A Cross, a Priest, and some Port Wine

Chantal Schaul, 2003

I am a cross between human and crucifix, but even so, I am able to walk and move my arms. I am not disabled. My wood is young, sappy and very flexible.

I don’t go out much nowadays. But when I was younger, I thought I could defy the whole world. People assumed that I was an anti-papal feminist in fancy dress. No one understood my predicament.

After a while I could not bear their looks and prejudices any longer, and concealed my freakishness underneath a cloak. I was almost seventeen years then, in crucifix terms. One human year is equivalent to two point eight crucifix years.

After my youthful rebukes I tried to hide as best as I could and circulated only in environments where my presence would go unnoticed. Churches. With a thorn crown on my head, I sneaked in at dawn and picked a nook or cranny along the wall. Wearing a male nude suit and a fake beard, I stood there all day long and enjoyed the human company around me throughout the service. My suit was decorated with bloody wounds and scratches in all the right places. I learned the art of standing still and holding my breath to near perfection. Only occasionally my stomach grumbled, and once I almost sneezed.

I listened to the words of whispering gossips, followed the nudges of elbows and fingertips, observed the looks cast among churchgoers. When I had learned all the intrigues among the congregation, I looked for new pastimes. I softly hummed the hymns and analysed chiselled woodwork and painted sculptures. I watched the priests and their mannerisms from afar, until I knew them down to their nervous ticks.

Every day I picked a different church. I soon worked out a scheduled routine along which my life moved, slowly and quietly. I could have gone on like that for decades.

But one day, the old priest of a Roman Catholic church suffocated during confession. Saint Etheldreda was one of the larger churches, located just outside town. I fitted in perfectly with its gothic style and vanished easily among the innumerable statues of saints that lined the ancient grey stone walls.

A new priest was soon appointed; his name was Jeremy. Although I could have fallen for any number of charming eligible young bachelors among the endless rows in various parish churches, powers beyond my control determined that I set my heart on Father Jeremy. This growing passion seeped to the deepest chamber of my heart and there was nothing I could do to blot it out.

Jeremy certainly wasn’t the glowing statue of manliness that I had always envisaged as a romantic interest in my teenage dreams. One of my most important prerequisites in a man had always been broad shoulders. My own crucifix shoulders are so prominent that I keep banging them into doorframes and other obstacles. A broad-shouldered man, I always thought, would be essential in making me less self-conscious of my wide span. And only a man with sweeping shoulders would be able to cradle me in his strong ample arms and make me feel like I was small and delicate.

I knew that Jeremy would never be able to fulfil my dream. The span of his shoulders was very limited indeed. His frame was frail and frangible, his bone structure slight, his flesh lean. He was sprightly and nimble, fit and fast. He never walked but leapt, never climbed but skipped. Like a mountain goat, he was never short of breath, however much he hopped back and forth through the nave and capered up and down the altar steps.

But I was desperately in love with this wispy creature. I adored the smooth way he moved. I was hooked by his facial expressions, so rich and diverse, so fast in succession. I loved his attentiveness to detail and his consideration for everything around him. He would put the palm of his hand on the heads of wayward children to calm them down, softly but safely touch the elbows of lame old ladies to support them on their way out, or express his concern for the fatigue of young girls when he heard their breath exhaled in a peaceful yawn.

My affinity for Jeremy was crazy, my endearment fantastic. I overheard his deepest secrets and conflicts in his constant confessions to God. Although Jeremy was usually in high spirits and hummed cheerful church anthems during most of his spare time, he was sometimes seized by an uncharacteristic spell of sadness.

On those days, he sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor at the bottom of a massive crucifix three times my size. A pale and haggard Jesus looked down on him in commiseration, crying crimson tears. Jeremy burst into tears himself at some point and confessed his deep conviction that he had chosen the wrong vocation. He admitted that, as a teenager, he wanted to be a pop star. He made a clean breast of his music tastes and owned up to the fact that, while pottering around in his house, he listened to the likes of Pet Shop Boys and Erasure.

But the hardest and most upsetting moment always was when Jeremy divulged his weakness for the female sex. He clasped his face in both hands and shamefully confessed that he fancied at least thirteen women among his congregation. Although this admission shattered Jeremy’s chest with sobs, it never failed to make my heart leap with joy. If he had amorous feelings for the female sex, perhaps he would be able to develop some for me, one day.

Unfortunately, Jeremy had never paid me a great deal of attention. When I first made my appearance at Saint Etheldreda, he was mildly surprised. He read the note, which I had been astute enough to label myself with:

‘With kind regards and best wishes I donate this crucifix to the Roman Catholic church of Saint Etheldreda. A pious Christian.’

