The Confession

If walls could talk, I don't think they would want to hear it. Would they have been able to handle it? Would they have been able to handle the truth?

I was listening as usual. This might not have been my purpose, but there was no way out of it. 

" Forgive me padre for I have sinned. My last confession was six weeks ago. I accuse myself of murder. The murder of Bishop Giovanni Galgelo." 

The priest sighed. But he remained as stiff as a tree stump. Not even a tilt of his neck. He kept gazing straight at me. Unfazed. Sometimes he would blink, just as he had always done when seated there in the three decades he had been serving at the parish. 

"I was told this is where I will find absolution. For this and all the sins that I cannot now remember, I am humbly sorry and sincerely beg the pardon of God, penance and absolution from you father," the hooded man with his neck lowered meekly, eyes looking at the raised wooden booth floor, finished with a sigh. 

The priest kept gazing straight at me. Not once did he look in the direction of the man. 

"My dear son, may the God of all mercies give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Now, lay low, wait for the drop as you were instructed then disappear from Napoli completely!" the priest uttered. 

The hooded man made the sign of the cross, arose from his kneeling position in the confession booth, his black hoodie still firm on his head and his black surgical mask intact around his nose, opened the heavy booth door and slowly walked out of the church. 

Thousands of people had knelt in the booth in my half a century of existence. I had never seen this man there before. 

The priest took three more confessions. As usual, I heard them all. 

A teenage boy who had started drinking, a young wife fighting guilt over her cheating on her newly wedded husband, and a middle-aged accountant who was stealing from his boss. 

During all of them, the priest remained unfazed. He did attempt to advise the teenage boy though of the dangers of alcohol and drug abuse. He recommended some prayers he would recite and activities he would do to keep himself busy and to stay away from bad company. If he wished, he would even recommend him for the vineyard assistant summer job at the parish farm. The priest also told the boy that he would pray for him and that he was loved. 

When no other faithful entered the booth as he waited, the priest took out what looked like a feature phone from beneath his robes and pressed a number that seemed to have been the only one in the logs. The call was quickly picked. 

" It is done," he whispered calmly. 

The call was then disconnected. 

He then walked out of the confession booth and to the changing room. In the corner of the large church, an usher was arranging some boxes of candles ready to bring them into the open store room on his left. It seemed a new shipment had just come in. A nun humming softly arranged fresh flowers on the altar. 

To an outsider's eye, everything seemed normal. 

By noon, flowers and cards of many colours had pilled below the altar, a large smiling portrait of the Bishop surrounded by them. Many congregants had brought them in sombre moods. Some unable to contain their emotions had wailed as they lay them there. Many knelt and prayed and took some time on the seats sobbing as they processed the news of the gruesome murder of the much beloved and celebrated Bishop. 

Some sat in twos or threes on the benches. I could hear their floating whispers. How the Bishop was found inside his car in an underground parking lot with a bullet hole in his head. The words 'construction', 'bids' and 'wins' dominated the whispers. 

I could also hear loud chants coming from outside. 

"Justice for Bishop Giovanni! We shall keep marching! We will not stop!" 

Many other voices would join in. 

"Justice for Bishop Giovanni! We shall keep marching! We will not stop!" 

It seemed there was a gathering out there. The chants kept going while the flowers and cards kept coming. 

About a week later, in a requiem mass, the padre eulogised the Bishop. A few tears trickled down his cheeks, his voice breaking, as he told stories of the times they had shared. He called him a great man of virtue who spent his life serving the faithfuls. 

" We pray and ask the authorities to catch these ruthless men who would be soulless enough to take the life of a humble servant of the people," he called sternly, " And as his newly appointed acting replacement, I will continue with the proposed building of the conference centre even though they took Bishop Giovanni's life for it. I am not afraid of them. The work must continue. We must serve the people. I will not be afraid. We shall keep marching. We will not stop!" 

The congregation clapped. Some raised their fists in the air empowered by the priest's moving speech. 

Others chanted, "Justice for Bishop Giovanni! We shall keep marching! We will not stop!" 

One that sat near me even praised the padre, "Such a beautiful eulogy. He shall help us stay strong… He will lead and guide us to get justice." 

I watched the congregants flow out of the church a few hours later as they escorted the Bishop to his final resting place, the padre among those leading them. 

All was done. 

What happens in the confession booth, stays in the confession booth. 

I don't think the congregation could handle what transpired in there. They would have had trouble coming to terms with what I heard and saw. And that's why it happened in there, to begin with. Because of all walls, those like me especially, are never supposed to speak. 

I guess that's why walls don't talk. I don't think people could handle all they had to say. We are built to be fortifications. We guard those inside us. We stay mute with their secrets. And we protect those on the outside from information that would destroy them. 

And that's core to why they build us.