Back for these holidays, the Snapshots series, an end-of-year gift from journalists from Duty, offers fiction texts inspired by archive photos sent by readers to the editorial staff. Here, a text by Roxane Léouzon based on a photo by Pierre Girard.
The monotonous voice of Roger, the priest, echoed in the nave. “Glory to God in the highest and peace to men, whom he loves. » Billy rolled his eyes. What bad luck to have come across this boring church!
The previous year, he and his parents, his sister and his grandmother had visited his grandmother in Quebec. They then attended Christmas mass in another church. Wow! The nativity scene at the entrance was enormous. Baby Jesus was bigger than his cousin Paul. A myriad of lit candles gave the impression of being in wonderland. It was magical. In addition, a children’s choir sang the best Christmas carols. His favorite was The Angels in our countryside. The girl on the far right just looked like an angel, but in the city. Her red hair fell in braids on either side of her immaculate face. He dreamed of seeing her again. Literally. In her sleep, she had sung vocals to the word “Gloria” while looking into his eyes.
But magical moments can’t be experienced every year, apparently. Billy had insisted to his mother, then to his father, to have threatened never to go to mass again, to have locked himself in the bathroom for several hours, to have broken the jar of gingerbread cookies , having cried (screamed) saying that life was not worth living, his parents remained intractable. There was no question of traveling to Quebec now that his grandmother had gone to heaven.
Result: Billy sat on the hard, faded wood of his charmless parish in Longueuil, listening to Roger’s false notes. He had believed that by accepting the role of Saint Nicholas, who entered the stage after the living nativity scene, the experience would be less painful. But his evening was even worse with the disguise! It was hot under his heavy tunic and his red miter weighed him down so much that he had to keep his blond head from falling forward. Plus, he had to pee. He envied the altar servers, who could get up from their pew.
He scanned the audience. The pretentious little girl who personified Marie looked at him with disdain. He made a face at her and she looked away with a pout. Her sister flattered the awful velvet doll that never left her side. His mother nudged his father to stop snoring.
Billy took advantage of the general lethargy caused by the homily to slip away towards the rectory toilets. Hallelujah! He was able to relieve his bladder. He then placed his hat and his buttocks on the cold floor. His eyes closed on their own. But he had to return there quickly for his theatrical performance.
His footsteps rang as he re-entered the church. It was completely empty. Instead of panic, Billy felt great peace. The ceilings seemed higher and the old brown beams took on a golden hue. He noticed that the poinsettias placed everywhere were a bright red.
As his stomach gurgled, the boy headed towards the tabernacle in search of crunchy wafers. It was while climbing the small steps leading to the altar that he heard his name behind him. “Billy!” » The voice was so soft, as if coming from a cloud. He turned around and couldn’t believe his eyes. It was her. The red angel from Quebec. She repeated, smiling: “Billy!” » The latter felt paralyzed. What could he say? He didn’t know what her name was. Just as he was about to ask her, the young girl began to hammer his name frantically, looking more and more dark and aggressive. Frightened, he stumbled and hit his head on the altar.
Opening his eyelids, he was both disappointed and reassured. He had dozed off in the bathroom and there was a knock on the door. He unlocked it nonchalantly. “Praise God, he is alive,” said Diane, the respondent of the liturgy, with irony. If you think we’re going to give you a role again next year, you’re dreaming in color! »
Taking off his useless costume, Diane explained to him that he had missed his entrance and that the mass was drawing to a close. His absence had created quite a commotion. His mother looked on apologetically, flanked by the rest of the family. She then dragged the culprit to the car.
” What a shame ! We will never go back there for midnight mass again,” his mother whispered as she started the engine.
She didn’t dare look at her son in the rearview mirror. He was smiling toothily in the moonlight.