The Eighteenth Night

 

It was raining heavily that night. Nick stood by the window, quietly taking in the view while I was finishing up the dishes after dinner.

Then he turned to me and said,

“My sister wrote back to my email.”

“Really?” I stopped what I was doing. “And? How did it go?”

“Well… she wrote back. She was… polite.”

I left the last few plates behind and turned fully to him, drying my hands with a towel.

“She said something like, ‘Hope you’re well, take care, talk later’?”

“No. She actually wrote quite a bit.”

“Women do talk quite a bit. An email is a written piece, though; unlike listening, reading strips away emotion. Writing a lot isn’t the same as writing with clarity—especially emotional clarity. That said… does she still strike you as polite?”

“I dunno… I told her it’d been years since we last spoke and I thought maybe that should change. I mean, we’re the only ones left in the family, and I didn’t see why we couldn’t try to rebuild something. After that, I talked about me—what’s happened since I left, how I’ve been, stuff like that. She told me how she felt getting my message, about the damage I’d done to the family and… yeah, it was painful, y’know?”

“So, is she saying—or hinting—that it’s nice to hear from you, but no need to write again? Or the opposite: yes, please, write back, I want to see you?”

“Neither one. Not really.”

“Well, that’s good. I’ll lend you my laptop—write her back now.”

“I’m not sure I can...”

I smiled candidly to him and said: “Of course you're not. I don’t think she’s sure either. You left home, got into drugs, became a prostitute, lived a wild life that nearly killed you. Do you think she didn’t suffer? Do you think your mother didn’t suffer? All those years go by and suddenly—bam!—you show up in her inbox from the other side of the world. Of course she’s afraid to reconnect. Probably just as afraid as you are. Don’t waste time. Write her. Ask her if she wants to know the truth about why you left, that you were just a kid—immature, terrified, deeply wounded.”

“You think she can forgive me?”

I paused for a moment, considering the weight of my words: “I think you ought to ask for forgiveness. For years you’ve avoided this moment, and now you’ve moved a piece on the board. She responded to that move, and now it’s your turn again. That’s how the game goes. You’re not kids anymore. You’re grown people—over fifty. It’s time to move forward.”

“I don’t know if it’s worth digging all that up...”

“You already have. The only choice now is whether you’ll follow through—or walk away again. And you know why I think this is shaking you so deeply? Because she matters. Talking to me about your past was hard, sure, but imagine if I had turned you away—for this or that reason. You’d just have walked out the door and that’d be that. But she’s been walking beside you all these years, all this years she had been in your heart, sometimes visible, sometimes hiden in the shadows. Do you get what I mean?”

“You mean, if she didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be trying to bring her back into my life."

"Yes, I said. Friends are the family we choose—but she’s the family I have. You could stop being my friend, but she’ll never stop being your sister. Not even after death."

"Alright… let’s go to your laptop. If you’re up for it… I’d love your help writing back to her.”

“You want me to hold your hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course! I mean… am I Mary Poppins or am I not?”

 

 

The Seventeenth Night.

 

We were having dessert on the veranda, a glorious moon shining over the sea. In a casual tone, without lifting his eyes as he scraped his dish with a spoon, Nick asked me:

“Dude, I had no idea you used to work in prisons.”

Immediately, I remembered that last Thursday he had overheard me speaking with a colleague about that chapter of my life.

“I usually don’t talk about it,” I replied. “The other day I mentioned it to Marie because something she said needed clarification.”

“Was it rough? I mean… working there?”

“I can’t think of a worse place to be than a prison. People often say they suffer all their lives, but believe me — there's no place more soul-crushing than a prison. That said, God, in His grace, gave me some of the most meaningful experiences of my life there — professionally and personally.”

“Did you, like… see a lot of terrible stuff?”

“Thank God, no. I heard countless stories of abuse, both against inmates and staff, but I was never a direct witness to such things.”

“So why was it a good experience for you, then?”

“For one, I met extraordinary people — on both sides of the bars. Now, I don’t mean to say I formed deep friendships with inmates. Sadly, I never met one I could truly trust. Psychopaths, serial killers, pickpockets... you name the crime, I met its practitioner. But within the boundaries of a professional relationship, it was enriching. That brings me to the second reason — because it was possible to build honest interactions with prisoners. When I first stepped into that world, I quickly understood the dynamic: simply being imprisoned, enduring the dehumanizing conditions, wasn't deemed punishment enough. The system demanded more — that they suffer, live in misery. And the inmates responded with hatred, which only intensified the cruelty of the staff, feeding an endless cycle of violence.

