Las Dos Marias

Chapter 9: The Friar of San Felipe

Another morning in San Felipe blurred past for Padre Enrique, each day dragging on like the murky river behind the chapel. Months in this town had worn down his patience; what once felt peaceful now felt stifling. Even the stillness of the chapel mocked him. The monotony was suffocating.

He felt trapped—not by walls, but by the role he played here. His discontent showed plainly on his face, his once robust health now faded to a sickly pallor. San Felipe felt more like a prison every day, though he was bound only by his own disillusionment. He reminded himself to stay out of trouble, but the command was starting to wear thin.

When he'd first arrived, he'd been hopeful. San Felipe was a fresh start, an escape from the rumors that had tainted his reputation in the capital. But as the days turned to months, the quiet of this small town gnawed at him.

Nobody asked about him—the new priest—and that suited him. The townspeople knew nothing of his past, the whispered accusations swept under the rug by the Church. As long as they stayed ignorant, his secrets would remain buried. They would never know about his growing fascination with women, the late-night visits, the confessions that had crossed boundaries. Here, he could wear his mask unchallenged. In their eyes, he was a man of God, beyond question.

He liked how the people in San Felipe attended to his every whim. Their loyalty to the friar was unquestionable, and he was sure he could indulge in his "adventures"—as he called them—here if he wanted. But the Teniente Mayor had warned him to behave and avoid stirring any scandal. How long could he keep pretending? He missed the thrill. It was like an addiction, and the more he suppressed it with penance and meditation on the word of God, the heavier it became.

His gaze drifted over the empty pews, dissatisfaction carved across his face. He wondered how much more isolation he could endure. His urges festered beneath his stoic facade, restless and unfulfilled. The old delights were still appealing, yet something whispered in the back of his mind, especially whenever he stared at the boys in the church. They seemed interesting.

"Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo..." he began, reciting 'The Lord's Prayer'. But the words felt hollow, as empty as the silence that pressed down on him. Everything seemed useless now. What was he doing in a chapel anyway? Perhaps he could ask the Teniente to send him to Madrid instead. He'd heard it was a bustling metropolis with a large and diverse population. It would offer him more anonymity than he could find in this godforsaken town. The authorities would have a harder time tracking him down.

With a sigh, he shifted his gaze to the cross above the altar, then to the statues of saints lining the chapel walls. He scoffed, muttering, "Your stoic eyes are useless," as he prepared to leave. He felt as though God and the saints had forsaken him long ago. No matter how much he prayed, he knew he wouldn't be heard.

But just as he turned, a figure appeared in the doorway—a boy, disheveled and breathless, with an anxious look on his face. At first, Enrique thought it was a trick of his imagination, another mocking mirage. But as the boy stepped closer, becoming more real with each step, a smile crept onto the priest's face. It seemed God hadn't forgotten about him after all. He rejoiced at the thought.

"Kumusta, Padre?" (How are you, Father?) the boy greeted, his voice soft.

It was Rafael, the young sacristan, no older than fourteen. Padre Enrique felt a flicker of something close to happiness at his reappearance. He hadn't expected to see him again since he had run away from the chapel. But it didn't matter, because, all of a sudden, the priest finally understood what had been missing. "Did you come back for me?" he asked, his tone unexpectedly gentle.

The boy didn't answer, only moved to kiss the priest's hand—a gesture that stirred something hot and primal within Padre Enrique.

"Por favor, Padre... my mother is very sick."

There was no joy in the boy's voice, only desperation. But that hardly mattered. Enrique's initial smile faded into something more unfathomable, a thrill of power replacing his earlier boredom. The dullness he'd felt moments ago evaporated as he loomed over the boy's small frame.

"I am a considerate man, Rafael. You know that, don't you?"

The boy kept his gaze lowered, as if he wished he could disappear. "Padre," he whispered, "will you help my mother? I have nowhere else to go."

Father Enrique turned to the altar, pretending to arrange the candles as he masked a smirk. "Of course," he said smoothly. "You've definitely come to the right place."