Between Braga and New York

It’s a Monday morning in the city of Braga. The smell of pastries fills the sunlit winter streets, cradled by the hills. Filipe finishes his coffee and a Jesuit pastry at his regular café. He enjoys coming here because it makes him feel cosmopolitan. The café faces a bus station, a taxi stop, and a large bank. Every day, workers stop by to eat those warm pastries, served in the friendly rush of the 10 employees on duty. Filipe always eats at the counter, ordering a latte and a Jesuit. Often, while having breakfast and looking at himself in the art deco mirror behind the counter, he chuckles at the irony of seeing one Jesuit eating another. It’s a classic image: his reflection dressed in a black cassock and white collar, surrounded by golden elements from the 1930s. It transports him to Mussolini’s Rome, where priests enjoyed certain protection in that then-fascist city, adorned with sumptuous buildings, all in modern gold, costing more than the people could afford.

It’s 8:30 a.m., and Filipe hopes to finish all the bureaucracy before 11. They say the tax office services take a long time. Filipe believes that only happens to those who aren’t prepared and don’t bring organized paperwork. He has all the certificates, identification documents, work contracts, and the respective notarized copies from Rome and Braga. He’s determined to sort out his finances in a single day!

He walked calmly to the tax office. He brought with him a compendium of the latest papal encyclicals, which he planned to read to pass the time while waiting. At least this lost time could be gained by using the little free time the Jesuit community allowed him. After 10 years of priesthood, he hoped for more time for study and knowledge, but instead, he had to serve, serve, and serve those who wanted to absorb his ecclesiastical wisdom.

Finally, he saw the fascist building of the tax office. It was less sumptuous than Mussolini’s buildings, but 20 years after the end of the Second World War, it still held an impressive, imposing presence. It reminded him, a priest, that in life only two things are certain—death and taxes.

He entered and approached the porter: “Good morning, sir. I’ve come to update my marital status and financial situation. Which desk should I go to?” The porter pointed to the waiting room, and there Filipe realized he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. About 15 people were sitting there, holding many papers and looking worried. Many seemed like they were about to start a commotion. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had to review his paperwork, nor was he the first to arrive. At least one other thing was certain—he’d become an expert on the encyclicals he brought with him...

He sat down and, as he digested his breakfast, calmly opened his book. He embarked on this undertaking because, days earlier, he had been questioned about Pope Paul VI’s encyclical, Humanae Vitae, in relation to the issue of abortion. He searched through the chapters that spanned back to the early 20th century, until reaching the latest one, from the current year. With some embarrassment and reluctance, he slowly began to read between the lines... the pope wrote:

“We must solemnly proclaim that human life must be transmitted through the family, founded on the one and indissoluble marriage, elevated for Christians to the dignity of a sacrament. The transmission of human life has been entrusted by nature to a personal and conscious act, subject as such to the most wise laws of God: inviolable and immutable laws, which must be accepted and observed.”

Reading these words, his discomfort grew, and he remembered Patrícia. A memory he often managed to forget through prayer... through spirituality... A memory so transcendent, directly engraved in his heart, that just the thought of her face, the orange hue of her hair, gave him a suffocating ache. After reading those words, he felt sinful and hypocritical... After all, who was he to preach, explain, and even defend what he had gone against 10 years earlier? Patrícia had been his first and last girlfriend. The woman who made him a man before he committed to the novitiate. He wasn’t the only one who, to escape the suffering of lost love, had turned to the celibacy of the Jesuits. Many, in an attempt to rediscover an unconditional love, turned to God to restore the pure form of first love. After all, first love is irreconcilable with the solitary soul... As Pablo Neruda said, “Love is short, but forgetting is long.”

As he continued reading more of these encyclicals... he saw within them the hidden power of Desire for a woman... that first woman... who drew meaning from his deepest self and elevated him to the level of man. That woman who went by many names, but for him, Filipe, was called Patrícia. And the more he read Pope Paul VI’s words about chastity and the privileged relationship with God through chastity... the more convinced he became that his vows were not to the Almighty, but to Patrícia. There, in the Braga tax office, 10 years after the fact, 3 years in the seminary in Coimbra, and 7 between Rome and Paris, Filipe revealed to himself the lie he had prayed every day...

The tax office porter announced number 18—it was his turn. Hastily packing away his book, fearing he might lose his place to an impatient fellow citizen, he rushed to the counter.

