A Pure and Holy Love

"C'mere, girlie!"

Grudgingly, Rhea looked up from the splash of dried tomato sauce she was trying to scrub from the battered table. Surely this yellow-toothed derelict wasn't addressing her!

"Yeah, you! C'mere!"

He was gesturing expansively from the next row of tables. Rhea's hand tightened on the dishcloth. She longed to flee back into the kitchen, but Father Ivan was watching her. She could never let him know how revolted she was by his beloved soup kitchen clientele.
Her lips parted in a bright plastic smile. "Just a minute!" She lingered over her cleaning, hoping the pest would be distracted and forget about her. But it was no use.

"Hey, girlie! C'mere! Got a present for you!"

Her stomach cramped apprehensively as she walked around the end of the table, gripping her cloth like a weapon. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father Ivan smiling beatifically, shedding light and love in every direction. This was her opportunity to demonstrate that she was growing spiritually, that she was worthy of him.

"That's it, girlie! You won't be sorry."

The aura of sweat and stale beer collided with the fragile femininity of her muguet de bois perfume when she bent over, bringing her head close to his in a heroic imitation of Christian concern. His hot, gamy breath swept over her face as he grinned up at her.

"How may I help you?" she asked in precise, musical tones, striving to imitate the serene speech of a cloistered nun.

He guffawed, spraying her with saliva. "Oh no, girlie, ya got it all wrong. It's me that's gonna help you!"

She straightened, her smile frozen into a grimace, resisting the urge to wipe her face. Ivan was still watching, luminous with that otherworldly half-smile of his. Jesus in faded blue jeans. But Jesus would never have filled out a T-shirt so spectacularly. She was going to make a good impression if it killed her.

Ivan was the primary reason females from every part of the city vied for the opportunity to labour in the cause of the poor and dispossessed in the mildewed basement of St. Rudolph's church. He had the face of an angel and the body of a stripper. Rhea dreamed about him every night.
He was still a seminarian, not yet bound by vows of chastity. Everyone referred to him as "Father Ivan"; nonetheless, there was still the tantalizing possibility (in theory, at least) that a suitably pure and spiritual woman could draw him into the secular path of holy matrimony. It was this meagre hope that kept young women coming back to cook and scrub and join him in heartfelt prayer in the chapel week after week.
"You got eyes for him, ain't you, girlie? Well, I can make your dreams come true."

Rhea shook her head, trying to clear away the lustful images roiled up by Ivan's presence. "My dreams are none of your business," she said coldly, turning to walk away. But the man caught her arm, letting her momentum pull him to his feet. His other hand, clenched, bore down on her face and came to a halt under her nose. She pulled back, whimpering, forgetting all about Ivan and Christian concern.
"Got a present for you -- something you've been wanting all your life," he said, opening his fist.

Despite herself, she looked. A blackened coin lay on his palm.

She pulled her arm away. "No thanks."

He winked. "But it's a magic coin!"

"Really?" she said. "It hasn't done you much good, has it?"

The man grinned. "Oh, I was a fool, I was, and wished for the wrong thing. But you -- you might have better luck."

Despite the interior voice that admonished her to retreat before she made a fool of herself, she leaned forward for a better look.

There was little to see on the worn surface: an unidentifiable animal head with a wreath around its neck, surrounded by indecipherable writing.

"Is that ancient Greek?" she asked.

"Dunno, girlie. But I do know it'll give you your heart's desire." He jerked his head significantly towards Ivan, who was now in deep conversation with a cluster of admirers.

She straightened. Why was she wasting her time with this bum when she could be exchanging a few treasured words with her icon? "I've got to go. My bus is due in ten minutes."

The man held out the coin. "Take it, girlie. It's all yours. It ain't no good to me now. Just one wish per customer, you see."

She hesitated. Refusal might drag this awkward scene out even longer. "Thank you," she said, taking the proffered gift warily, without touching the hand that held it. "I really have to go now." She flashed her teeth one final time. "Good-bye."

"Say your wish out loud, then toss the coin in the air and catch it in your right hand," the man called after her, "and repeat mutatio mundi three times. That's all there's to it."

She slowed her step. "Mutatio mundi?" she repeated over her shoulder. "All right. I will. Thank you again!"

