PLEASANT TROUBLES

A sudden, involuntary flaring of his tongue, followed by a hideous contortion of his face; apart from this peculiar affliction, Bonifácio Careta was an ordinary child. The villagers believed everyone arrived in life with unique God-given inclinations - some were born to nose-picking, others to continuous spitting, others to limping. They never spent a second glance on Bonifácio.

Bonifácio Careta's life would have proceeded imperceptibly if misfortune had not brought his peculiarity to public notice.

Bonifácio's fortune changed irrevocably on the occasion of the long awaited Papal tour of the country and the Pontiff's brief, unscheduled bathroom stop in Bonifácio's forgotten village.

While the Pontiff granted the gathering crowd his holy blessing, his holiness' finger fell with singular exactitude upon the unsuspecting Bonifácio. His Sanctity was drawn to Bonifácio's angelic face, his perfectly clustered freckles and pleasant manners, the radiant smile that could distract buzzing bees from their business.

Bonifácio was brought forward, kissed and blessed. "Little angel, would you like to come with me and join the priesthood?" The Pope enquired, while continuously patting Bonifácio's buttocks. Bonifácio's affliction flared and his tongue stuck out half a metre. The Pontiff, shocked, blessed himself and the child, "May our souls be safeguarded from the devious ways of Satan," he voiced attempting to push the child's tongue back inside. Bonifácio did not know about Satan, he merely understood his tongue had a mind of its own. Without warning it darted out, a deranged clock-work cuckoo that caused havoc in the predictable world. His muscles would stiffen and no force or fancy could to return the tongue to its proper place.

After the Pope's "face to face encounter with the devil," as the inflammatory press headlined, parading Bonifácio's pinkish tongue to the nation, sales of papal icons and newspapers doubled. Villagers began to believe Bonifácio Careta was cursed. They prayed novenas. Masses were sung. His mother Alzira, crawled on her knees the entire way to the miraculous Lady of Fátima, seeking Her intercession for his affliction.

When the hands of science arrived, Bonifácio was promised a cure. And indeed the scrutiny of a scalpel quelled his tongue's random flaring, a remarkable improvement, but then it began to hang out in the world for hours at a time, creating a worse nuisance. Luckily, this cure was temporary.

At first, if anyone had enquired, Bonifácio would have admitted to enjoying the sudden flares because no other soul could boast such a tongue. He looked forward to the astonished reactions. But after the continuous efforts to mend him, he succumbed to popular pressure and began to think of himself as sick, evil, tormented.

Children taunted him during the school's daily lunch break. "Hey, lizard tongue! We've brought you lunch!" and they laughed dangling live flies in his face, tempting his tongue. In despair Bonifácio found himself hiding, holding a knife to his lips, preparing to end the agony. His tongue, knowing better, never exited on such occasions.

The village was not forgiving. Bonifácio would have finished his days in freak shows for public amusement, if it were not for the village curandeira, Felismina. Felismina did not believe those who pointed accusing fingers, did not believe him tormented. Instead she advised Bonifácio to disregard the whispering, the finger pointing and encouraged him to embrace his uniqueness.

"Your tongue is not terrible. Remember the times it flares during Sunday communion!" she said. Bonifácio half smiled remembering Father Lucas, who for lack of a better course of action, fed him host upon host, attempting to appease the insatiable daemon inside. Nevertheless, in Bonifácio's eyes the tongue caused him more trouble than pleasure.

"I'll reveal the hidden gold of your tongue," Felismina assured him. "Come visit me every Sunday morning after mass."

Bonifácio walked up to the meadow where wild flowers danced in the morning breeze and the sweet fragrance of wild honey hives perfumed the air. Felismina sat on a boulder, in front of her stone-hut, eating wild strawberries gathered in her lap. She blind-folded Bonifácio and led him through the undulating meadow where he learned to distinguish a lily from a lady's slipper, a hare bell from a marigold, by the delicacy of their pollen melting on his tongue.

As the years passed Felismina taught Bonifácio to concoct exotic oils from the wild flowers' flesh and instructed him in the art of touch. Bonifácio's innate virtuosity awakened and, during his dating years, he caused a sensation among the teenage girls prompting his election as the most handsome man in the village.

Under Felismina's guidance Bonifácio established a reputation for his tongue's divine abilities. The tongue, an oracle, flagged omens of the future. With such gifts, brides in the surrounding area visited him the night before their weddings, eager for an accurate prediction of their married lives. And they returned with radiant smiles to further confirm his reputation. The news spread. Widows and married women discovered miraculous cures for their seemingly terminal discontent in their faithful weekly visits to Bonifácio. The village grew joyous and Bonifácio found his place.

©paulodacosta