Jeremy removed the label with one of his fluid gestures and studied me at length. He must have thought me rather small, as crucifixes go. He touched my face with his slender fingers but did not notice that I was alive. I had taken care to cover my skin in a thin film of transparent chilling wax. My fake beard was similarly hardened.

After that initial discovery, Jeremy hardly ever looked at me again. He stuck to the larger crucifix, lifeless, dusty and dull. But I had, from that first touch, hopelessly and irreversibly fallen in love. Was it the subtle brush of his tender hand on my cheek, or the kindness that emanated from his radiant blue eyes, so light they were almost phosphorescent?

Jeremy left me confused. The sensation of yearning and craving was new to me. I was unable to eat or sleep; my thoughts swarmed and circled only around him. Constantly working out ways in which to reveal myself, my common sense and sanity were under serious threat.

At night, I wandered aimlessly through town, my cloak billowing in the wind. I found a bar that was located in a disused church, ‘The Epiphany.’ It became my regular haunt. When no one was looking, I took my position upstairs against the wall and dropped my cloak. The staff was oblivious to my presence. The drinkers were too intoxicated to notice.

A wooden platform divided the lofty expanse of the building in two floors, leaving a gap in the middle. I often stared into this abyss, watching miniature people drink and kiss down below. During the day, the stained glass windows dipped the whole interior in an outlandish rainbow glow. At night, a myriad of coloured lights replicated a similar atmosphere.

I stole drinks from nearby tables and downed them whenever I wasn’t watched. Sometimes I spiralled down into a state of blood-shot alcoholism and came close to throwing up. I mixed Baileys, Guinness, Snakebite and blackcurrant, Port Wine, Liebfraumilch, VK Ice and various cocktails, like Sex by the Altar, Bloody Jesus, Russian Confession, and what not.

One morning, having just sneaked back into Saint Etheldreda, still hung-over and woozy, I watched Jeremy as he was walking up and down the aisle, ruminating intensely and criticising himself for being a phone phobic and a hand washing maniac.

‘I have to give the host delivery man a ring, I have to, I have to,’ he repeatedly called out.

‘I wish I could help,’ I said softly.

He swivelled around and stared at me, aghast.

‘Dear Lord.’

When Jeremy heard me speak, he slipped down to his knees. Nervously he pawed the sign of the cross over his lithe torso and ferociously folded his delicate hands. His knuckles turned white.

‘Dear Jesus, speak to me again,’ he pleaded.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Ask me anything you like.’ I distorted my voice.

He looked up at me with devotion and awe. He was beautiful.

‘Would you give me your thoughts on my split being, my torn soul, my tattered self?’

‘With pleasure. What exactly are you torn between?’

‘I live in a constant dilemma. One side of me is immured with religious sobriety, the other is revelling in vibrant and psychedelic pop culture. I constantly waver between holding my vividly coloured personality back and lavishing out. I fear it is my religion that is oppressing me in this horrendous manner.’

His voice was shaking. I could sense his overwhelming guilt battling with his deepest desires. The poor darling!

‘Never fear to let your innermost emotions run riot,’ I said, and added: ‘The same counts for your interest in the female sex, by the way. I know you are tempted. Go ahead. But do pick the right one.’

Jeremy was flabbergasted at first, but then nodded with a hopeful smile. He hopped up and away, delirious with joy, radiating with optimism.

‘Thank you, God,’ he screamed.

From then on we had many discussions. I gave him regular advice on women and managed to talk him out of most girls he fancied. But there was one young lady that he was amazingly besotted with.

She was eighteen and had the most opulent and long curly flaxen hair. Her skin was rosy and glowing; her eyes were of a perfect blue. She often came to church with her small, white, fluffy grandmother, no doubt spying on a copious inheritance. The girl constantly carried with her a smothering cloud of strong fragrance. It made me so delirious and dizzy I was afraid I would topple over.

Jeremy was smitten with the girl. He called her ‘my angel,’ ‘miraculous lady,’ ‘sweet marvel,’ ‘virgin blossom,’ ‘divine dove,’ and ‘godly goldilock.’

However much I tried, I could not cure him from his insane infatuation. I pointed out the girl’s immaturity, her superficiality, her arrogance. But he excused it all, in the name of innocence, beauty and self-confidence. He was dying to ask her out for a drink. In the end I gave in and suggested ‘The Epiphany.’

‘That sounds perfect. Thank you, Jesus, for recommending it.’

