His black leather trousers elegantly wrapped his thin legs. He was attractive, he was feared, he held power there in Quantana... Yet he felt the emptiness of solitude digging inside him.
Anacleto sat inside the saloon, intent on drinking a glass of mezcal, and weakly swinging his right foot. The boots fitted perfectly, as did the dark shirt and the wide-brimmed hat placed, at the moment, on the table in front of him. Mexico was hot, very hot, but his vanity prevented him from confusing himself with the others: Anacleto was special, he felt special and all his life he had tried to enjoy that solitude of his, learning to despise others and to place himself not only distant from them, but above them.
At least until that day.
Young Locha walked out of the parish priest's house. The blonde hair of the girl was well arranged and Anacleto appreciated his feminine figure. He took another sip of the alcoholic drink, then put his glass on the table and took his hat, getting up. "Boss, where are you going?" one of his minions asked, intent on playing dice somewhere inside the saloon. Anacleto adjusted his hat, then the gloves of the same color as the rest of his clothing and went around the table, hazel eyes on the window, apparently attracted to the figure of Locha de Cortinez and ignoring the words of his subordinate. He went out pushing the doors of the saloon, being hit by the dazzling sun and the deadly heat of the morning. The soles creaked on the dirt as he headed for what he called "the priest's house", right across the street. The belt swung at his waist and the presence of the pistol at his side, as usual, reassured him in some unhealthy way. Not caring about those conventional manners, he grabbed the handle in front of him, opening the squeaky door and sliding inside the silent house.
Shaded and slightly cooler than he expected, nonetheless Anacleto felt his natural repulsion towards anything related to the Church. He turned to the kitchenette, looking at the spices well-ordered above the sink, and a smirk peeked over his pretty face. With a high chin, a posture too rigid and elegant for a bandit, he went to the priest's bedroom -used as well as office- where he knocked on the door with a slight movement of his knuckles.
"Come in!" exclaimed a familiar voice, muffled by the wood. Anacleto opened the door, closing it behind him after a step. He said nothing to justify his presence in that room, silently watching the elderly man sitting at the desk. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on the priest ones and the thin lips, usually stretched in a benevolent smile, were parted in an expression of amazement. He blinked. «Anacleto, good morning. Please take a seat," he invited the young man to sit in front of him with a gentle gesture of the hand. The black-haired man with the unusual clothes went down a couple of steps, leaning briefly on the balustrade. "Good morning, father," he replied politely, taking off his hat. One hand held the wood on which the pelvis rested, while the other carried the hat to his chest: the hairdo was perfect and the sideburns elegantly lengthened his face. Anacleto was aware of his good look and proudly showed it, going down the last two steps with a phlegm that vibrated in the air. Father Michael didn't say a word until the other man reached the chair in front of him, sitting down with a sly smile on his face. The lace of the hat was inserted around the neck, leaving the accessory as an ornament on the back, and the hands were intertwined on the knee of the crossed leg. Anacleto was in no hurry and Father Michael had joined his hands, placing the cut on the edge of the desk and momentarily ignoring the papers in front of him. The eye contact, meanwhile, had never been abandoned.
"I insist on telling you that keeping the front door open can be dangerous," said Anacleto. Finally Father Michael smiled. "I insist on replying that this house must be available to anyone seeking comfort in God," he replied calmly. Anacleto took on an amused expression. "I don't think God would be offended if you used a latch," he said. Father Michael sighed, looking down at the papers in front of him. "Anacleto, are you here to discuss my safety or did you want to talk to me about something?" he asked going straight to the point.
Anacleto watched him for a long time.
Wrinkles marked the priest's tanned skin like waves of curiosity; his eyes, ice-colored but with an immense heat, hardened slightly in looking at him, in recognizing a lost sheep in the flock of his Church. Anacleto's heart throbbed with anger and shame as his lips stretched into an enigmatic smile.
Locha had felt affection for him and then she felt affection for the priest who had just arrived in the city. He had found that feeling ridiculous until, fascinated by the strength and courage of the man who sat before him, he began to feel the same thing.
"I'm worried about the moral integrity of a friend of mine, father. I have seen Locha come out of your house quite often these days," he insinuated, while bowing his gaze to adjust his black gloves. Father Michael looked at him in shock.
Those blue eyes, so deep and sweet in looking at his fellow citizens and cold, hardened in looking at his figure. No fear in his expression, no fear; he had immediately given him a hard time, he had immediately undermined his authority and Anacleto, feeling breathless in front of that man so different from him and yet, in some way, so worthy of admiration, he had ordered to have him killed as soon as possible. So many unsuccessful attempts of murder made to remove him from there, to induce the figure of Anacleto to be hated more and to prove himself a hard and cruel godless man, a person worthy of the Hell that that man professed. He had killed a child without thinking twice about it just to ward off that unwanted feeling he had, and in his anger of the priest, delicate and smaller than he and yet enormous in his thoughts, he had found a sort of sick satisfaction. He understood that he couldn't get any other kind of feeling on his part and now Locha, the kind and sweet Locha, beautiful and attractive not only in appearance but also in soul, was crazy for the love of that man of God.
«Anacleto, are you crazy? What are you saying?" Father Michael asked, incredulous. Anacleto smiled mockingly, throwing an eloquent glance at the priest. Those thin lips, stretched for an emotion he felt thanks to him...
Anacleto soon realized that he didn't care if Father Michael would think good or not about him: in the long run he would still remain in his thoughts and his actions, however terrible, would leave a sign that the lackluster Locha couldn't even dreaming. He found himself smiling amused.
«As I thought, you are an honest man. I'm sorry to have bothered you," he breathed softly as he stood up.
Father Michael was the only one whose gaze he found difficult to sustain. His heart vibrated strongly in his presence and he rediscovered... parts of himself that he had hidden in solitude, a solitude perhaps too heavy to hold since he had known him. He swallowed as he walked slowly towards the door, slowly climbing the steps in the hope of hearing his voice again. A last farewell, a nod of love!... but it didn't come.
The day was sultry, the hat was essential. He smiled enigmatically at the blonde Locha who returned with shopping. He gave him a questioning look, probably confused by his presence in that house, but before she could open her mouth Anacleto had already walked to the saloon.
"Anacleto!" she yelled after him to call him back. The bandit had no strength to answer her and kept walking, moving away from that demonic place where feelings had started to flow back into his chest. His leather trousers were really becoming: in the end, Locha had preferred the sweet tunic to his darkness. Anacleto understood her perfectly.