“You’ll change, you’ll see. Whe’ de right one comes ‘long.”

“He’ll have to come along on water before she’s interested.”

“Dat’s wha’ we all think, den it’s love on firs’ sight.”

“You mean love on first bite,” giggled Cecilia.

“Please, don’t worry. I’m not afraid of such things. My studies are what are important to me, mostly I wish to live with God.”

“God, forget God! Where He lives, dere is no pain, no hunger, no mis’ry, but dere is also no boat, no swimmin’ pool, no colour TV!”

“Mótina!” I exclaimed, my hand to my heart.

“Too much God, an’ you’re not ready whe’ de wolf, he comes to eat de little lamb!” she pointed at me with the prongs of her fork, “an’ God, He don’ pay de electric bills, de tel’phone bills, de groc’ry bills!”

“Not unless you’re the Pope,” joked Cecilia.

“God, He make de grass grow, de trees grow, He make you hair grow, but He don’ pay for you to cut dem!”

“Oh, please …”

“You remember you mot’her, wha’ she says to you. You listen, too, Cecilia. Maybe one day I’m no’ here to give you, too, good free a’vice. So listen. Whe’ you meet de man, any man, if de milk is free, dere is no reason for him to buy de cow. Remember dese words! Dey are golden!”

“So what does he have to do, pay for the milk?” asked Cecilia.

“You milk him!” cried my mother, excited by now, “Either he’s goin’ to milk you or you’re goin’ to milk him. If you smart, you milk him!”

“If either of you don’t mind, the only thing I wish to drink is a cup of God’s holiness, and the only thing I wish to devour, are His Holy Scriptures.”

“You should have say so in de firs’ place, it would cost me less tonigh’!”

“There’s a draft in here with all the wings flapping around.”

“Shut you mouths both o’ you now! Eat.”

CHAPTER 15

I arrived an hour early to get a seat in the first row. Half an hour later, no one had shown up. Nervously, I checked my schedule. Room 241, nine a.m., Old Testament.

I joined my palms for morning prayer, nibbling my tongue until it bled slightly. This, I knew, must be done daily.

At nine, the other students crowded into the last two rows. Doctor Westway strolled in with a cup of coffee, finished his doughnut, and clapped his hands free of sugar. He wore a red and black lumberjack shirt, black jeans, and high-top trainers with no laces. The curls of his hair descended below his collar. He reminded me of an undercover policeman.

With a stifled burp, he asked, “Who wrote La Dame aux camélias?”

“Flaubert?”

“Alexandre Dumas?”

“Which one?”

“The father?”

“The son?”

“Who wrote the first doctrine on spontaneous generation?”

“Francis Bacon?”

“I’m asking you. Well?”

No answer emerged despite Dr. Westway’s expectant stare. “The Symposium?” he scanned the faces of the class.