Mister Monkey by Francine Prose

Author:Francine Prose
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-08-12T04:00:00+00:00

[ CHAPTER 7 ]

A FAN’S NOTES

MARIO HAS A funny feeling about this church, which he has never noticed, surprisingly, because the church is beneath the High Line, where so many small theaters are these days, and where Mario often finds himself, on matinee afternoons. Could the narrow, slightly sinister, soot-blackened church have appeared out of nowhere? Mario’s impulse to go to confession has also come out of nowhere, or so he thinks until he enters the church and realizes that he has been preparing his contrition ever since the night Ray Ortiz gave him tickets to Mister Monkey.

The Little Church of St. Francis. Mario’s favorite saint. He loves the idea of Saint Francis as a ragged, smelly hermit kneeling to receive the laser-like stigmata of light wounding his hands and feet. Imagine not caring if birds shit on your robe! Passing the church, Mario pictured St. Francis hovering above the sidewalk, one outstretched arm covered with a line of black starlings unafraid of the toothy wolf nuzzling at the saint’s hip. With his free arm, St. Francis had beckoned Mario into the church.

A vision of St. Francis. Who is Mario kidding? He went into the church because it was something his parents would have wanted.

Mario is on his way to see Mister Monkey. He hopes he can get in and out of the church on time. He’s glad there’s no line for confession. There rarely is, except in the Polish and Mexican churches, whose parishioners must have more colorful sins to confess. Or maybe: the fewer sins people commit, the more they want to talk about it. Forgive me, Father, for doing nothing wrong.

In the hierarchy of sins, Mario’s sins are microscopic. Forgive me, Father, for I’ve had bad thoughts. I have felt hate for a fellow human.

The church is empty except for an old woman in black, kneeling at the altar. A sign announcing that the sacrament of confession will be available from noon to three is chalked on a blackboard. The parish must be saving on signage. The decor looks more Quaker than Catholic. Maybe a cash-strapped congregation has had to sell off its fake-Neapolitan paintings and brocade altar cloths. Ghostly white rectangles mark their absence from the walls. Jesus writhes on a polychrome crucifix above the altar. The baptismal font is a black ceramic birdbath.

The one large oil painting is so encrusted with gunk, so cracked and badly lit that Mario has to shade his eyes to make out St. Francis rapt in prayer, a dusty wand of light finding his palms like those searchlights that used to signal a film premiere or (in this once-rough neighborhood) the opening of a new disco. Though St. Francis is kneeling, he appears to be levitating.

Mario enters the confessional, and like one of those escalators that start when your foot hits the step, the priest begins. “In the name of Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” Why do the Latin American priests speak so quietly and have such high voices? Is it racist to notice?

“Amen,” Mario says.

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