Heaven blocked our way to the promised land

in order to give us the whole world

Ignatius de Loyola.

Russian empire. Fortress Dinaburg. August 1775 R.H.

Reduction is a city in the territory of the Jesuit state in Paraguay.

Guarani - Indian tribe of South America.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

I came to the fortress Dinaburg after the Spaniards defeated my reduction (1). I arrived in this northern country - the only refuge of the cursed Order, kindly given to us by the Russian empress. All those who have already begun to drive across Europe, like mad dogs, flocked here. Where are your multiple worlds, Nolanets, for the sake of which you once went to the stake? Is there at least one of them a place for the once mighty Society of Jesus.

“Brother Francis, I need to talk to you.”
I take a look at the obscure rectangle of the door and see the last master of the Order, Brother Paul, there.

Orders are not discussed, but listening to his instructions, I suddenly find myself thinking that I am not happy about the upcoming trip. Although it should have been. After all, I'm going home: to sunny Italy, to Count d'Orsinio, our long-time informant. I will carry a scroll with the records of Pope Clement's secret negotiations with the Spaniards and the Portuguese. The result of the negotiations was the betrayal of the Vatican.

However, the orders of the masters are not discussed, and, dressed in secular clothes, I am shaking in a carriage along blurred Polish roads. Listening to my driver, Yang, pushes the horses, opens the pages of his diary, and returns to the past. That miserable April morning, when I saw what color the eyes of death were. They were black, impenetrable, cold and belonged to a Spanish general. And if it were not for my faithful guarani (2), whom I picked up on the bank of the river, severely wounded by the jaguar's claws ...
He distracted my death, she lost interest in me, collecting a rich harvest among the Indians.

Ian sang a song in Polish and under a simple village motive I close my eyes and lean back to the wall of the carriage. From the weak sleep brings the voice of the driver:
- So, pan monk, you can not go any further.
- What is the matter, Jan? - not waking up to the end, trying to understand what he was talking to me about.
- So, the hub broke, pan. The wheel is about to fall off. You can not go on. To the blacksmith would be necessary.
- So what to do? - I ask him.
- Versions in twenty inn. Jump tops, pan monk. From there and help send.
The driver unsaddles the handsome bay, brings him to me. The noble animal mows with violet eyes, snorts agitatedly and impatiently beats the hoof.
“I’ll try quickly, Jan,” I scream, shooting the stallion at a gallop.

The owner of the inn has an enviable sense of humor, if he decided to call his shack "Royal Shelter". Silent teenager with unhappy eyes takes my reins, leads the horse to the stall. I hear the innkeeper give orders to assistants, and they leave on the cart from the yard.

“Ban monk,” the master is frowning, “if you please eat, please.” Delicious roast cooked my Martha. As specially for you.
Raising my eyebrows. How did you find a scoundrel that a monk? I'm in a road jacket, tonsure is not shaved. Slyly squints and nods at the Order Signet with a stone in the shape of the Sacred Heart.
Something in recent times more and more trifles elude me.

I sit down at the farthest table, I do not want too much attention to my person. I see how the girl puts in front of me a plate of steaming meat and my shoulder is touching the poured girl's breasts. She serves bread, stooping so low that I can smell the cheeky scent of young sweat from her armpits. The country beauty straightens up, looking into my eyes with a languid look.
“Zlatka,” her master calls, “has prepared a guest room?”
“Cooked, papa,” the pullet responds.
“And if a pan doesn’t like underwear, or something else,” she says in a whisper, especially for me, “then I’ll change, just click.”
I grin in the answer: oh, the beauty, has not chosen that.
“Zlatka,” his father calls even harder.
She returns to me with a different expression on her face. Eyes looking at the floor, fingers teasing apron.
“I apologize, Jesuit pan.” Bless padre.
I used to raise my hand:
- In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. (3) Go, my daughter.

Opposite Yang sits down. The carriage was driven into a smithy, by the morning they promised to fix it. Hiding a smile in the beer froth, I watch Zlatka courting the coachman. Young breasts almost jump out of the corsage right in front of the driver's admiring eyes. He did not give a vow of chastity, it is easier for him than for me. I meet my gaze with her father, who shrugs guiltily. I did not try it with rods, papa?

I do not like Poland. I do not know why. I don't like anything in this country. Even snow-covered Russia is closer. I stand in a dark room and look out the window at the Polish night. Even the night I hate. I hear Zlatka moaning in the next room and Yang screams. The temptation of the flesh is no, no, and it makes itself felt. I kneel down and mumble, trying to drown out the sinful sounds .:
- Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum ...

I leave this country with great relief. Crossing the border of Italy, I understand that I am at home.

Count d'Orsinio is tall and very well built. His wife - a low elegant brunette comes to me.
- Bless, padre.
By the sign of the cross, I stretch out my hand for a kiss.
“Father Francis,” I heard the count’s voice, “let me introduce my daughter Francesca to you.”
What he tells me later is drowning in a viscous thick fog. Not a single word can break into my stupefied brain, because I saw it. She stands on the steps leading to the greenhouse. Matt cheeks pour in a blush, slender fingers nervously fingering the edge of a white silk scarf. Francesca? Now I know the name of the angel. I have seen death. Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to see life.

An angel walks toward us, barely touching the ground. She comes closer to me, bows her wondrous head:
- Bless, padre.
I stretch my hand to her for a kiss, I feel her hot lips pressed against my fingers. Still, I was guilty before you, Lord, otherwise you would have let me die there, in the humid Paraguayan jungle, with your son Jaguar. In order not to feel now how the chest is torn and trying to jump out of the heart.

“Did I understand correctly, Father Francis,” the count asked me, “that it is necessary to transfer this scroll to the cardinals?”
“You have understood correctly, signor,” I answered, hardly tearing my gaze from donna Francesca.

In the rollout, our only hope is to save the actually doomed Society. There are recordings of the secrets of the negotiations of Pope Benedict with the Spaniards and Porgugals. The result of which was the betrayal of our century-old work on Indian lands.
“The Pontiff has an incredible prestige,” the count argues to himself, “the mention of the Order alone threatens ipso facto.
What are you talking about, Count?
“I need time, Father Francis,” the earl bows his gray head, “please take advantage of my hospitality.”

I am forty years old, I gave a vow of chastity. I encounter a bottom during lunches, I see how her face is flushed with paint. She gives me a few touches of a trembling girl's hand. Is the angel indifferent to me? With night prayers I try to pacify my flesh, raging in the afternoon, but my efforts are in vain. Increasingly, I find myself thinking that I would like to see her naked. To catch her breath, to cause a soft moan with her touch, to touch her soft dark skin with your fingers. The devil penetrating into my mind paints me a picture of one more beautiful than the other. Here she lies on her back, shamelessly stretching her slender hips, revealing herself completely to my gaze.

Her hair, scattering silk on sheets with black snakes ...

Chest billowing in a convulsive sigh ...

The oceans of the eyes in which I am ready to drown ...