He dashed off to dandy himself up for the service. When the girl arrived, he approached her and her grandma, who was as deaf as a cabbage leaf.

‘Dearest Kitty’ – that was her name – ‘would you do me the honour of gracing me with your company for a drink out? I would love to take you to ‘The Epiphany.’

Kitty loved male attention and agreed.

‘Fine. Just give me a call,’ she said and left, towing her Nan behind her.

Jeremy was devastated. The following days were spent in anxious preparation of a possible phone speech. He wrote down countless potential conversations and practised them in front of me. They all sounded very stilted and wooden.

I advised him to distract himself and polish chalices while speaking to her. He complied. Chalice in one hand, cloth in the other, and phone cramped between his delicate ear and lissom shoulder, he finally made the call.

‘Hello dear Kitty. This is Father Jeremy.’

‘Yes?’

‘Could I take you out for a drink tonight.’

‘Ok.’

‘At eight o’clock?’

‘Fine.’

‘See you then.’

‘Bye.’

Her monosyllabic replies gave Jeremy no room for expanding his speech and delivering the pages of monologues he had prepared. The poor dear felt like a failure.

In preparation for Jeremy’s rendezvous, I altered the wounds on my nude suit and draped the loincloth around my hips in a funkier style. Instead of a dark brown beard I wore a curly ginger one. Well before they were due, I hanged myself above the table around which the date was set to take place.

Jeremy came in and Kitty tottered along in ghastly stilettos. She was wearing a skimpy black skirt and a top displaying an enormous cleavage. Her arms and neck were hung with gold jewellery. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her lobes. She was at her most pretentious.

The capricious cow could not make her mind up as to what she wanted, so Jeremy dashed to the bar to buy an assortment of drinks. He came back with a tray. After putting it down on the table, he excused himself and darted to the gentlemen’s. I knew it was to wash his hands.

Meanwhile, Kitty took a tiny sip from every drink and made a sour grimace after each taste. She ogled a fetching young man in a trendy outfit. I took advantage of the moment to down the dismissed drinks.

Jeremy teasingly commented on Kitty’s drinking antics. But she was so distracted by the fetching young man that she paid him little attention. Jeremy went off a few more times to buy a new selection of drinks. While he was washing his hands and Kitty handing out her phone number to a number of men, I drank them all.

I felt unstable. Frankly, I was drunk as hell. My mind numb and foggy, I finally lost balance and keeled over, right across their table. Shards of broken glass pierced my nude suit and made me bleed like a slaughtered pig.

You can imagine the turmoil I caused. At first, everyone thought I was a real crucifix and my hook had come loose. But with my blood all over the place, they realised I was human. The girls ran off screaming. The men crowded around the table. Kitty escaped to the toilet never to return.

Jeremy gaped at me. Then, thankfully, his altruism kicked in. Together with a member of staff, he flipped me over. I lost my beard.

‘Get her off that cross,’ someone shouted.

Several hands tore at my arms and feet. I screamed in pain. After a few futile attempts they left me in peace.

‘Jesus,’ Jeremy whispered in my ear, ‘are you the same one?’

‘Yes,’ I slurred.

Then I must have fainted.

When I woke up I was in Jeremy’s living room, propped up against the sofa. Jeremy was sitting in an armchair. He watched me come to.

I felt awful.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Who are you?’

I confessed everything, including my shameful deceit and my passionate feelings towards him. He didn’t speak, at first. When he stood up I saw he had been drinking. He poured himself another glass of port. Only God knows how many he’d had already. I knew he didn’t hold his drink well. He had told me so once.

I tried to scramble up from my trapped position. He flew to my help, caringly supporting my horizontal beam. He almost fell over.

I stood up to face him. He finally said:

‘I wish I could just dismiss you but I can’t. All those talks we had over weeks and months, they meant something to me. Even though you so cruelly deceived me.’

I was about to plead for Jeremy’s forgiveness, but the next thing I knew was him clasping me in a feverish embrace and covering my face with fiery kisses. I toppled over once more and landed on my back. Jeremy sunk down on top of me, consumed with passion. There was no stopping us. My cross thudded against the floorboards and almost splintered.

As soon as the deed was done, Jeremy rolled off and howled for forgiveness. He turned towards the imaginary heavens, unable to look me in the eye. Violent sobs rippled through his fragile frame as he pleaded with God. I reached for the Port.

Exactly how I got home I don’t remember. I only know that when I arrived I was draped in Jeremy’s green velvet curtains.

Only once I returned to his church, weeks later, in the foolish hope that he would speak to me. But as soon as he saw me he turned away and left. And that was the last I saw of him.