Deadly Communion Read Free Page A

arrives. Conception is merely the point at which they converge. Therefore, when we are conceived we are as obligated to the dead as we are to the living. I existed — albeit in a rather dispersed form — long before a provincial priest splashed my forehead with holy water and gave me a name. There is no fons et origo. I have no beginning.
    You want a history. You want chronology. But nothing is ever that straightforward. You see, even starting my story is fraught with philosophical problems. One thing, however, stands out. One thing I can assert with confidence. I killed my mother. Others see it differently, of course, but I can only see it that way. She died minutes after I was ‘born’. Imagine — if you will — the scene: the doctor descending the stairs, my father, rising from his chair, eager, but suddenly confused by the medical man’s expression. Is the child all right? The doctor nods: Yes, a boy. A fine, healthy boy. My father tilts his head. He knows that something is wrong. Your poor wife — the doctor mumbles — I’m afraid there was nothing I could do to save her. Swiftly, the doctor recovershis authority. Some technical talk follows. An explanation — but not one meant to elucidate. That is how doctors are — you should know that. He shakes my father’s hand and leaves. My father, shocked, numb, hollow, ascends the stairs and enters the bedroom where the women are still removing the bloody sheets. His wife is dead. One of the women covers the corpse’s face and makes the sign of the cross. She looks at my father and smiles, a merciful, sad, sweet smile, the smile that graces representations of the Madonna, and gestures towards the cradle. Your son, she says. My father steps forward and peers at the tiny creature wrapped in swaddling.
    You will allow me to make an observation: I have since come to understand that my father’s response to his misfortune was by no means typical. When women die during childbirth, it is frequently the case that loving husbands find consolation in their offspring because something of the beloved is preserved in their person; however, my father seems to have been deficient in this respect. He did not see my mother in me. My presence in the world did not make him feel any closer to her. Quite the contrary. I would say that I merely reminded him of her absence, which made his loss even more painful.
    A cheerless house, then. Blighted. Cold. Gloomy. Long silences — the clock ticking. That is the atmosphere in which I grew up.
    There was a photograph of my mother on the mantelpiece. I still see it if I close my eyes — vivid — shining in the darkness: the repeated curlicue motif that flowed around the edges of the silver frame, the posy of little alpine flowers, the candle that was sometimes lit (but was mostly unlit). My father was in the habit of referring to my mother as an angel, and so it was that I came to think of her as possessing wings.
    When I was alone in the house I would creep into the sitting room, take the photograph from the mantelpiece and study her face. My mother was a very beautiful woman: golden hair, big eyes, anddelicate features. There was something in the background of the photograph which I mistook to be white feathers, folded neatly behind her back. Communing with my mother’s image was a private activity. It had to be, because my father disapproved. He discovered me once and snatched the frame out of my hands. He was furious and said that I should be careful with such a precious object. If I dropped it the glass would break. It was irreplaceable and I should show more respect. I remember that he had a strange look in his eyes. I was frightened and thought that he was going to punish me. Recalling the incident now, I would say that my father’s strange look was a jealous one — possessive.
    The women of the village took pity on me. They brought me soup and shared their special dishes on feast days. I was always being invited to play with