To the rhythm of the trumpets
Once the procession approached Santa Maria Chapel, its destination, a crowd blocked the last hundred yards of the official itinerary. The faithful scrambled to postpone the end of the religious parade for fear of their upcoming apprehension—as strong as the unholy withdrawal from a potent drug—which would overtake them as soon as the float carrying the Nazarene crossed the threshold of the main chapel door amidst the cadence of the Spanish national anthem. It would mean the end of that year and the beginning of a drawn-out countdown until the next Holy Week. They were not about to allow it, not yet. Other volunteers replaced the worn-out cargadores underneath the float and, ignoring diocesan regulations, turned it around, swinging and moving it along the road with such grace that the figure of the Nazarene seemed to be walking. They carried it back to meet that of Our Lady. The latter had trailed behind and was before the Royal Prison, about two hundred yards away.
From “The Silver Teacup.”
These events occurred when I was a child. Now the crowds have changed. Some people show devotion and pray. Some admire the extraordinary beauty of their images and the way they are paraded. Many enjoy the processions as a religious festival: smoking, eating, and chatting as the portable altars pass. One expects these reactions in a country no longer Catholic, for the state has no official religion.
Transmission of poverty and a pregnant girl/ Annie Arnaux
An unwanted pregnancy:
The first to pursue higher education in a family of workers and petty tradesmen, I had escaped the factory and the trading post. But neither the baccalaureate nor the literature license had succeeded in diverting the fatality of the transmission of poverty, for a pregnant girl was as condemned and symbolic of this misery as an alcoholic. I was caught by the ass, and what was pushing me was, in a way, social failure…
An illegal abortion:
I saw a pan of boiling water on the gas stove where the instruments must have been. She took me into the bedroom. She seemed in a hurry to get started. She extended the bed with a table covered with a white towel. I took off my tights and panties; I kept my black skirt because it was wide…
Several days later:
O.’s door was ajar, with a light on. I called her and said softly, “that’s it.” We were both in my room. I sat on the bed with the fetus between my legs. We didn’t know what to do. I told O. that the cord must be cut. She took the scissors, we didn’t know where to cut, but she did. We looked at the tiny body with a big head; under the transparent eyelids, the eyes were two blue spots. It looked like an Indian doll. We regarded its sex. We seemed to see the beginning of a penis. So, I was able to make this. O. sat down on the stool; she was crying. We cried silently.
