The Sixtieth Night

That night, Nick was almost boyishly excited by the "anatomical" tour I'd given him of a Catholic church.

"I've discovered a whole new world," he said. "I never imagined being Catholic involved so many layers, so many moving parts. Like you said, it's a treasure chest—you keep pulling out things both old and new."

"I'm not surprised you're surprised," I replied. "But I have to admit, I never expected to hear something like that come from you."

He grinned.

"People change, don't they? Truth is, I've learned a lot from you. And for the first time, the puzzle of my life is starting to make sense. It's not finished yet. There are still pieces lying around that haven't found their place. But I've never felt this... whole."

"I'm really glad to hear that," I said, and I meant it.

We were sitting on the veranda, gazing at the stars overhead and the sea stretching beneath them.

The full moon was breathtaking.

"Can I ask you something?" Nick said.

"Always."

"Are you excommunicated?"

The question caught me off guard, and I couldn't help laughing. I drew a slow breath before answering.

"You're talking about the Society of Saint Pius X, right?"

He nodded.

"Honestly, I don't know. The Society doesn't have a presence on this island, and I've never belonged to it anywhere else, even though I share many of its convictions. In fact, I read the proposed agreement between the Society and the Pope, and I realized I couldn't have signed it myself. So... maybe I am. I honestly don't know."

"And you just keep going?"

"I do. Saint Athanasius was excommunicated. Did he spend his life beating his head against a wall? No. He kept preaching the true Catholic faith while Arianism dominated the Church around him."

I fell silent for a moment before continuing.

"Excommunication is a serious matter. But before anything else, we have to ask whether it's legitimate. Can a truly Catholic pope excommunicate Catholics for being Catholic? No. That's why the excommunication of Saint Athanasius wasn't legitimate. Today he's remembered as one of the greatest defenders of the faith."

"But why excommunicate these people in the first place?"

"Imagine a walnut with a worm that has managed to burrow inside. From the outside, the shell still looks perfect. But inside, there's no walnut left. The worm has hollowed it out and turned it into something else entirely."

I looked out toward the sea.

"The Church isn't dealing with one worm, but hundreds of them—all trying to empty the Catholic Church of its Founder while still using His name and preserving all the outward trappings. The Society of Saint Pius X stands against that destruction, and of course it pays a price for doing so."

I paused, weighing my words.

"What I'm about to say is very serious. It's only my opinion—and I'm always suspicious of my own opinions—but it seems to me that ever since the death of Pius XII, Judas Iscariot has been sitting on the papal throne, and he has never left it. The process isn't finished yet. Christ's Church has been steadily dismantled, and it will be dismantled further still. It can never be destroyed—that's impossible—but I believe only a small remnant of Catholics will remain. Most people will belong to the new church that's being built in its place."

Nick listened without saying a word.

A cloud drifted across the moon, and suddenly we were sitting in darkness.

 

The Fifty-Ninth Night

 

You see, Nick and I used to meet on Saturday nights for three or four hours of pure contentment.

We would dine, talk, play games, and sometimes swim in the calm, warm waters of the sea that lapped against my garden.

But on that last Saturday, something had shifted in Nick.

As you know, last Saturday we had spoken of death and separation, and he—who had never before come to my house outside our Saturday evenings—began appearing in the afternoons as well.

Not to converse as we usually did, but simply to feel accompanied.

He explained himself: “Look, I know you cherish your solitude,” he said, his voice carrying that his easy warmth. “You don’t like people around distracting you from what truly feeds your soul. But with me it’s different. I need people around me. I want people around me… and there’s no one I want more than you. There, I said it. I’m not in love with you, and I’m not thinking about sex or anything like that. It’s just… your presence calms me down. Your words comfort me. I miss you like crazy when I’m away. I know it sounds dumb...”

“Would you like to move in here?”

“No,” he answered with a gentle smile, “but I’d like to be closer to you. A few afternoons a week, maybe?

“Just to sit quietly in some corner, drawing nearer each day… like the fox suggested to the Little Prince?”

He smiled and turned to me. “I hadn’t remembered that, but I do recall how deeply that scene touched me when I read it.”

He paused for a moment, then pointed a finger at me. “You’re the one who lent me the book!”

