Inquisitor

 We met completely by accident.

I was walking home from practice one autumn afternoon. A cold rain was falling, and the wind was blowing sideways, rendering my umbrella completely useless. Although I loved autumn, this time I was far from enjoying the sight of gloomy, heavy clouds and cascading golden leaves at the mercy of the fickle wind. I got another bad grade in math, and the coach said if I didn't improve, he'd have to kick me off the team. "According to your teacher, boxing knocks your brains out," he said. "He says the more you box, the worse you learn. You have to prove it's a load of rubbish, or I'll be forced to kick you off the team." I was angry with the teacher for his stupidity; I hated the coach for his cowardice. Boxing was everything to me: it helped me survive the hell of a house ruled by a tyrannical drunk. What if I didn't get a C? No one cared that I was good at boxing, and I simply couldn't understand math. What a shitty world...

I turned onto the alley leading to the apartment building where I lived when I heard a groan. I stopped and looked around carefully. The voice came from behind a half-ruined dumpster. I cautiously took a few steps and saw two boys I didn't recognize, bullying a third, much younger one.

I stopped. My heart started beating faster.

One of the attackers kicked the victim in the stomach.

Could he help the kid?

The second, taller one, corrected him with a kick to the hip.

It's none of my business. The

shorter one kicked the boy in the kidneys, making him scream horribly.

They'll kill him.

"Kick his face!" the shorter one shouted.

I ran over. I punched the taller one in the back of the head with all my might. He fell flat on his face without a moan. The shorter one managed to get into a defensive stance. His blue eyes blazed with hatred. I feinted, and he fell for it. A right hook caught him in the jaw. I'd always dreamed of that kind of punch in the ring. I heard the crack of bone cracking. The bandit slumped to the sidewalk, like a puppet suddenly stripped of its strings. I was amazed at my own strength.

The sight of my fallen opponents brought me pleasure. At the same time, I felt a pang of dissatisfaction. I regretted that everything had been so easy. I wanted to fight, to inflict pain, to see the fear in the eyes of my defeated foes!

I shook these thoughts away like a dog emerging from a puddle of dirty water. I knelt beside the beaten boy. He was alive, though unconscious. I made sure he didn't choke on the vomit and blood that flowed freely from his parted mouth, then ran for help.

The doctors said I had likely saved his life.

I knew it for sure. Despite this, I was plagued by guilt for months. My initial hesitation could have cost the boy his life. It was one of the many reasons I came to love him like a brother.

Piotrek

was recovering quickly.

Three weeks after that fateful evening, his mother called me with an invitation.

"Piotrek is waiting for you," she said. "Come over for dinner."

I bought a box of Wedel chocolates and went.

His parents were wealthy. They lived in their own single-family home in the wealthy neighborhood known as "Złodziejowice." His father, an engineer, worked for a large construction company. His mother was a doctor.

I entered a large room whose blue-painted walls were decorated with dozens of car magazine folders. No rock bands or African-American basketball stars—only cars. I even recognized a few: a Volkswagen Golf, a Ferrari, a BMW...

Piotrek lay in a bed—twice the size of my bunk. In the light of the nightstand lamp on his desk, he looked quite good. The swelling had gone down from his thin face. Only dark spots—remnants of massive bruises on his cheeks and temples—reminded me of his brush with death. By some miracle, his thin, pale lips remained untouched.

"Hi," I said, unsure of his reaction.

He smiled. Mischievous sparks played in his brown, gold-flecked irises. This is a man who has learned the fragile value of life, I thought. I was delighted that I had been given the honor of saving these sparks from a definitive blackout. Life is the highest value, inviolable, sacred. Suddenly, the resentment against the coach for removing me from the team vanished from my heart. Looking at Piotrek's thin, battered body, I realized the absurdity of sports based on brutality and the infliction of pain. The warrior spirit had left me, and I wasn't at all sorry. Life—I sighed silently—a wonderful life...

He beckoned me over with a gesture of his hand, trembling with exertion.

I walked over to the bed and sat on a low stool. It smelled of hospital and fresh, starched sheets. Emotion gripped my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. Piotr took my right hand and placed it against his cheek, which was as warm and delicate as a hot water bottle wrapped in silk.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I will always defend you."

*

In my second year of studies, I felt a calling. A few months later, I entered the seminary, and after six years of study, I was ordained a priest.