• “Good morning, ma’am. What a beautiful day. I hope you’re having a good day.”

A housemate had advised him always to be very polite and cordial to the women at the tax office. They held the power to either make everything easier or delay it all. The woman at the counter, already an hour into her shift, responded with a glance over her glasses while finishing stamping the previous customer’s paperwork.

• “Name and identification, please...”

• “Of course, here you go! Filipe Castro. I came here to update my...”

• “Your identification card is out of date.”

Filipe felt nervous, but being well-prepared, he proudly pulled out a renewal receipt from his folder.

• “You’re absolutely right. I’m in the process of renewing it, and I have my temporary permit here.”

1-0! Filipe thought, proud of himself. The clerk, without responding, opened a file where she intensively searched, as if unable to find, Filipe’s documentation. To the Jesuit’s relief, she eventually found it and spread the papers out on her desk. With a more affable tone, she asked:

• “So tell me, Mr. Filipe, what brings you here?”
• “I came to update my address and review my income status.”

This last sentence struck him as odd, after all, his vow of poverty didn’t allow him to have income. Yet, in the eyes of secular law, everything had to be declared in a standard way.

• “Very well, I see here that your address was in Rome, at the San Francesco Xavier residence. And that your financial activity has been nonexistent in recent times. Occupation: student.”
• “Ehehe Yes, I was at the seminary for the past 10 years. The Jesuit Order covered my expenses. But now I’ve been assigned to Braga, and I’ll start teaching mathematics to help support the Jesuit house.”
• “Very well, let’s review your data and update your file.”

As she spoke, she opened a blank form to redo the process, eventually stamping his old file with a red seal.

• “Can you confirm your details for me: Name, Filipe dos Santos Castro?”
• “Yes.”
• “Address?”
• “Casa da Torre, Avenida Viscondes da Torre 80, 4730-579 Soutelo.”
• “Marital status?”

Without much thought and with innocent certainty, he replied:

• “Married.”

The woman at the counter paused, looked up again over her glasses, now raising her eyebrows. Looking at his Jesuit cassock, she inquired:

• “Aren’t you a priest?”
• “Of course, ma’am. Excuse me, you see, we priests have this little idea of being married to God... eheh. You’re right, what’s the civil status of a priest?”

The woman, a bit flustered, unable to hide a playful grin, whispered softly:

• “You know, Father, the State is, for all intents and purposes, secular. And although Dr. Salazar is a devout practitioner, his bureaucracy is purely secular... so a priest is usually considered single in the eyes of the law.”

That word hit him hard in the chest, with the same impact as the encyclical that had gripped him just minutes earlier. The word "single" indirectly referred to Patrícia. The last person to have confined him to that sad state. But even the State, the Sad State, Older rather than New, also returned him to the condition of being singular.

• “Occupation? … Father?”
• “Ah, yes, yes, excuse me—I got distracted. Is priest considered a profession? Or should we put down Math Teacher?”
• “Priest works. And it’s more convenient because you get a small discount on your income tax,” she said with a wink. “After all, Dr. Salazar, being a man of numbers, doesn’t forget Our Lord!”

Single—Filipe thought. That word hadn’t been part of his description for more than ten years. Since he had entered the seminary, he never felt entitled to call himself single. A word that could be seen as libertine or anxious. In his condition as a priest, he couldn’t give in to the first... only tried to avoid the second through prayer.

• “Very well, Father. Everything’s in order from your side. The rest are just formalities I can take care of. You see... you came in married and leave single! Hehehe Have a great day, and go with God!”
• (With a shy, slightly stunned smile) “Hehehe That’s true. Thank you, ma’am. Have a good day, and God bless you.”

“God bless you”? He never liked ending conversations with that typical priestly phrase; he didn’t feel entitled to invoke God’s blessing... he, a Single Priest... Again, the weight returned, and the image of Patrícia became clearer. He tucked the tax receipts between the pages of his encyclical book, so they wouldn’t crease in his folder. That secular piece of paper, born of a bureaucracy insensitive to man’s reasons, was surrounded by teachings on responsible matrimony and chastity between lovers... chastity that he, Filipe, had not practiced...