I returned his smile, opened my arms in a wide gesture, and replied, “Guilty as charged!”

“So… what do you say?”

I took a deep breath and spoke to him in the most honest, friendly tone I could muster:

“First of all, I want to make it clear that my feelings for you are reciprocal. I miss you terribly when we’re apart. Knowing we’re on the same island comforts me, but when you leave for America, the whole house feels sad. Even Georges misses you.”

“That ridiculous parrot?”

“The very one. Only… unlike you, I would never have asked you to come closer. You were the one who invited yourself here the first time, then the second, then the third…”

“I remember it well,” he said softly. “I kept telling myself: this guy is special. I want to know more about him.”

“I have a deep fear that if you draw too close to me, you’ll eventually discover that I’m terribly selfish and dangerously perverse—just as everyone who has ever approached me eventually did and disappeared from my life. Then we would be on the same island, yet unable to bear the sight of each other.”

“You’re none of those things!”

I rose, went to a drawer, and took out spare keys to the house, which I placed in Nick’s hand.

“You may come and go as you please.”

“I’ll be more discreet than the shadow of your own shadow,” he said—and indeed he was.

He would sit quietly in my studio, reading some volume from my library, and bring flowers on every visit.

My heart wavered between anxiety and delight.

 

The Fifty-Eighth Night

 

Nick ended up staying at my place until this past Sunday.

On Friday afternoon, he came with me to the hospital for a dermatology appointment. The test came back negative, and we celebrated with generous bowls of ice cream and prayers.

On Saturday, while I was making dinner, he finished packing his bags. Then he came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he asked.

"How good it'll be to finally get home?" I replied.

He smiled and shook his head. "No. I've been thinking about death. About your death."

I turned back to the pots on the stove and stood there in solemn silence.

Nick had fallen silent too, and after a moment I ventured to speak.

"When I was a kid, they taught me in school to live every day as if it were my last. I've been doing that my whole life. One day, I'll get it right."

He let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"Who teaches something that awful to a kid?"

"My wise Seventh-day Adventist teachers. When I told my mother about that lesson, she agreed with them. There are countless blessings in living with your eyes fixed on death. One of them is knowing that nothing here lasts forever, and that what truly matters is what we'll lay before God when we cross death's threshold."

I gave him a moment to absorb my words—and his own feelings.

"You've given my life direction," he said softly. "You know that? You've become the best thing in my life."

I wasn't ready for those words.

I left the stove and sat down beside him.

"I know it's childish for me to think like this..." Nick said.

After a while, he went on.

"I wish I were grown-up enough to be rational about it—to look at things objectively. But I'm not. I spent my whole youth looking for light in hell, and now that I've finally found the real thing... even that light flickers, like it could go out." He paused. "You get what I mean? I'm not talking about you having cancer. I'm talking about knowing that... well..." His voice faltered. "I don't want to be left in the dark again."

I pulled my chair closer and wrapped my arms around him.

"You know, Nick, I could die tonight..."

He started to interrupt me, but I gently pressed a finger to his lips and continued.

"If tomorrow morning I wake up dead, I want to leave you with this now: devote yourself to living each day as though it were your last. And if it is your last, what will you have to lay at God's feet?"

I smiled at him.

"Do you think you can do that?"

"Live to please God?"

"Yes. He's the only One who endures forever, and He loves you with a love beyond anything I'm capable of. For a while, we'll walk beside each other on our journey toward Him. And when our paths part, He'll still be with us—until we meet again in eternity."

Nick smiled faintly.

"That's a pretty bold plan."

"And what man doesn't love a challenge?"

I took his hands in mine.

"So... how do you feel?"

"Challenged," he said. "But better than I did before."

"That's my boy! Now I will need five minutes to finish dinner. Be prepared!”

 

 

An Afternoon with Nick

 

I know—it’s been many days since I last wrote about my evenings with Nick. But there are good reasons for that, as you’ll soon see.

As I mentioned in the previous post, Nick spent a few weeks in America. There, after a chance encounter with someone from his old days living on the streets, he found himself facing what seemed like a fierce temptation to return to addiction.

Determined to remain sober and committed to the promise he had made me, he left California and headed for the East Coast. Afterward, he returned to visit his family and finally came back last Wednesday.