It started innocently. I was increasingly enjoying the atmosphere of the church I went to every Sunday to please my girlfriend. Sex with Iwona and analyzing Plato's "Dialogues," which we studied during our exercises, were giving me less and less pleasure. Finally, the time came when I considered any day I couldn't attend Mass a lost cause. Monthly confession left me in a deep moral quandary. I couldn't honor God and Mammon. I proposed to Iwona a life of chastity until marriage. After a week, she left. A priest I knew convinced me that this was a clear sign of God's will. My studies were getting worse and worse, and I prayed more and more often. I read the entire Bible twice, attended Ignatian and vocational retreats with the Franciscans, Dominicans, and Divine Word Missionaries. I fell in love with God, and like an Olympic torch, I burned with the desire to enter his service. There wasn't much exaltation involved; There was determination and perseverance in following his path.

Piotr accepted my decision with joy. Not because he deeply believed. Five minutes of conversation was enough for him. He knew I had found my path to happiness.

For six years, he visited me at the Seminary, sharing his successes and failures.

"You know what?" he told me once. "This brainwashing is doing you a world of good. I've never felt your closeness as strongly as it did during these visits.

God was changing me.

" On the eve of his diaconate ordination, Piotr brought a tall, very pretty blonde with a sincere, modest gaze to the meeting.

"This is Ewa," he said. "My fiancée.

They waited a whole year to get married. Two weddings a week apart. It was the most beautiful time of my life.

" *

"Come swim!" Ewa waved encouragingly at me. She stood waist-deep in the warm water of the lake. The afternoon sun reflected off its shimmering surface, as if off a million shards of glass.

I put down my breviary and took off my glasses.

My friend's wife looked like Venus emerging from the depths of the sea. Lucky, I thought. He has a beautiful, intelligent companion, a satisfying job, and a lot of money. I encountered too many unfortunates every day in my pastoral ministry not to appreciate my friend's good fortune. Thank you, God! Watch over them.

I walked over to the pier where she was bathing.

"I don't like water," I said.

She didn't insist. That's what I liked about her and Piotr. They knew when to give in so as not to offend the other person. I truly hated water. A dozen or so years ago, while bathing in a river, I brushed against the floating corpse of a drowned man. His bloated, eyeless face sometimes appears in my dreams. His pale mouth opens in a grimace of infinite suffering, vomiting a thick liquid the color of congealing blood. Suddenly, the river, full of disgusting mucus exuded from the drowned man's rotting body, surges and spills out of its bed. I try to escape, but my legs fail me. Terrified, I trudge toward the shore, which becomes more distant, unreachable with each passing second. The water rises quickly. In a moment, it reaches my chest, shoulders, neck. Then I hear someone say my name.

"Tomek."

I know it's the drowned man.

I turn around.

I recognize my father's face, smiling vengefully.

I start screaming, and at that moment, a disgusting liquid fills my mouth. I swallow it reflexively, feeling its unique taste – it's blood. And not just any blood. It's my mother's blood.

It tastes delicious…

"Jesus, help me!" I whispered, trying to free myself from the terrible memory. "I am your priest, the confidant of your secrets. Why are these nightmares destroying my soul?

For the first time, I was experiencing my nightmare in broad daylight.

" "Is everything alright?" Ewa asked, concerned.

"Yes."

I prayed with all my strength that my answer would be true.

What if it wasn't?

The two of us sat at a round table. Piotrek was watching over the last sausages grilling.

Dusk brought a little refreshment to the weary nature. A light breeze blew from the lake. Frogs and crickets entered their daily competition for the loudest rendition of the summer overture. Ewa lit the candles.

"I feel good with you," I confessed.

"And we're happy with you," Piotr replied. "Even if we're spending this vacation differently than usual."

"But we're by the lake," I protested. "

That's true. However, it doesn't have the comforts you had in Mikołajki."

I poured myself some wine, got up from the table, and walked over to the wooden veranda wall. I looked at the lake waters, which rippled under the harsh caresses of the increasingly strong wind.

"To hell with comforts," I said. "This is your home, Piotr. The home of your ancestors. Everything in it speaks of your identity, based on the history of your family. Although we've been friends for many years, I've never been here. I don't care about a hotel and its comforts. After all, I'm a priest, and for us, luxury is a sin. Apparently, God wanted us to spend our vacation in the cottage built by your great-grandfather."

"You're right," Eve interjected. "You can't escape fate."

"And so the first day passed. And God saw that what he created was good," Peter joked, dousing the glowing embers of the grill with water from a bottle.

"Did you know that for saying those words in the Middle Ages you would have been severely punished. Maybe even killed?" I teased him.