“At the time, I was at the beginning of my conversion, and I knew I couldn’t be a part of that. So I made a decision — I chose to love. I had already adopted the so-called Prayer of Saint Francis — though not truly his — as my personal motto, and I tried to live out its words in practice. It wasn’t easy. Several colleagues began to resent me. But simply by treating inmates with respect and gentleness, I managed to reach some of them.

“That prison held only men, and men are often foolish when it comes to emotions. Later, when I was transferred to a women’s facility, I kept the same attitude, but the response from the women was even more receptive.”

Nick leaned back, wide-eyed.

“Whoa, man. That’s… a lot. You’ve really been through some stuff.”

“Ten years of it, yes. But at least it gives me the pleasure of saying, ‘Back when I was in jail…’”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“You’re nuts! But like… you kinda sound like Mary Poppins.”

“If Mary Poppins brings joy, I won't reject the comparison. But it isn’t me — it’s Christ. He’s the source of all joy. I’m merely trying to live out His way.”

“Never been inside a prison myself.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“Are all prisons the same?”

“Essentially, yes. Brazil struggles terribly with overcrowding. The first prison I worked in was built in 1966 to house 650 men. When I started there in 1995, it held over 1,600. By the time I left, five years later, there were about 2,100. England didn’t face the same overcrowding, but the internal dynamics were nearly identical.”

Nick gave me a thoughtful look, then stood up, pulling off his shirt with a grin.

“Alright, man. That was deep. But now? Let’s hit the water.”

The moon shone serenely over the sea.

 

 

The Sixteenth Night

Nick looked cheerful as he stepped into my house, wearing a bright smile as he said,

“Did I thank you yet today for Easter Sunday?”

“Not today,” I replied, smiling back.

“Easter was never what you showed me it could be.”

“Not just chocolate and bunnies?”

“Thanks for letting me be part of your world.”

“I should be the one thanking you for being part of mine. It was the first Easter in years I didn’t spend alone. Having someone around is... a challenge.”

“Oh man, that chocolate bunny of yours? Totally delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“You know,” he said, pausing a beat, “I’m starting to realize I begin getting ready to see you, like, two hours before we actually meet.”

“Really? So now I’m responsible for you?”

He laughed and went on, “Even the ocean doesn’t feel like it used to. It used to be kinda just... pretty, y’know? Now it’s full of memories.”

“So the Little Prince taught you a thing or two as well?”

“Draw me a sheep?” he asked, in a childlike voice.

“And you heard him! Saint-Exupéry was a writer as writers ought to be. When I read him, I often wonder what heights someone like Albert Camus could have reached — as a writer and as a person — had he listened to Jesus instead of Sartre.”

“Saint-Exupéry was Catholic?”

“His family was, and he was baptized. He later wandered different paths, but never too far from his roots. Still, the closer one is to Jesus, the better one becomes — and in that sense, he was far better off than Camus.”

“Was that Sartre guy an atheist?”

“Sartre was a monster — and yes, an atheist. He and his partner, Simone, deserve the title of philosopher only because they took their questioning to the ultimate edge of human experience, imagining life without God. But their discoveries weren’t shocking: if God doesn’t exist, nothing makes sense. And the fruit of that thinking? Young people taking their own lives. Of course, those two demons didn’t kill themselves — instead, they surrendered to every kind of degradation.”

“That’s why you said the other day, when the Church goes bad, the world goes bad?”

“One doesn’t need to be religious to recognize the existence of God. Humanity has done so since the days of cave dwellers. Recognizing God brings unity — it gives meaning to everything, puts all things in their proper place. It unites people, creates culture, and from that, politics emerges. Catholicism is the highest point religion has reached in human history, because in it, God reveals Himself to man. The more the Catholic Church flourishes, the more every area of human life, except the perverse ones, flourishes too. It’ll never be Paradise on earth — but it will always be better. Without the Church, there’s no social unity, no real cultural output, and politics becomes just politicking. Compare The Little Prince with Harry Potter. The young wizard may entertain, but he isn’t art the way the Little Prince is. Saint-Exupéry gave the world culture. Rowling just made money for herself.”

“Man,” Nick said, shaking his head with a grin, “sometimes your thoughts are like... a total brain-twist.”

“I wouldn’t call it an opinion — any honest historian would confirm what I’ve said, in broad strokes. But now — get ready for dinner!”

Nick breathed in deeply, savoring the aroma from the pots, and smiled in quiet delight.

 

The Fifteenth Night

 

As we were setting the table, I told Nick he ought to learn how to cook. He replied:

— Cooking just kinda bugs me, you know? I wouldn’t even know where to start.

— When I first became interested in cooking, I had to go to libraries, look up books, take notes, or buy them and keep them open beside me in the kitchen. Nowadays, all you need is a phone.

