold. He was just relaxing in the shower, nothing more. His hands gradually descended down his pectoral muscles. He was just relaxing.

The loud sound of a door opening caused Malthus to open his eyes and immediately pull his hands away from his body. The conversation of his comrades echoed in the room along with their footsteps. Quickly, Malthus grabbed his towel and prepared to flee the scene.