Don't make me pray

Arrival

I was just nine when I watched "Cover-Up," a remarkable movie that, at the time, allowed me to understand witness protection. Vanessa Williams played a brilliant role in the film, and I believed I knew what it was like to portray a witness in imminent danger. Yet, for all who know me, I would now be buried at Moravian Cemetery, next to Grant City in Staten Island, seven feet under the earth, six days after death, in an advanced stage of decomposition, in a dark mahogany coffin, dressed in a gray Armani suit, after three hours of a sealed casket funeral with many mourners.

"Are you a ghost?" you ask me.

No, I am someone who narrowly escaped death, or perhaps death narrowly escaped me. The sequence is still unclear. One moment, I was on the main street, the next I was plunging into a lake after being hit by another car. I rolled along the road before dropping from the bridge into the water. Half of that water ended up in my lungs, and I am grateful for my physical endurance but loathe my ability to have neglected wearing a seatbelt. I am thankful, however, to be alive, with no major injuries other than a persistent cough. No amount of syrup seems to cure it.

I am alive, hidden on the other side of the country, in a place that probably isn't even on the map.

Remember when I mentioned "Cover-Up" and how I believed I understood Vanessa Williams' role? Well, I also understood what it might be like to have an Arnold Schwarzenegger protecting me all the time. The difference is that the guy in front of me, my "Arnold Schwarzenegger," doesn't particularly like me. He's a scrawny, anemic-looking FBI agent, more of a bureaucrat-type than an agent.

They say he's the best.

And, incredibly, his name is Escobar, yes, like the drug lord. I laughed a lot, and he nearly lunged at me because of my terrible jokes.

It's important to note that my sense of humor can be awful.

It's not that I'm annoying, but after more than 48 hours with the same person, everything tends to turn into a humorless, tragic comedy.

He's dangerous.

Well, he held me down and made me faint last night when I tried to escape from where I am with a simple move. Just seconds that still make me think he's a bit crazy.

Maybe he really is the best.

Adaptation is hard. Imagine putting a fish out of water and watching if it stays still or throwing a dog into the water. It's instinctive. We're animals, if attacked, we fight or flee. It doesn't matter what's said or done to avoid it.

God saw that the world was a mess a few times. What did He do? Stand still? No. He sent the flood. Not even God stands still when something's wrong. That's a fact.

I take a deep breath and stand up, facing the high-necked shirt and the ribbon causing an infernal discomfort on my neck. The pants aren't uncomfortable, but this shirt is.

"This is ridiculous," I say to the man in front of me, who chuckles and then looks at the time.

"It's a genuine Roman clerical shirt, for someone of your size," he retorts with a mocking tone.

Ah, I forgot to mention that my particular "Arnold Schwarzenegger" has a better sense of humor than I do.

"Are agents like you always this snarky, or is it just you, Escobar?" I observe the cubicle I've been placed in, where I'll spend some time as the investigation happens away from here.

"This is a role. If you find it difficult, you can go back and let the guys deal with you. It would save my time and effort. I could be with my wife instead of staring at your butt face for the next few months," he says bluntly. Exaggerated candor. I detest that. "Don't try to run away. You're safe here with me. Stop banging your head against the wall. It's better for both me and you. Things could be a lot worse here, we know that. You know that, Mr. Barrete."

"I know, I know, but a priest?! This is completely wrong!" I exclaim, pointing to the wall, where there's an image of Jesus. "Look at that and all of this. You know when I last went to church, Escobar? Never. Who was the genius who decided to put me on the other side of the country in a convent with the stupid idea that I was taking a sabbatical to write a book? The most fake thing in my entire life. What was the book about again? '10 Ways to Hide a Body from a Fake FBI Agent'?"

"Want to talk about fake things?" Escobar shakes his head as I start pacing.

He was right. This was just another chapter in the spectacle my life had become. That's why I was here, due to betrayals from the least expected people.

I became synonymous with betrayal.

When my father passed away, they seemed satisfied with me taking over the company, as per the will. I was the heir to the exporting business, but apparently, that wasn't what my sweet little brother thought. It angers me to know that, despite all I did for him, we were betrayed.

