The Day I Killed My Father Read Online Free PDF Page A

preached. Opposite it, above the main entrance, was a silver organ, which was only used on special occasions. The side aisles had chapels devoted to different saints, most of whom were Italian, since the church had been financed by Italian immigrants. The altar in the left-hand aisle had a statue of Saint Paul of the Cross, while the right-hand one had a statue of the Virgin Mary.
    It was in this church that I had taken my first communion and shat my pants during a school ceremony, the shit seeping through the white knee-highs that were part of my school uniform. Both occasions were branded in my memory, not least for the fact that my father wasn’t present at either one. On my first communion, arguing that it was just institutionalised superstition, he spent the day out of town on a friend’s farm. My mother was really hurt, but I liked not having him around. I managed to be the centre of attention all day long. As for the school ceremony, I don’t remember why he wasn’t there. I was relieved he hadn’t witnessed my public humiliation — and my mother didn’t tell him anything about it, on my insistence … You think she might have told him without me knowing about it? I doubt it. He would have mocked me. If he didn’t, it’s because he didn’t know.
    This old domestic of ours liked to go to church on Sundays because it was an opportunity for her to have some kind of social life. Not that there wasn’t any religious sincerity in her habit. There was, and lots of it, as demonstrated by the fervour of her prayers and her room full of pictures of saints. But she didn’t hide her happiness at being able to chat with her equals — the absence of which she resented in our oh-so-hierarchical home full of employees who were always being replaced by my father. For this reason, we always arrived at church half an hour early. I took these moments to wander through the church alone, stopping at the chapels with the most shocking paintings and statues. The one that most fascinated me was a statue of Christ dead, lying inside a glass urn. It was in the first chapel of the right-hand aisle, and was always the final destination of my solitary wanderings. The statue only left there when it was carried by the faithful in the Good Friday procession, thereby making the gloomy streets around the church even sadder. I’ve never seen one of these processions — my father wouldn’t allow it — but our domestic’s descriptions were so vivid that, in my mind, the scenes took on the contours of something I’d actually witnessed. It’s as if I’d personally watched the slow steps of the hooded men in white tunics who carried the dead Christ, and the men who lit the way with torches, and the women who chanted the Lord’s Prayer in a lament that could be heard on the top floors of the buildings, although there weren’t as many buildings in the neighbourhood back then. I wonder if the procession still takes place. Do you think you could find out for me? Never mind …
    The dead Christ statue seduced and terrified me, like a lover who inspires both attraction and repulsion. Alone, standing before the glass urn, I tried to look away, but it was useless. The stigmata on his feet and hands, the blood running from his chest and head wounds, the crown of thorns that still hurt him — all these details mesmerised me. Nothing in the church seemed as alive as that dead Christ, if you will allow me this paradox. I only turned away from the statue when the small bell that announced the start of mass was rung. No, I’m mistaken. I only left when I saw the priests going into the wooden confessionals that stood between the chapels. I liked confessing, so I could take communion afterwards. My sins were always the same four: disobedience, insolence, recalcitrance, and swear words. I was, in fact, obedient, polite, and helpful, and almost never swore. But you had to