Chapter 60: Rome: Between Sanctity and Torment
MATEO – POV
On the morning of my departure, the entire neighborhood gathered in front of the blackened ruins of what had once been Saint Michael the Archangel Parish. Reconstruction work had barely begun: architects, engineers, and volunteers moved among the debris with blueprints and tools. But for me, what mattered most were the people.
The catechism children ran up to hug me, clinging to my cassock with laughter and tears.
“Will you come back, Father?” asked a little girl with braids, looking up at me with anxious eyes.
I knelt in front of her.
“Of course I will. In a few months, when we inaugurate the new church—which will be so grand it will look like a cathedral—I’ll be here with you. I promise.”
Doña Socorro stood beside the crowd, watching me in silence. Her smile was restrained, as if she knew that this farewell was not only from the neighborhood, but also from a part of my life.
“Father,” said an elderly man in a straw hat, gripping my hand, “don’t forget us.”
“Never,” I replied, a knot tightening in my throat. “This will always be my home.”
The bells of Santo Domingo church rang out from the hill, like a blessing for my departure. I got into the taxi that would take me to the Tuxtla airport while the voices of the community sent me off with applause and prayers.
On the plane, as San Cristóbal shrank among the mountains of Chiapas, I closed my eyes. The hum of the engines was constant, almost hypnotic. I tried to pray, but the rosary slipped through my fingers. In my mind there was only one name: Lucía.
And with it, the memory of the night that still burned on my skin.
Flashback
The storm battered the windows, the candles cast trembling shadows. She was crying on my bed, and I held her in my arms, wanting to comfort her.
The desperate kiss, the broken confession: “I love you, Father. I love you…”
My lips responding with restrained fury, with a desire that tore me in two. Her tears mingling with my breath, her hands clinging to me as if she needed me to keep breathing.
Our bodies fused in the same fire, in a sin that freed us and condemned us at the same time.
And in the end, her asleep in my arms, while I stared at the cross on the wall, knowing I would never be the same again.
End of flashback
I sighed in my seat, squeezing my eyes shut to chase away the images. But it was useless. That night followed me in every silence, in every shadow, like a mark I could not erase.
“God…” I murmured softly, gazing at the clouds through the window. “Help me be strong.”
Rome welcomed me with blue skies and an ancient air that smelled of millennia-old stone and eternity. The taxi moved along cobblestone streets, surrounded by baroque churches, medieval convents, and plazas that seemed to whisper centuries of faith.
The Pontifical Pio Latin American College rose before me, imposing, with its ochre-colored walls and windows overlooking the Vatican. When I entered the great hall, heads turned toward me. Some recognized me immediately.
“It’s Father Mateo from Mexico!” one exclaimed in Italian.
“The one from the video… the one who cried for his church,” said another, in Portuguese.
The news had crossed oceans. To them, I was an example of devotion—the priest who wept before the ashes of his parish and moved hearts around the world. They greeted me with respect, even admiration.
I felt strange, as if I were wearing a costume of holiness I did not deserve.
“Welcome, Father Mateo,” said the rector, Monsignor Bernardo Castelli, shaking my hand. “Here you will find peace and the time you need to renew yourself.”
If only he knew the truth…
The days filled with classes in moral theology, advanced liturgy, canon law, and Church history. I walked once more through the silent corridors of a seminary, with white walls and the echo of morning prayers. I rose early, attended Mass with fervor, studied with the discipline of my youth.
And yes, at times I felt my vocation strengthening again. There was something healing in returning to the essentials: the Word, prayer, life in community. Conversations with other priests—many with their own silent battles—made me feel less alone.
But the nights… the nights were another battle.
Alone in my austere room, silence filled with ghosts. I closed my eyes and saw her: her smile, her tears, her cinnamon-colored skin. The desire was so strong that even thousands of kilometers of distance could not extinguish it.
I knelt before the wooden crucifix, begging:
“Lord, free me from this burden. Make her disappear from my thoughts.”
And yet, when sleep finally claimed me, she returned.
That night I saw her in my dreams, more real than ever.
She stood before me, wearing a white cotton dress that made her look like an angel. Her black hair shone under a golden light; her honey-colored eyes glowed as if they held the sun of Chiapas within them. She smiled, free of bruises and sorrow, radiant with life.
“Lucía…” I whispered, my heart racing.
She stepped closer, extended her hand, and mine met hers. Her touch was warm, real. I felt her breath against my skin, her soft laugh undoing me.
Suddenly, the white dress vanished like smoke, and her lips joined mine in a fierce, desperate kiss. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her body pressed against mine with an intensity that tore my soul apart.
It was a dream—I knew it—but every sensation was so vivid that my body responded as if it were real.
Passion dragged us under, just like that stormy night, only now there were no tears or fear—only pure, brutal desire consuming us. I held her again and again, feeling every curve of her body, every moan escaping her lips, until pleasure and sin blurred into the very light of the dream.
“Mateo…” she whispered, and that word was both my salvation and my condemnation.
I woke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a drum. The candle beside the bed was still lit, its flame trembling as if it knew my thoughts.
I covered my face with my hands, feeling shame and longing intertwine.
“Lord…” I whispered, my voice breaking. “If this is my cross, help me carry it. But do not take the memory away… because without it, I don’t know if I could go on.”
I stood and walked to the window. Outside, the lights of Rome flickered in the darkness. The dome of Saint Peter’s rose majestically in the distance, reminding me where I was—and who I was supposed to be.
But here, in the solitude of my room, I was only a man tormented by an impossible love.
I opened my black notebook and wrote:
“Night 47 in Rome. The dream returned. Each time it’s more real, more intense. My brothers congratulate me on my dedication, on my devotion at Mass. If only they knew that every prayer is a battle against your memory, Lucía. If only they knew that while I preach purity, my body burns for you. Rome was meant to heal me, but it has only taught me that distance does not cure what the heart refuses to let go.”
I closed the notebook and slipped it beneath the mattress.
I sat on the bed, staring at the candle’s faint light, knowing that although I was in Rome—surrounded by priests and theological studies—inside, I was still bound to her by chains stronger than any vow.
And with a resigned sigh, I understood that the true seminary was not this place, but the silent battle I fought every night against the weight of my desire.
A battle that, deep in my soul, I knew I was destined to lose.