TWENTY-SIX
Bastien
Adjusting the overly tight collar at my throat, I picked my way down the lane to the Martinez household, weekly provisions in hand. The island sun beat down uncharacteristically hot for this time of year, the black garb of my everyday uniform soaking up all the rays that bright ball of light had to offer. Perhaps this was part of the punishment for my transgressions, sweating out the sin until my head felt so dizzy with heat, all I could do was strip naked at the end of each day and lie against the scratchy bed linens, mind on one single night when getting sweaty between the sheets with another human hadn’t bothered me quite as much as this did.
But I would be lying if I said I’d enjoyed what happened physically between Tressa and me.
The physical release was mind-blowing, far more than I ever knew it could be, but the emotional guilt that rode me immediately after wasn’t worth the pleasure.
My fingers lingered on the worn leather of my clergy belt, the memory of its sharp sting enough to send tingles radiating across my skin.
I was still paying the penance for my transgressions that night.
I likely would the rest of my days.
A commitment wasn’t something I took lightly—not to another soul, nor to God Himself.
I vowed to follow and serve him to the best of my ability, and what happened that night was not for the best of anyone.
I was still coming to terms with how I felt about all of it.
The only thing I was beginning to understand was my real and vibrant love for this island and its people. Their ability to rouse my spirit and live a life of joy in the face of hardship uplifted me.
Dusty red dirt under my feet and giant leafy palms as far as the eye could see. Warmth so hearty I could feel it to the bones.
I could retire here in Cuba and live a life not unlike Padre Juan’s. Soak up my days to the tune of the red-throated parrots jabbering in the trees.
It hadn’t taken me long to realize part of the charm of this place was also part of its sorcery.
The raw, natural beauty was unmatched, the rural poverty of its people a heartbreak.
This was beginning to feel like my home again, these people, mine.
I imagined a tiny cottage at the edge of a tobacco field, the Guaniguanico mountain range dipping into the horizon in the far distance and standing guard like the gatekeeper to the heart of the world. Some chickens and a pig or a cow to tend to keep me busy, dinners spent with genuine souls who were similarly called to this life. A life close to nature felt satisfying, and in some respects, I felt retired already. The primal side of me Tressa had flamed to life extinguished in favor of something simpler. Some on the outside might consider my passion dead, which was probably the point all along, but I failed to see it so dejectedly.
I found freedom in the fresh air and the laughter of Santiago when he greeted me each week.
It wasn’t that the pain of her ejection from my life didn’t still burn, but the flame required less keeping. In truth, the pain of her memory over a lifetime lost only grew if I allowed it. It was in thinking of her less that I forced myself to find absolution from the guilt of our wanton lust.
Life carried on, for her too.
If I hadn’t been isolated on this island, and instead sent to Schenectady or somewhere within driving distance, I would have sought her out. Of that, I was sure. I would have gone to her, confessed to my deep love and remorse and shame, and asked her to love me anyway.
But life didn’t lend us a map for the rest of our journeys.
And so we beat on, souls making the journey alone.
