Read Online Barnacle Love by Anthony de Sa - Free Book Online Page A

her chipped toes magnified through them. But Manuel couldn’t. He wanted her to move her eyes. He wanted her to see. He wanted to reach up, take hold of the priest’s glasses, and perch them on her thin nose. Then he wanted her to weep, flood the rectory until they were both submerged in a lake of salted tears. Manuel thought he could hold his breath, grasp his trusted grouper Big Lips’ dorsal fin, and surge through the waves and out the church door. Padre Carlos would be caught in the swirl and drown. She never wept. The room remained dry. Padre Carlos was still there, standing behind him, close enough that Manuel could feel the heat of him. Manuel kept his sweaty palms close together, elbows placed on the soft pad. He wouldn’t look back when Padre Carlos’s breathing became deep and rhythmic, when he moaned;he just squished his hands and fingers together even harder until his nails surged to a paler shade of white. Manuel would gaze up at
Nossa Senhora
and imagine Big Lips swimming in the air, circling her head before disappearing. The moaning would fade just before the obligatory five “Our Father”s. Padre Carlos would reach over Manuel’s shoulder and offer his trembling hand and garnet ring to kiss. “Those who serve me, serve God.”
    Manuel would run home, struggle to catch his breath along the uneven road. “It’s all right—he’s not hurting me,” he’d repeat to himself. Once home he would move to his room with an inconspicuous gait and lock the door. Big Lips would pop out of his head. The gentle giant would open and close his balloon-like mouth, fanning him with his transparent fins. It lasted three years and Manuel’s mother never knew.
    … Listen to me well
    you Promised Land
,
    if you love me
    I will be your most faithful slave.
    I will turn from my past
    to jump in your fire.
    I bear the map of the dreams
    I lost …
    They revel in the noise against the evening sky. The moon lights the sails of the moored White Fleet, proud soldiers in the still harbor. Mateus says it isn’t safe in St. John’s. He tells Manuel the commander and his men are probing. Manuel had been the first man the commander lostat sea. Mateus says the commander never believed he had drowned; thinks it was all a ruse to escape Portugal and his military obligation. He will not allow any subterfuge to take seed, germinate in the hearts and minds of those he has been charged with. Mateus assures Manuel that if found, the commander will most certainly force his return.
    Head down, Manuel follows the remains of the once glorious carpet of petals. It is now nothing more than a crushed layer of confetti. The lines of the path are blurred to the many who dance and drink. Others curl up in doorways to sleep, while in one archway he steps near the steady hum that emanates from a straddling pair. It is a carnival. The
fadistas
weave in and out of homes, balconies, and bars, singing their sorry attempts in falsetto. Some try to duel in fado before erupting in laughter. But it is the faithful ones with the candles, holding their small flames of hope as they crawl up the street on their bloodied knees, who guide Manuel, under the gates and up to the large oak doors that guard those within.
    It is midnight and the thick walls of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist dull the noise outside. It is gloomy inside. He chooses to sit underneath a painting of Salome offering King Herod John the Baptist’s head on a platter. Small pools of light are cast from the ascending rows of prayer votives that have been pushed against the wall. There are people here, kneeling and praying, breathing in the smell of melting wax, lemon wood polish, and stale mums. Unlike Manuel, they are not waiting for the priest.
    When Manuel was eight, he was summoned by Padre Carlos one last time. The priest stood in front of thealtar as Manuel walked up to him. He reached into the money basket set on the altar. He offered a coin. When Manuel didn’t take it, he