I was deceived. Not just by the person I was involved with, but by my own wife. I thought I knew her.

Ungrateful.

They tried to kill me. They almost succeeded.

But a bad vessel doesn't break.

And here I am, with a faked death declared and the FBI infiltrated even in the Barrete company trash cans.

What annoys me isn't the business, nor the family. It's the part of the family that's trying to silence me. They're trying to ruin the Barretes, the name of my own family, my father's name, and everything he and my grandfather built over generations. I should've preserved it all, but in the end, I failed. I didn't realize the silent, almost cruel, unfair, and Machiavellian blow.

And I wanted to retaliate and commit atrocities against those involved in the circus, but I couldn't. I couldn't risk the investigation or threaten other people. I was the key to nearly everything. I had provided all the information. Now, I was at their mercy. I just needed to stay alive and away from trouble until I appeared before the judge.

In the end, I think distancing myself was protection for them, not for me. No one in their right mind would come after me like this. I was a Barrete, after all. We had businesses from the Bronx to Staten Island. Nothing could stop us, except the family members themselves, who did everything wrong, ruining business and committing national and international illegalities that could be considered federal crimes. I couldn't lose it all.

I couldn't let it go.

Accepting my condition felt right.

But, as I said, nothing happens without a mess. Nothing. Especially for me, who has always been a mess.

"What should I do from here?" I ask Escobar.

"Well, you should blend in. No one here knows anything about you other than me and the one in charge here. You must play

along. I don't think it's that hard."

"We're in a convent. I open my mouth, and these nuns will know I'm not a retiring priest. And look at me, I don't look like a priest."

"Yes, I have to agree. You look like one of those protein-heavy weirdos," comments Escobar.

"Maybe you should consider a career in real comedy, Escobar. You'd be more successful."

"Let's go. I'll introduce you to Mr. Ivan."

"The real priest?" I question.

He moves, and I follow him out of the cubicle. I observe the brightly lit corridors with floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a view of a wide green field outside. I understand I am temporarily devoid of choice or options.

My father must be in hell, laughing and munching on popcorn, wearing those damn slippers with a box of Italian cigars.

We descend the stairs, and I stand next to Escobar, who seems to know where and how to walk. It makes me anxious, nervous, and annoyed. This guy is married, you can tell by the ring on his finger. He understands about family, like I do, but nobody from his family tried to take his life.

"I won't be able to pretend to be a priest," I confess.

"Yes, you will. You're a Barrete; isn't it your family's policy to face everything?" He asks as we enter another door and step into a hall adorned with old, illustrative paintings. "Pretending isn't hard, sir. Just imagine it's the role of your life. Everything depends on it. If you're not convincing, your business will sink. Yes, there are downsides. But there's also a big advantage: immunity and assurances for you, for your mother who needs you, and for your business, right? I heard your mother was devastated during your funeral. Do you think she deserves to go through that again, or do you prefer to change things? The wrong things have to be fixed, starting with you following orders."

He says it straight, no sugarcoating, quickly learning how I operate. A sneaky son of a gun.

"You guys must be kidding," I say as we reach a door. I breathe tensely. "Is this it? Can't I have a different role? Maybe be a Hollywood actor?"

"We have an opening for a fishmonger in the South. It's not like picking a seat and staying still. This involves people. We can't risk your life or other people's. Every step is calculated so nothing goes off the rails. Got it, or should I bring in some bureaucracy for you to read?"

"You know, Escobar, you're too harsh. Too harsh," I say. "Let's go."

They walk toward the room, and as we enter, I see we weren't alone. There was an elderly man with white hair, an imposing figure near a large window, accompanied by a feminine silhouette, back turned to us, facing the white-haired man.

"Mr. Ivan," Escobar greets the man, who looks up and gives a slight smile. The feminine figure turns towards us, revealing something that deeply surprises me.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Add the book to your library! Your vote and comment will always be my greatest support! I hope you like our lying priest and our golden girl. More than a book, my passion.

Happy reading.