"Let me know how it turns out!" he trumpeted. Father Ivan and his disciples stopped their discussion to stare. Rhea fled to the entrance, grabbed her coat, and melted into the rush hour crowd.

On the bus, she stared straight ahead, toying with the coin in her pocket. Why had she run away? She had planned to have supper at the church. After the final clean-up, someone would offer her a ride home, saving her the unsettling experience of walking past the incense-fogged New Age shops, the barred windows of the Triple X video outlet, the vandalized laundromat where drug dealers were rumoured to ply their trade. But instead, she had panicked and thrown the last of her change into the coin box of the bus.

It was not as if there were any rush to get to her apartment. Her cupboard was bare; her boom box no longer boomed; and she had never been able to afford cable service for the television her parents had given her at high school graduation.

Payday was still a week away. She would have to spend her days off at her parents' place if she wanted to eat. They offered the comfort of a dog to cuddle and decent television, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to listen respectfully to her mother's lectures.

The bus turned into the university campus. Too late, Rhea snapped to attention. She had been so busy brooding that she was several stops beyond her building.

The students who got off the bus with her strode away purposefully. Rhea watched them with a mixture of curiosity and resentful awe. After two years of slogging at a variety of part-time jobs, her own sense of purpose had all but evaporated. When her best friend, Alexandra, became pregnant and moved two thousand miles away, newly wed to a postal truck driver with a rakish grin, there was nothing left to get purposeful about. Unless, of course, someone like Ivan took an interest in her...

It was Alexandra, fired with altruistic fervour, who had first dragged her to the soup kitchen. Rhea had not found the work particularly inspiring, but the raw sensuality of Ivan's body was another matter.

He was taking a year from his theological studies "to test his vocation." Perhaps, Rhea thought as she trudged down the parkway, if I had a vocation, the poverty would be easier. Or if I were married to someone with a vocation, someone who knows what life is supposed to be about.

Her hand crept into her pocket again. The strange coin had brought her face-to-face with her discontent. Her life was drab, but she had accepted it because there seemed to be no alternatives. Now, suddenly, the possibility of something more unfurled her dreams like billowing sails. She quickened her pace.

At least no one else will ever know how dumb I was, she comforted herself as she sat on her fading floral couch, the alleged magic talisman clutched in her left hand. She would try, and that would be the end of it. Then she could throw the damn thing in the garbage and get back to her colourless and predictable existence. At least she had her own living space and was a volunteer at the soup kitchen, not a client.

She spent the evening flogging her imagination to create the perfect wish. If the magic was real, there was no margin for error. This was no fairy tale, where she would have three wishes to work with, and miscalculations could be corrected.

When she was certain the words were right, she wrote them down and forced herself to wait another hour by the clock while she scrutinized every phrase for a possible flaw.

"I wish," she whispered, "I wish that Ivan will love me forever with a pure and holy love that never falters, and that he will be totally fulfilled by it, never wanting another, and never for a moment regretting what he feels for me."

She threw the coin into the air. Her hand was shaking so much that she missed her catch. She repeated her wish, more loudly, her voice cracking, and tried again. Her right hand flashed forward, snatching the coin.

She shuddered with delighted anticipation. A burst of faith exploded like blossoming fireworks, showering her with conviction. The magic would work. It had to work.

She stood up. "Mutatio mundi," she intoned. She closed her eyes and channelled her whole self into the mystic phrase. "Mutatio mundi. Mutatio mundi."

When her eyes opened again, she was staring into Ivan's face.

He had never looked more rivetingly handsome. The celestial perfection of his face was flushed with profoundly human emotion. He licked his slightly parted lips, inviting her soul to join his in an eternally holy union. Never had she seen him so radiant, not even at mass.

"Ave," he breathed, his eyes devouring her with a devotion that had nothing crass or corporeal about it. He loved her, and would love her forever, with all his heart and soul.

Organ music swelled around them. They were in the nave of St. Rudolph's. What better place to pledge a love as perfect as theirs? Overwhelmed with gratitude, she tried to reach for him.

Her arm refused to move.

Ivan sank to his knees, his face alight with wonder. The sunlight filtering through the stained glass window caressed his transfigured face like a blessing.

"Ave Maria," he breathed reverently. "Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum...."

One by one, tears trickled down the statue's face like tiny diamonds, sparkling in a rainbow of light. The Virgin was weeping.