It had been a long time since he had revisited those days before going to Coimbra... 12 years had passed since he, at 22, had met an extraordinary girl. He had been studying mechanical engineering when, at a party at some artist friends’ house, he met Patrícia... a girl, daughter of a Lisbon judge assigned to Braga. In a deeply religious city, Patrícia brought a freshness that came with having seen the world and a sharp spirit. They talked about Paris, London, and Rome... She in the past tense and he in the subjunctive. In less than 15 minutes, he realized he was in love with those lively, understanding blue eyes. And it was the following week, with the excuse of borrowing some French books that Patrícia said she had, that he arranged to have coffee with her... a coffee that extended into a walk to the Bom Jesus Sanctuary, opening the door to an Italian cinema and so many other outings that filled his soul with life and hope. Visions of a world he never thought could be his... but which was now being shared firsthand by Patrícia: “In Paris, I met Marlene Dietrich at a dinner...” or “... I attended Samuel Beckett’s premiere, and at the end, he went on stage and caught a flower my mother threw to him.” There were so many stories that this reality, which seemed to belong to an Olympian and almost mythical realm, became real in the eyes of a Portugal that saw everything but refused to be seen. And all this wonder intensified as their relationship became official, and he started having dinner at the judge’s house. A very kind, bourgeois couple with a cosmopolitan lifestyle. Patrícia smoked in front of her parents, and with that, Filipe began smoking too. The two would stay alone in her room, listening to jazz and Elvis records. He felt like he was in another world when he entered Patrícia’s home. It was a fine house, but somewhat impersonal... The judge didn’t plan to stay long... Without directly asking, Filipe understood that it wasn’t his will to stay in Braga for long. Despite his friendly demeanor and good humor, it was clear that the judge was reluctantly stationed in that religious city. Perhaps a punishment from the regime due to his sympathy for the outside world. Filipe never discussed this much with Patrícia, as he was always hesitant to show his fascination with her family. They lived comfortably, thanks to the judge’s profession and some overseas business ventures. They were collectors of minor artists, and they developed an extensive portfolio with immense quality and wisdom. It was Patrícia’s mother who managed that business.

It was a year of experiences that opened Filipe’s desire to be for, with, and in the World... Never denying his ability to entwine and dance with the destinies of great cities... A desire that had always been denied by his aunts dressed in black and his austere father, a bridge engineer. Coming from a family of lower nobility, Filipe had an education focused on principles of solidity, family, austerity, and religiosity. A very united family but one that had little to offer the world, except for the embalming of accumulated years of history... a history that was often stagnant since the 18th century, wrapped in resentment. Patrícia was like a light that breathed life into his Jules Verne books and the Edgar Allan Poe stories he loved to read. She was the goddess of possibility incarnate in an energetic girl, with a sense of humor and a pampered aura that evoked much affection in Filipe. For her, he denied the orthodoxy of his family and became a man in Patrícia’s room, to the sound of Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, which Patrícia had discovered that year, 1957.

It was 11 a.m., and Filipe had finished earlier than expected... He still had two hours until his meeting at the school where he was about to start teaching. After all, since returning from Rome, he hadn’t had a chance to stroll leisurely through his hometown. Ten years had passed between Coimbra, Paris, and Rome without ever returning to Braga. Since arriving, he had only had time to visit his parents, his ailing grandmother, and little else... He found himself near Braga’s main square. He entered the square and walked to its center. He had mixed feelings about that square, considered the heart of Braga. On one hand, its smallness depressed him, as it was a failed attempt at centrality in a city that had little remaining cosmopolitanism. On the other hand, he imagined Braga in its golden age, when the Portuguese Kingdom was spoken of throughout Europe as the brave frontier of Christendom, and where Braga was a heavyweight religious capital. After all, he could still see part of the cathedral tower, which once housed the only Portuguese pope. Pedro Hispano, elected as John XXI, whose intellect was revered in Europe, earning him a place in Dante’s paradise as the one who “shone in twelve books”! Those were times when Braga was closer to the world’s spotlight, where the eyes of great men who wrote history were fixed. Filipe was obsessed with the problem of centrality; his greatest fear was being distant from that centrality. To be random, in a reality that was merely a spectator and distant from the decision-making center. Once again, with these thoughts, he remembered Patrícia—it was she who had introduced him to this love of participating in the writing of the present through a cosmopolitanism he had never imagined.

As the towers of the cathedral and castle faded into the buildings around the square, he approached the edge of the square, where he merged into Largo do Barão de São Mamede. The old shops, once romantic but now replaced by the practical classicism of the Estado Novo, formed a somewhat decaying spot. He remembered window shopping with Patrícia, imagining the streets of Paris and London through the modest references that occasional Belle Époque posters would reveal. Halfway down the street, he spotted A Brasileira café. His favorite café in Braga. Not only for its Art Nouveau curves but also because it was where one could hear more foreign languages spoken by the few visitors and pilgrims who sought comfort in the famous Brazilian coffee.