— So what made you wanna cook in the first place?

— When I was in my early twenties, a friend introduced me to Mr. George Ohsawa’s macrobiotic philosophy, and I was enchanted by his ideas. But following them meant I had to prepare my own meals — and at the time, I still lived with my parents and three siblings. My mother cooked for the family and refused to make one meal for everyone and another just for me. So I said, very well. Once you're done cooking for the family, I'll step in and cook for myself. And that’s what I did.

— Man, you were bold.

— It’s always been my greatest flaw, though back then I thought it was a form of empowerment.

— I used to love my mom’s cooking. God, I loved it. Can’t believe I walked away from all that...

I thought it best to give him a few seconds to process his feelings before I went on:

— The period I followed the macrobiotic diet was very good for me — but very brief. I soon realized it might work well for Buddhist monks, but for a young Brazilian living in a big city, surrounded by family, friends, birthday parties and relatives who were masterful cooks, I became a bit of a nuisance. And to me, belonging to my family meant more than my own physical well-being.

— I don’t think I could’ve done it any differently than I did.

— Sometimes our choices lie in fixing past mistakes — not in avoiding them.

— My mom’s gone now.

— And your sisters?

— The youngest is still around.

— Do you speak with her?

— Nah. It’s been years.

He fell silent for a moment, then looked at me and said:

— Did you and my therapist plan this together?

We ignored the table already set. I gave him a quiet smile and said:

— I don’t even know who your therapist is.

— You think I should reach out to my sister?

— If only to ask her forgiveness — for having walked away from her, and from the whole family.

— Whoa. Was that a punch to the gut or what?

— Isn’t that the whole point?

— She was kinda spoiled, but she was cool...

— Younger siblings are born into families already fully formed, with each member settled into a role. That makes life easier for them. Do you know how to find her?

Then I turned to him, gripped his shoulders firmly, and looked him straight in the eye. With calm conviction, I said:

— For things like this, we must be men — and men do not fear fear itself, but rather, fear being ruled by it. To lose our freedom is always the worst.

Our night flowed in near silence. Healing wounds is never easy.

 

The Fourteenth Night

"I was never a huge fan of this series," Nick said, moving his cards in a crapaud play after dinner. "I was more into Battlestar Galactica, and more than anything, Babylon 5!"

"I’ve never watched any of them."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Nothing against them, but they aired on free TV at times when I wasn’t available."

"I don’t know how you can live today without watching TV!"

"I just don’t have time for it. I work outside, have house chores, take care of my plants, read my books, swim in the ocean, and once a week, I get some weird... When would I find time to just sit and watch TV?"

"Yeah, my life is way simpler. And besides Star Trek, what other shows do you like?"

"Sci-fi series? All the Irwin Allen ones."

"Nothing newer?"

"Afraid not. Back in the ‘70s, most shows came to Brazil late because TV stations had to buy film packages that were more expensive the newer they were. There were relatively few series, and the episodes were never aired in the right order, not to mention that few series were aired in full because the stations didn’t buy all the seasons. I loved watching Bonanza, but in Brazil, they only aired the first two seasons. I don’t know if, with paid TV and streaming now, Brazil has finally watched the whole show."

"That’s interesting. For me, Saturday mornings were magical! Lots of cartoons!"

"Nope. Over there, cartoons aired in the afternoons during the week. Poor kids with afternoon classes. That was never my case, luckily!"

"Isn't it amazing how time has flown by? It all happened so fast!"

"Don’t even talk about it."

"Oh, looks like I won this round."

"Well played!"

"Wanna know something?"

"I’m afraid I do."

"Let’s go swim?"

"In the dark, among the corals?"

"We can swim somewhere without them."

"Then let’s go! Besides, time is fast, life is short!"

"Was there any character from Star Trek you liked?"

"When I was a kid, I liked Mr. Spock; then I grew up and now I’m more of a Captain Kirk guy. ‘...boldly going where no man has gone before.’ Just like now."

"I’m sure a lot of people must’ve done what we’re about to do before."

"Could be, but let’s keep that possibility a secret. One thing that hasn’t changed from my childhood until now is seeing the Enterprise as a being, the symbol of a person, and the characters as parts of this entity that goes through many encounters in its life. Kirk was the conscience of this being, Spock the rational brain, McCoy the emotional heart, etc. Maybe that’s why I don’t like the movies so much, 'cause I don’t see that synergy, that emotional appeal in them."

The moon shone gloriously in the sky, and fish jumped in the water.

I’m sure somewhere in my brain, Mr. Spock rose an eyebrow and said: “Fascinating.”