In the meantime, a doctor found signs of a potentially unwelcome illness on my back, prompted by a strange discoloration on the skin. So far, I have undergone only one examination and am still waiting for the results. For now, it remains only a suspicion.

Life is always a box of surprises, isn’t it?

I went to pick Nick up at the airport. He looked exhausted—the very portrait of fatigue—but it was a portrait that greeted me with a broad, lingering smile.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said. “You should be making pottery. I’ve got two more commissions lined up for you.”

“You’re going to kill me one of these days,” I replied as I relieved him of the heavier bags.

We stopped at a café while waiting for the ferry home.

Between bites of toast and sips of coffee, I told him how concerned I had been about what had happened in California. He then recounted the whole story in detail.

How that accidental meeting with a former companion from his years in prostitution had shaken him to the core. How the man had become a ragged wreck in his sixties, still enslaved by drugs. How Nick, burdened by shame and guilt, had suddenly longed for the sensation of those drugs again, despite having been clean for so many years. How his determination to stay sober had driven him to leave California altogether and spend time in cities where he had no past to haunt him.

In the end, another source of tension had come from his family. His gay nephew, upon learning that Nick had begun flirting with Catholicism, had reacted with disbelief and anger.

“He just couldn’t get his head around it,” Nick said. “A gay guy wanting to wade into the swamp of Catholicism. According to him, the Catholic Church lives to oppress people and fight against free expression. Catholics are always starting wars, they're racists, and God knows what else. I listened to him, and I kept thinking about you. My friend doesn’t fit any of that stuff. You were the one piece of evidence I had that Catholics weren’t the monsters my nephew was describing. But man, it drove me crazy not having any arguments to push back with.”

I smiled faintly and asked him a question.

“Would you like to stay at my place for a few days?”

“Why?”

“This wasn’t an easy trip for you, was it? Not from any angle. I was thinking that spending a couple of days at my place might give you some time to process all of it.”

He chuckled.

“You know I’m not some damsel in distress, right? I’m okay. Really. The turbulence is over. Now, it’s true that I want to study this catechism thing a little more and get a better handle on it. I need to find out whether my nephew is right—which, honestly, I doubt. But if he’s wrong, how do I answer him?”

He paused, then looked at me.

“You really want to be my white knight?”

“I always have been, fair maiden.”

“Pervert,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with mock indignation.

We both laughed.

But I said nothing about the threat of the possible malignancy.

 

 

More Nights Without Nick.

Today is Tuesday. On Friday, Nick returns to the island. I’m very happy about that.

Not a single day passed without me calling him — even while he was with his family.

This last stay in America doesn’t seem to have done him any good. I could hear the unease in his voice.

I’ve been seriously wondering whether it might be better for him to simply stay here with me from now on.

The risk of him falling back into drug addiction appears to have been real, and there are other things he didn’t want to talk about. We’ll have plenty to discuss in the coming days.

I didn’t ask about his progress with the catechism I gave him before he left, nor did I press him with any questions. I let him share whatever he wanted, in his own time.

Nick is a strong man. He has learned more from his pain and past failures than I have from my own. And yet, he also has a childish side. Behind the strong exterior, there’s a boy who needs to be held, praised, and reassured. Most of the time he keeps that need under control, but whatever happened during this last trip — I still only have the broad outline — seems to have touched him deeply. It reawakened something that had been lying dormant.

I’ll call it “rekindling his addiction,” for lack of a better expression. He didn’t go into details. I’m not completely in the dark, but the light is dim enough that I have to trust my instincts more than what I can clearly see.

I feel some regret for having asked him to go to America on my behalf.

Still, all I can do now is wait and pray for him.

Meanwhile, life on the island remains as calm as the sea over the coral reefs — an eternal summer.

My art pieces are selling slowly but steadily, which I’m grateful for. I have no desire to become a machine churning out clay sculptures or paintings. Having time to build things properly is my real secret. Besides, my life has other important dimensions beyond being an artist, and those also need time and care.

And here lies the heart of it all: it was Nick who first set this whole journey in motion when he went to America that very first time.

For Disney, everything began with a mouse. For me, everything began with a Nicholas.