The young woman kneeling by the bed is crying, silent tears coursing down cheeks that have lost all glow of happiness when a door was slammed on her years ago.
'Please, God, let him find his way back to me and this innocent child', she murmurs, signaling with a quick glance towards Arturo, her boy sleeping in a cot, just to make sure the Almighty knows about her kid. He knows everything, no doubt, but with all the people sending prayers, every night she feels compelled to remind Him of her story. Alejandra, the girl whom Tony - Antonio, that is - promised on his mother's soul to take for his wife as soon as he puts by enough money for a down-payment on a little house to call their own. Only that never happened and she hopes God can forgive her for her sin and bring back her wayward lover.
Miles away, in what used to be the nice part of the city, another woman holds back a cry of pain as her knees start shooting daggers as she, too, kneels to pray for the speedy return of her beloved Antonio. Her heart breaks as she thinks of the beautiful boy she once had so high hopes for. It is not for her sake she prays for the boy's return, nor indeed for Alejandra's, for she's never heard of her, much less of the little boy who is the spitting image of his father. It is for her husband that she wants Tony to come back, so the old man can die in peace. Harsh words were said the day Tony left and the guilt of having driven away his only child is eating him alive even faster than the cancer rotting his guts away. The old woman chose to forget there was murder in the boy's eyes the day he left and she hopes God was maybe looking the other way when Tony slammed the door threatening to kill them both if he ever sees them again. 'He's not a bad boy, oh, Lord, he used to be such a sweet kid. Please, show him the true path and guide him to salvation'. No, need to explain about the cancer and her man dying with a heavy heart. God understands, God will help them all.
And he does understand, he knows about this woman and her son, he's heard her prayer so many times. Like he knows about Alejandra and her pain. His white head hangs in despair, tired hands clutching at the ears, trying to keep the din of countless prayers out. Every one wanting something of him, hungry hands raised in supplication trying to reach out to him and tear him bit by bit. And he has nothing to give them.
He remembers Antonio, though he hasn’t heard from him in a long time. He used to sit in church, all scrubbed up, wedged between his parents, never really hearing the sermon, his mind set on the torments so common among 12 year olds. He prayed to be delivered from the evils of calculus and the horrible Brady, who delighted in snatching the boy’s backpack, emptying it in the dirt and going through the scattered contents with eager hands. He might take the half-eaten sandwich or the odd football card, but it was not stealing he was after. Dumb as he was, Brady had a knack for finding his victims weakest spot and his greasy hands meticulously tore to pieces any scrap of drawing he could find for he knew Tony dreamed of being a painter someday and his eyes welled with tears as his crayon dragons and knights were scattered to the winds. But God never helped, did he?
God knows he let the scared boy down, like he’s let down many others, and he wishes there was a way to tell all of them it was beyond his powers, the choices were not his to make.
He feels for the crying women, but it is not within his powers to send Antonio back to them. Not even the young man’s new master could do that. The dark lord sits right in front of him, his pipe fouling the air in the office with its thick stench. His left hand plays idly with his ridiculous goatee while he’s busy tallying the day’s yield of souls. He scribbles the figures carefully in the big registry. There's really no need for that, there is no place for double-crossing, this a gentlemen' s game, they're both bound by honor, but rules are rules and the game must be played by the book.
‘Any news of Antonio the painter?’ God ventures. He knows there’s little hope the would-be artist will ever come back to him. Few of those who pledge their souls to the Devil ever do.
The dark one knows instantly whom his opponent is talking about. Quite an annoying young man with but an ounce of talent. Knocking on his door, so to speak, throwing his soul at his feet in return for the elusive glory his kind is desperate for. His wretched soul isn’t worth anything, yet what has been freely offered must be taken. That’s the deal with choices.
‘Let me see. Where are you, my little Antonio? Oh, there he is, dreaming about that exhibition of his as usual.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘Nah, he’s crap.’
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