"Oh, no!" He feigned horror. "Father Inquisitor, I didn't mean to!" "

Too late, you wicked one. Here's the fire, here's the axe." I grabbed the axe lying on the wooden floor of the gazebo by the grill, and then gave chase.

"Eve, my wife, help me!" Peter laughed, fleeing around the table.

Eva grabbed a white napkin from the table. She ran to her husband and threw it over his head.

"He's mine, mine!" "Danuska from "The Teutonic Knights" shouted in a high-pitched voice.

I lowered my weapon and sat down. All three of us roared with wild laughter until our stomachs ached.

I loved them. God, how I loved them! They were the true family I never had. The beaten-to-the-point boy I saved from death grew up to become an auto industry tycoon, but the feeling of friendship that bound us remained as strong and fierce as it had been then. I was ready to give my life for him, and I knew he wouldn't begrudge me his. His marriage to Ewa hadn't changed anything. God had simply blessed me with a sister.

We cleaned up after dinner. They went outside, hugging each other and giggling like teenagers. I went to my room with my breviary in hand.

I occupied a small room with wood-paneled walls and a low ceiling, from which an old-fashioned chandelier hung forlornly. The single window overlooked the lake, covered in a silver tapestry of moonlight. I opened it a crack, allowing the cool breeze of the Masurian night to settle into my bedroom.

The room was very sparsely furnished, which suited me. It consisted of a double bed covered with a red quilt, a small table with a night lamp attached with a nail, a wooden two-door wardrobe, and a single chair. Opposite the bed, next to the wardrobe, hung a large photograph in a dark wooden frame, depicting the bust of a young boy.

I sat down in the chair and opened my breviary.

"God, come to my aid! Lord, make haste to help me!" I crossed myself in rhythm with the words.

I didn't feel threatened. I didn't need rescue. I was surrounded by loving people; Mother Church cared for me. As a priest, I pleaded for help on behalf of those who, somewhere in the world, were oppressed, raped, killed, losing their faith, dying without reconciling with God. I was their advocate, their last resort. By God's will, my prayer possessed immense power, so I approached it responsibly. The Church, which prays through its priests, is the mystical body of the Savior. I am the Savior...

I finished my prayer and lay down on the bed. The mattress was too hard for my liking. I ignored this slight discomfort and, closing my eyes, sank into a relaxing emptiness devoid of thoughts and images.

Something compelled me to open my eyes. I looked at the photo hanging on the opposite wall. The little boy, whose bust had been immortalized in the black-and-white photo, was very handsome. Thick, blond hair in unruly curls framed a delicate face with the regular features of a baroque cherub. His neck and slight shoulders were exposed, as if the boy had been stripped to the waist for a photograph. This heightened the impression of the child's unearthly beauty.

Yet, something about the photo was jarring, deeply unsettling. It took me a few seconds to figure out the source of my negative impression. The boy's figure was enclosed in a bright oval, the rest of the space enclosed by wooden frames was filled with blackness.

The photograph was taken in the style used for tombstone photographs!

The child's small mouth expressed a barely perceptible mockery. His shadowed eyes were stern.

"A revelation to me too," the boy seemed to say. "Of course I'm a corpse. You will be one too."

Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in Him will live forever, I replied.

"The apricots chime. Persian fairy tales in a Judeo-Christian version. You live, and then you rot."

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy universal Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life eternal. Amen, you brat. AMEN!!!

What am I doing?! I was terrified. Every priest, sooner or later, goes through a crisis of faith. But to talk to an image?! I remembered an episode from a few hours earlier. Could this be the beginning of an illness?

I felt nauseous and jumped out of bed.

I'm not crazy, I told myself. I'm not crazy! It's this damn heat. I might even have suffered a sunstroke... In September, I was supposed to get my own parish. Finally, after seven years of serving other priests, I had a chance to stand my ground. If I ended up in the hospital, everything would be prolonged. And what if they diagnosed me with mental illness? No more dreams of a parish. I'd end up a resident, a perpetual wanderer. There's no sentiment in the Church. What counts are connections and clout. Even if the bishop gave me a second chance, I'd have to wait years for it.

I knelt down, leaning against the bed. From my pocket, I pulled the rosary, a gift from Peter. I crossed myself hastily and began to pray. Reciting dozens of the Angelic Salutation, I begged the Mother of Jesus for help and protection. The panic subsided slowly, like a toothache after taking Panadol. At the end of the rosary, I fell asleep.