Good Offices

To the surprise and delight of the congregation that evening, it turned out to be a sung Mass. Who could have imagined that Father Matamoros, besides bringing his own water to the altar, would turn out to be a perfect cantor? Beneath the cold vaulted reaches, his voice seemed to come from heaven. He repeated his invitation to repent, singing: Beloved brethren, to prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries, let us call to mind our sins. It was as if the organ were sounding. Tancredo lifted his gaze to the marble dome as if escaping and saw the host of painted angels flying among the clouds; he saw them return his gaze and still did not know whether to feel terrified or moved. How long it had been, he thought, since Mass had been sung. The purity of the voice was the air they breathed. Nobody understood anything, but the voice sang on. Of course, none of the congregation dared sing their responses, and so, timidly, like lambs, they said the I confess to Almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do, and they beat their chests, whispering in unison through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, and, after the beating of chests, which resounded like an unearthly drum, and marvelling at it in themselves, exultant, as though finally understanding that their own bodies could sound and sing, they carried on asking blessed Mary ever Virgin, all the Angels and Saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God … There was an infinite silence. Father Matamoros concluded by singing Almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life, and then, for the first time as a communion, everyone dared respond with a sung Amen.

In the front row — because they attended, without fail, every early and evening Mass — were the three Lilias, so different yet so similar, yoked together by the same name since they had entered Father Almida’s service, old, dressed in black, their Sunday best, the three of them with neat little trimmed hats, veils and Missals, patent leather shoes, their hands redolent of onions, their breath smelling of various dishes, in their eyes the flames still lingered, the fatigue from mincing meat and garlic, from squeezing lemons, from cooking until all appetite is lost. That night, however, their eyes watered not from onion juice or bruised radishes but from something like a sacred liquor that flooded their ears and touched their souls and in the end made them cry silently. They smiled like a single Lilia. They formed an island among the faithful, who recognized them by their smell and preferred to give up a whole pew just for them, no neighbors beside or behind them, a privilege or a loneliness which the Lilias, in their almost inordinate innocence, understood as deference on the part of the worshippers toward the women who took care of Father Almida, his breakfast, his immaculate soul and his clean shirt.

Sabina too, hidden in the sacristy, threw herself into the unexpected singing for all she was worth. For a few moments of grace, that apparition of a priest made her forget that she and Tancredo would end up alone in the presbytery, without Almida or Machado; she saw Tancredo’s burly back, his tapering hump, his raised head, but in the end she did not see him, he did not matter, she simply listened, intoxicated, to Father San José inviting the parishioners to repent. The priest’s canticle, which initially almost made them laugh with panic, now made them weep for joy. When they came to the Kyrie, the congregation burst out singing to the Lord that he might have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy, and felt themselves rising with the Gloria up to God in heaven. Machado repeated it, singing alone, and in Latin. They listened to him, rapt: Glória in excélsis Deo et in terra pax homínibus bonae voluntátis. Laudámus te, benedícimus te, adorámus te, glorificámus te. . and at the prayer’s end, as one, they all sang a fervent Amen that caressed the walls, quivering everywhere, from the altar out to the street.

Several passers-by had stopped in their tracks on overhearing this improbable seven o’clock Mass, surely imagining that there must be some venerable mortal remains by the altar, the commemoration of a bishop, at the very least: but there was no corpse in sight, and the Mass was sung. Even without a corpse, the circumstantial parishioners from the street huddled, captivated, in the doorway. Besides, it was raining, and a sung Mass was a good excuse to take shelter.