The Greenhouse

Forty-one

Having discussed death with Father Thomas and now watched thirty-three film gems with him, as my host points out, while the credits roll over Andrei Rublev, I feel ready to take this to the next level and tell him about my obsession with the body and sex. It’s not as if I’m confessing my sins, though, or anything like that, or that I’m looking for absolution, nor am I exactly looking for advice from a man who’s used to hearing everything under the sun. I feel much more like I’m just trying to get some things off my chest with my neighbor and friend from the next room. I wish I’d been better prepared, though, or even made notes, instead of hurling myself straight into the glacial pool like this.

— Ever since I woke up after my appendix operation, I’ve been very preoccupied with the body, a lot more than before.

Father Thomas stretches toward the bottle.

— And by body you mean…?

— Thoughts about sex, I say.

— It’s not unnatural to be preoccupied with the body at your age.

— I don’t think about the body all the time, but I do think about these things a lot, at least several hours a day.

— I don’t think that’s far from the average.

When I’m out on the street I mainly see other people as bodies. I don’t even notice what they’re saying to me. Although I wouldn’t say that specifically applies to Father Thomas. He fills the glasses. The contents are bloodred today.

— Sometimes I feel I’m just a body, or at any rate that ninety-five percent of me is a body, I say.

— Cherry liqueur, he says. He concentrates on pouring into the glasses; then he seems to glance at a video case lying on the table. I have a feeling he’s going to recommend a film to me.

— The problem is, I say, that my body seems to lead an independent existence with thoughts of its own. Otherwise I’m a normal young man.

Father Thomas studies me for a moment. Then he stands up, rearranges a few things on the desk, repositions the pen stand, places the Bible right in the middle of the desk, and puts two movies back in their places on the shelf.

— A man is both spirit and flesh, he says finally. I wouldn’t be worried about it if I were you. He moves the pen stand back to its original position on the desk and then adds: Of course, it’s a bit tedious for a twenty-two-year-old man to be glued to films every night with a forty-nine-year-old priest. Don’t you think it would be good for you to go out and meet young people of your own age and blend in with the villagers?

I’m not exactly tired so I go out for some fresh air. On my way I meet a scraggy cat wandering alone but refrain from patting it. Before I know it, I’m standing in the phone booth and pumping it with coins. I get the feeling I’m the only person who uses this phone in the village. Dad kicks off the conversation by telling me that Bogga’s cat, which had vanished for three days, has been found dead. Someone ran over him and left him on the flower bed. He also has a question for me.

— Who is Jennifer Connelly?

— I’ve never heard of her. Why do you ask?

— Because she’s coming to the country this weekend.

— Says who?

— It was in the paper. On the front page.

— I don’t know her.

— Do you need any cash, Lobbi?

— No, I’m fine. You can’t spend any money here, apart from the coins that go into this phone.

I realize in mid call that there’s a dead dove lying on the path right beside the phone booth. Part of one of its wings seems to be missing; I immediately suspect the cat. I’ve always had an aversion to dead or wounded animals, particularly feathered ones. When I step out of the phone booth I realize the bird isn’t dead, the wing stump is moving. I pick up the wounded bird without knowing what I’m supposed to do with it. After walking with it for a few yards, its heart stops beating in the palm of my hand.