In Paradisum

Barcelona
February 1960

1

As he’d done every Sunday since he became a widower, over twenty years before, Juan Sempere rose early, made himself a strong cup of coffee, and put on his Barcelona gentleman’s suit and hat to go down to the church of Santa Ana. The bookseller had never been a religious man, unless Alexandre Dumas could be considered an ex cathedra addition to the list of saints. He liked to park himself in the last pew and witness the ceremony in silence. He stood up and sat down out of respect at the priest’s indications, but he didn’t take part in the chanting, the prayers, or the communion. Since Isabella’s death, he and the heavens, not the greatest communicators at the best of times, had little to say to one another.

The parish priest, who was aware of Juan’s convictions, or his lack of them, always welcomed him, reminding him that this was his home, whatever he believed. “We each live our faith in our own way,” he would say. “But don’t quote me, or they’ll send me off to the missions, hoping I get eaten by an anaconda.” The bookseller always replied that he wasn’t a man of faith, but that in that chapel he felt closer to Isabella, if only because it had been the scene of their marriage and her funeral, separated by just five years, the only happy years he remembered having lived.

That Sunday morning, as usual, Juan Sempere sat in the last pew to hear mass and watch how the early birds of the neighborhood—a mishmash of devout women and sinners, lonely people, insomniacs, optimists, and those retired from the business of hope—came together to beseech the Lord, in his infinite silence, to remember them and their fleeting existences. He could see the priest’s breath sketching prayers of vapor as he spoke. The congregation listed toward the only gas heater the parish church’s budget allowed, but even that appliance, despite the assistance of Madonnas and saints who interceded from their niches, could not work miracles.

The priest was about to consecrate the Holy Host and drink the wine that, in that bitter cold, the bookseller wouldn’t have said no to, when he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye a figure sliding down the pew and sitting down next to him. Sempere turned to find his son Daniel, whom he hadn’t seen in church since his wedding day. All he needed now was to see Fermín come in holding a missal to decide that in fact his alarm clock had gone on strike, and what he was seeing was just part of a pleasant winter Sunday’s dream.

“Everything all right?” asked Juan.

Daniel nodded with a meek smile and turned to look at the priest, who was starting to distribute communion among the parishioners while the organist, a music teacher who made Sunday appearances at various churches in the area and was a customer at the bookshop, played as best he could.