Structure Of Prayer. Diego Maenza

iron edge and rusty hinges, and I embark on the search for the boy throughout the house.

*

      I invite you once again to my room. We are having a conversation about certain theological aspects that he discusses with some knowledge. I instruct him as I lay my open hand on his fleshy, appetizing thigh. I urge him to begin a prayer together. I stand behind him and we raise the usual shared prayer. I perceive the warmth of his body that soothes the cold of the environment and at the same time refreshes the warmth of my entrails.

*

      The body beats me. I lie down with the taste of fruit still evident on my palate. I rehearse a prayer that melts in the attempt. My head is not here, but in the figure of the boy. I stagger to his door. I half-open it and discover the body asleep in the pleasure of the nap in a fetal posture with the beautiful bottom pointing at me, inciting me to caress it, to give it the final bite. My terrified body boils with fever or something else. In a fit of lucidity, I return to my bed.

*

      I woke up with the slimy sensation of sweat adhering to my skin. I watch the glimmer of the evening sun refracting on the mirror and flooding the room with its radiance, invading every corner. I understand the need to wash myself, a heat wave invades the bedroom and my crotch is doughy. The fever has passed. I beg for some fresh water.

*

      I have sent written instructions to the faithful for the Good Friday procession. The boy was my companion while I wrote the letter which he later delivered, encouraged by the promise to show him a part of the painting. I could not suppress my interest in his movements; my gaze fell on him all the time. He even made me divert my pen to a couple of features.

*

      The disc's case has as its cover the image of a road furrowed by autumn leaves that gets lost in a suggestive horizon. The yellowish passage ditches a forest of absolute tranquility. No bird hurts the tranquility. No animal ventures to desecrate the serenity of the small universe of leaves and earth. All are about to emerge to inaugurate, in a spirited way, an infernal paradise. I insert the disc in the player which forces it to spin quickly. That device transforms into a tiny infinite whirlwind that spins at thousands of revolutions per minute. The music invades the room, very slowly, as if struggling to wake up from a lethargy imposed by restrictive forces, inhaling tranquility, absorbing silence, holding on to the space that it will later occupy with its imperial tonality. But it will be the cold. The bass marks the rhythm, it continues in a continuous way, it flows with a crescendo that shades the shy interventions of the violins: they are the steps of the walker to whom some tribulation urges, they are the cracks of the ice about to crack. Now the lightning flashes, set on fire by the solo violin, the storm of the orchestra roars and shakes the space and vibrates at the feet of the wretch. The race originates with the impulse of the bass that throbs insistently and marks the fast tracks. The masterful imposition of the main violinist invades, strikes with its gusts of icy wind, and the intense cold forces the shivering and imposes the gnashing of teeth.

*

      You see this area here, and it shows me the top right side of the open painting. The whole painting symbolizes the sufferings of the sinner. But this part here, in particular, is the cliché image, the usual one, that we make of hell. Sulphur falling in continuous rain, mountains destroyed and bathed in darkness, and people in unspeakable torment.

      In this area, he indicates the central part with his index finger drawing an ellipse, the ice marks a strong contrast with the sulphurous fire, because within the conception of hell as a place of eternal torment, a space of ice is one of the most horrifying places. Look here how it cracks and the poor man is left at the mercy of the cold water.

      In this part, points out the bottom, is what in art is called musical hell, due to the use of musical instruments as symbols of torture. Very common in certain mystical painters. You see this bagpipe, here is the lute, here is the harp. And here a flute, you can see it.

      I wonder if this is really hell. Through the window I can feel the night coming on.

      Well, he tells me, the desperation and martyrdom, surely are well represented by the author, and here on this board, by the imitator, who is, I like to call him that, a performer.

      I ask him how he sees hell through what the holy scripture dictates. He does not answer. He seems to be immersed in a reflection that escapes the moment and my doubts. He's really wondering what hell is like.

      The holy book shows hell as a place of perpetual incandescence where souls will be thrown into the lakes of sulphur. This is how the painter in the upper part of this work captures it. In fact, the prophet invariably mentions it, noting certain premises such as the fire that never goes out, the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the eternal punishment.

      He speaks without looking at me, as if in conversation with himself.

      For centuries, fire and ice, that is to say, heat and cold, have been considered the most atrocious tortures in the place of perpetual punishment. A great poet of antiquity describes a part of hell with the usual rain of flames, and another segment, that of the traitors, formed entirely of ice. The devil, as regent of this space of perdition, is embedded from the waist into the icy surface. He cries with his six eyes and flaps his six angry wings.

      I imagine a hell of a lot of ice. Hades would be a paradise in comparison. An endless torture in perennial numbness. But what my body can now tolerate is the heat. An intense heat that continues as Father Misael's teaching advances and that oppresses me with the air charged by his close presence, so close. I admit his words as a sign of his spiritual wisdom. I do not intend to bother him any more with the frivolity of my questioning. I ask for his blessing and he gives it to me with greater strength, for he chisels a sacred kiss on my mouth.

*

      We've decided to have bread, I'll have some wine and he'll have a glass of juice. At the table we talked about topics of special interest to him. I look into his eyes and as I explain to him certain conceptions about feeling the holy spirit I feel the back of his hand. Then I direct mine to his face. The impact of the blush brushes my face. I caress his cheeks and kiss him again, this time deeply.

*

      Feel the abhorrent kiss that will mark the path of treachery and hell.

*

      I'm in his room and he points to a beige pajama top. He indicates to me that I am fit to serve a representative of God in the world, who from now on will be his spiritual assistant. He explains to me that the cassock is the only sacred garment that human beings possess. My new tasks consist of undressing him and putting him in his sleeping suit. It is a simple occupation for me and I gladly agree to serve the father, a purified son of God.

*

      His hands slide slowly down my thighs. They feel warm, healing, so disturbing and peaceful. I contain a groan. I vibrate when I notice her breathing in the area of my unclothed breaststroke, in the trepidation of my hairs which are agitated attracted by the wave of magnetism of his skin furrowing my skin by the touch of his chaste fingers. Now it is my breast that is satisfied, that rejoices in a delight that does not belong to this world. My skin is bristling. I am dominated by his touch. Taken over by the touch of his immaculate dermis. The folds of my shirt shake as they are slowly unbuttoned. I squeal without contemplation, but he doesn't stop. It seems that he has begun a torture from which he knows he is the executioner and does not want to see his victim escape. I see this segment of my existence as a vital moment. I embrace it and hold it for a time that I dare not establish. It is I who initiate the separation. You saw me with unsuspected agility. A hot flash inflames my body. Formal, he kneels in front of me and begs my blessing. I give him a kiss in his thick hair. I glimpse that my soul will not rest easy until it satisfies my body. My body will not be satisfied until it starts what my soul denies. I can't stand it anymore, and here lying down, I surrender to the sweet torment of solitary pleasure. Then it is the emptiness. I pray all morning for my salvation.

*

      The father accepts the defeat of his soul, has resigned himself and gives himself to the will of God. He prostrates himself on the fresh tile floor and prays, falling on his face. My Father, if it is possible, do not make me drink this cup. But let it be done, not as I will, but as you will. Comforted by having avoided his spiritual responsibility, Father Misael tries to rest, but it is impossible for him to sleep. He looks out of the window and finally feels the breeze hitting his face and soothing the long heat.

      The