The Confessions of Frances Godwin Read Online Free PDF

disrespectful to my parents, especially my mother. I’ve told lies.” I stopped there. The priest waited for me to go on, but I thought it was enough, especially fornicazione. And then everything happened that was supposed to happen. The priest asked me to consider the seriousness of my sin and its effects on others, and to promise not to repeat it. I agreed to everything, and then he absolved me, in Latin, “ in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. ” I was in a state of grace. It was like standing in a cold shower, or plunging into Lake Storey, after jogging on a hot day.
    Sister Teresa, who had already made her confession, was waiting for me at the fountain in the piazza, her fingers working a rosary. Penance? You always had to wonder about other people’s sins. She looked up at me, her face a question mark. My own face answered her. No need for words. We walked along the west bank of the Tiber, not talking at first, and then talking slowly and carefully in Latin all the way to Ponte Sublicio and then back up the east bank all the way to the Corso, and then backtracking through some smaller streets, not knowing exactly where we were and not caring, till we found ourselves in Campo de’ Fiori, where Giordano Bruno had been burned at the stake for proposing that the sun was just another star and that the universe contained an infinite number of inhabited worlds.
    We wandered around till almost eight o’clock and then ate in a restaurant on one of the little side streets that branch off the campo. Lots of diners had great big brown flowers on their plates. I didn’t know what they were. Neither did Sister Teresa. They weren’t flowers; they were deep-fried artichokes. Not little baby artichokes, but medium-size ones. Like everyone else, I’d been having a hard time in class. Father Adrian kept pushing and pushing us. But sitting with Sister Teresa, pulling the leaves off my artichoke, sprinkling them with fresh lemon juice, my mind had become calm. I could see things clearly, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the artichokes or because I’d received absolution.
     
    If I close my eyes I can still see Paul sitting on a bench on the Janiculum overlooking Regina Coeli. Not the new pope, Paul VI, but Paul Godwin, my Shakespeare professor. It was the fifth week of the course. We’d been declaiming Catullus 2 and discussing the possibility that some lines were missing between 2(a) and 2(b)—a famous crux in the famous poem about Lesbia’s sparrow. I was able to shine, since I’d done my honors thesis on Catullus, and when Father Adrian realized that I was familiar with the crux, he asked me to lead the discussion. I had to step up in front of the class and ask questions in Latin. And respond to questions too.
    “Quid omisum est?” What’s been left out?
    And so on. Pretty basic, but pretty exciting, too. And soon it was time for lunch.
    With my eyes still closed I see myself walking with Sister Teresa along the edge of the Janiculum. I see us buying two gelati, in little cups—my treat this time. And then I notice Paul and I realize that this is not the first day he’s been sitting on this bench.
    At first I think I must be mistaken. But there’s no mistaking Paul, though he’s looking very Italian. He’s peeling an orange with a knife and putting the peels down on a napkin spread out on his lap. Sister Teresa and I walk on by, and my sense of being free from sin is soothing. Especially in Sister Teresa’s presence. We’re on an elevated plane, above the world, looking down on Paul. Paul, I think to myself, will be a welcome challenge, a test of strength.
    Sister Teresa and I had both done well in class, discussing the pros and cons of the missing-lines hypothesis, and I was feeling strong, even as I thought about Paul. His touch. His fingers on the inside of my leg. His smell. Not cologne, but some kind of shaving gel. I’d seen it in his bathroom. But I was experiencing these sensations as