Mircea had never been in a Catholic church before. He had been confirmed at an Orthodox one at his grandmother’s insistence, a long time ago. There was just as much gold paint in the Catholic church, and almost as many pictures of saints. But the pews amazed Mircea – as a child, how often did he long for a place to sit while the priest had droned on in the Orthodox church? And there weren’t only pews – there was a cushioned bench to kneel on as well. Decadence, Mircea thought.
It was a Thursday, and the Church was open, even if mass wasn’t being held. There were a few people there, kneeling in front of altars and lighting candles. Mircea noted that each candle cost 50 kopeks – he had to admire the way the Church was turning a profit. You can get a candle at the store for less than that, but it isn’t in front of a saint! He itched to think of a way he could make money off everyday objects at the club.
A few people were waiting to go into the confessional, and Mircea considered joining the queue. But he wasn’t here to see the priest; he wanted to see the missionary Piotr claimed was filling the girls’ heads with nonsense. After all, I’m promising them a better life, too! He was pretty sure the missionaries didn’t take confession, but he didn’t see anyone else around.
An old lady was giving him the eye, reminding Mircea of how his grandmother used to watch him. She was always convinced he was up to no good, and most of the time, she was right. Mircea decided to turn on the charm with the old girl, and gave her a bright smile. She clutched her purse close to her as he approached.
“Hey, don’t be afraid,” Mircea said to her, taking her arm. “This is a church, after all!” She wrenched her arm free, so Mircea held out a 50 kopek coin to her. “Say a prayer, if you’re so worried,” he told her. She took the coin, her eyes never leaving Mircea. He reached into his pocket and got another 50 kopek coin, which he dutifully dropped into the candle box. “I hear there are foreign missionaries at this Church,” he chattered, striking a match to light a candle. “Do you know where they are?”
The old woman glanced at the candle he had lit. “Michael’s in the side chapel,” she told him, still clutching her purse. Mircea noticed the coin he gave her was still in her hand. He took it from her, and dropped it into the box. He lit a candle for her with a fresh match.
Michael. She said it the German way. “What’s Michael doing in the side chapel?” he asked.
“He is with the volunteers, sorting out the clothes and toys they have collected for the mission drive.” She edged around Mircea, getting on one bent knees to say a prayer in front of the candle he lit for her.
Mircea scoffed. “They are collecting things from here to send to some even poorer place?”
The old woman glanced at him, not moving her head from facing the statue. “It’s for the poor here,” she hissed.
“So who makes the donations?” Mircea asked. He noticed the few people in the church were looking over at them, so he lowered his voice. “I mean, times are tough! Who here has the funds to give to the poor?” I must be in the wrong business!
The old lady turned her head to glare at Mircea. “Michael arranges things with some local factories.” So that’s how he gets to talk to my stupid employees-! Mircea sure hoped no one skimmed from his till at the laundry or café to give to this holy conman. He gripped the old lady’s shoulder in a gesture he hoped was kindly, but from the way she flinched, obviously was not. He smiled as he turned and left. The side chapel-?
It was as it should be – the side chapel was at the side of the Church, a small alcove off the main building. It was a much simpler room – less gold paint, fewer icons and statues, except for a big one of the bleeding Christ. A small group of people were gathered there, going through items from several boxes. Everyone stopped and stared as Mircea entered the room.
“Michael?” Mircea asked. He didn’t intend it, but it came out Russian – Mikhail.
He was a stocky man, younger than Mircea had expected. He looked at Mircea wearily. “I’m Michael.” One of the women with him looked nervous – he reached out a calming hand to her. Michael looked expectantly at Mircea, waiting. “What can I help you with?”
Mircea hadn’t expected his Russian to be that good. Most of the foreigners in Ukraine didn’t bother, expecting everyone to speak English, and growing exasperated when they couldn’t. This guy is good. “You’re collecting for the mission?”
“Do you want to make a donation?”
Michael was worthy as an opponent. Mircea smiled, thinking this was easier than he had expected. A donation. That’s the Germans for you – upfront, tell you what they want. Aware of the other people in the room –witnesses- Mircea turned on the charm. “Your Russian is awfully good.”
“So’s yours.” Mircea’s smile vanished. Michael continued, “My mother was Russian, from eastern Ukraine.” A do-gooder with a local connection!
Mircea emitted a laugh. “Ah. You don’t look German.” It wasn’t true – Michael may not have been blond, but he looked very Teutonic somehow. It was probably the rude health that emanated from him – he looked like he could hike up the Alps in Lederhosen without breaking a sweat.
“You’re Moldovan?” Michael nodded at Mircea’s suit. Mircea felt at a loss – it was the first time someone identified him correctly on the first guess.
“Romanian, actually,” Mircea lied, thinking of the passport he preferred travelling under.
Michael didn’t look impressed. “So you want to make a donation?”
Mircea paused. This is one tough customer! “Perhaps we could talk about how I can help your mission.” He had to get him away from the church, away from the prying eyes of the volunteers, to get down to the business of finding out how much it would cost to get the Church’s nose out of his business.
Michael stood firm, shaking his head. “If you are who I think you are, a donation is not the best way you can help the people here.”
Mircea couldn’t help it – his mouth fell open. A few of the people with Michael looked terrified – a middle-aged man put a protective hand on Michael’s shoulder, which he patted reassuringly. He continued to stare Mircea down, waiting for the next move. “If I am who you think I am?” Mircea parroted, not sure what Michael meant.
Michael sighed. “You know. I don’t want your money. I have a good idea of where it comes from, and I want no part of that.”
Mircea didn’t like the way this foreigner was talking to him. Who did this half-Russian do-gooder think he was? “You don’t want money?” he scoffed, folding his arms in incredulity.
Michael gave him a wry half-smile. “If I take your money, you’ll think you own me. You don’t own anyone.”
Those words were unwelcome to the point of being infuriating. Mircea was seeing red, and his jaw suddenly spasmed. He grabbed the side of his head, nearly staggering from the pain. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he roared, and the group of people around Michael closed in tighter in fear, whimpering.
“I’m a servant of the Church,” Michael answered, his voice calm and steady, and somehow louder than Mircea’s. “Who are you a servant of?”
Mircea was gripping his jaw with both hands. His head felt like it was splitting. He dropped to his knees, something which made the people in the chapel gasp. Mircea’s jaw throbbed, and tears were welling up in his eyes. The people around Michael were murmuring excitedly, and he was shushing them.
“I think you should go to the hospital, if you’re in pain,” Michael called to him. “Whatever you do, I think you should leave here.”
Mircea started to hyperventilate. What sort of unearthly powers did this man possess? What was he doing to him? How dare he do anything to him! “I’m going to-“ Mircea tried to shout, but his words were garbled, and his mouth was not cooperating with him. The tears were streaming down his face, and all he could do was moan.
Michael put his arms around the terrified parishioners. “Go,” he ordered Mircea.
Embarrassingly, all Mircea could do was crawl. He meant to tell this Michael that he would be back, but no words could form in his aching mouth. Painfully, he managed to make it back into the main part of the church. The old lady he had been speaking to earlier screamed at the sight of him, crying and crawling. The priest came out of the confessional at the sound, and ran over to Mircea.
“What’s wrong with you, my son?” he asked, helping Mircea to his feet.
“Hospital,”, Mircea managed to croak before losing consciousness.