He sat inside, at a small table near the window, a table where he had last sat 12 years ago. It had been a rainy November afternoon when, after walking in silence through Braga’s rainy streets with Patrícia, they went to the café for something warm. It was a sad day, and the city’s dark granite didn’t help. When they sat down, he asked Patrícia, “What’s wrong? You’ve been quiet...” but she avoided answering, remaining silent. After the hot chocolates arrived and they drank in silence, Patrícia confessed, “Filipe, I’m leaving the country... My father can’t handle being assigned to another city in Portugal... He already feels isolated here in Portugal... let alone in Braga... and now that they’ve assigned him to Mirandela... it will be the end of him... He doesn’t want to go, and he’s already made all the preparations for us to move to America. My mother has family in Boston where we can stay. From there, my father can get closer to New York and work in international law for some firm. And I, Filipe, will go with them...” He could say little after receiving such devastating news... and in a brief and cold conversation, mixed with anger at how easily Patrícia seemed to break free from him, and at his own impotence or cowardice for not being able to follow her into that enchanted and dynamic world... Filipe remembered the farewell the following week, where, in an attempt to get her attention, he tried to be as cold as possible with Patrícia, showing that life was still possible here as well. In the days that followed, Filipe searched his heart for a way to overcome this shock in his life, and a definitive way to take charge of his decisions and show Patrícia that no one else would ever be his. And it was one rainy day when Filipe entered Braga Cathedral. There, the smell of burning incense, the scent of wood oil, and the peaceful harmony of the organ rehearsal gave him such great inner hope and restored his “centrality” for the first time in months since Patrícia had left for New York. It was that day that Filipe decided to become a priest. A single priest.

He was almost finished with his hot chocolate when, amidst his thoughts, he saw a familiar face looking at a sock shop window across the street. His eyes couldn’t believe what his mind seemed to be predicting. It had been twelve years since he had last seen Patrícia, and he had never heard news of her, except that the judge had passed away in New York, where the Portuguese community held a ceremony in his honor. This news had reached Lisbon and was sent to Filipe in a newspaper clipping by his cousin Júlio, who lived in the capital. Since then, Patrícia’s fate had remained a mystery... whether she was married, had returned, lived in Paris... or if she too had joined a convent... all sorts of thoughts had crossed his mind. And in the midst of these imaginations was a profile identical to the image he had of Patrícia. His trembling legs stood up and walked toward the door. How would he call out to her? What would he say? Was it really her? No, he was exaggerating, after reliving so many memories he hadn’t faced in a long time... He walked slowly, leaving his bag and wallet on the café bench without thinking. He exited the café and approached the woman from the side, who, as if sensing his presence, began to walk, turning her face away from Filipe, hiding her identity. Filipe, increasingly nervous, continued walking, forgetting all his commitments—his wallet and bag, the meeting at the school, even his priestly vows... The woman walked at a tourist’s pace, looking for entertainment in a new city. Maternal hips, well-arranged hair with a clip holding back her fringe, and clothes too cosmopolitan for a Portuguese. Could it be Patrícia? Had she returned after twelve years? To find him? The priest continued his discreet pursuit, keeping a distance from the woman who had been the reason he entered the seminary. The one with whom he had made a vow never to be with anyone else for the rest of his life, the one for whom the Church was the arbiter of his chastity and devotion to Patrícia. Had she heard news of him? Had she returned a few years later and learned that he had left for Coimbra, and then Paris, and then Rome? Had she read any of his articles in the Brotéria magazine? (Filipe had written a few dissertations, knowing that the old judge had a faithful subscription to the Jesuit magazine as one of his many points of view in his regular reading.) Had they talked about him at the dinner table?

The woman crossed the road, and Filipe remained on the other side while the traffic light allowed a line of cars to pass. The woman, now farther away, continued walking carelessly, as if seducing Filipe with her mysterious hair that hid her face and her identity. Filipe crossed the road in a hurry, thinking the street was clear, and his haste brought a loud honk and the sight of a very shiny bumper hitting him, bringing a great darkness and a buzzing sound surrounded by indistinct voices. Filipe lost consciousness...