What a pair of Catholic gatecrashers we make. I’m an agnostic who reverts to nominal Lutheranism in weak moments, and Nooshin is a lapsed Muslim who still believes in Allah or God or whatever she calls a higher power. But despite our heretical beliefs, we’re still climbing the worn stone steps to the massive oaken doors of Chirbampo’s cathedral. Normally I’d rather suffer blunt trauma than go to church — any church — but it’s a PR move. Appearances are important in Mexico, especially rural Mexico, and this is a memorial mass for the recently deceased mayor.

Inside the cathedral we’re momentarily disoriented, blinded by the transition from sun-drenched outside to pitch-black interior. We stagger around, bumping into the warm bodies of the parishioners packed around us. A male voice yelps when Nooshin stumbles and plants a heel on somebody’s foot.

“Over here,” I hiss, and yank her into an empty pew.

I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, just a few banks of guttering candles. Incredibly ornate woodwork stained almost black soars from the coal-colored tile of the floor to the roof, lost somewhere in the gloom above, where the candles’ illumination can’t reach. Intermittent alcoves hold amazingly lifelike icons, realistically painted and clothed. Here and there, inlaid silver glints in the darkness. The effect is simultaneously divine and subterranean, a paean to God and the mines of Chirbampo.

“What a gorgeous cathedral,” Nooshin is murmuring, awed.

“Technically it’s not a cathedral,” I murmur back. “There’s no bishopric here.”

“Bish-what?”

“Bishopric. The bishop’s office. It’s an administrative level in the Catholic Church hierarchy. A cathedral is the principal church of a bishop’s diocese.” I point at the altar, my outstretched hand a pale flash in the murk. “If this was a cathedral, there’d be a big-ass throne up there. For the bishop.”

Processional music begins and everybody gets to their feet. I turn toward the aisle, expecting to see the priest and his altarboys — but instead glimpse the rich and powerful families of Chirbampo. They march down the aisle, resplendent in their tailored suits and expensive dresses, a best much better than everybody else’s. A few peek sideways at us, noticing the Americans who tower head-and-shoulders above the rest of the parishioners.

I loop my arm around Nooshin’s waist and pull her warmth close, putting my lips against her ear. “This is like something out of colonial times,” I whisper, explaining that church seating used to be segregated by social station — peninsulares from Spain first, Mexican-born mestizos next, Indians and half-breeds in the back.

The rich and powerful seat themselves in a bank of transept pews, apparently reserved for the leading families of Chirbampo. Only when they’re settled does the priest appear, altarboys in tow, and the service begins. I instruct Nooshin to mimic the rest of the assembled throng, standing when they stand, kneeling when they kneel. The Catholic rituals are alien to me, and probably even stranger to her.

Apparently the deceased mayor was a law-and-order type. One of the liturgy readings honors his memory with a brimstone recitation of sins and punishments from the Old Testament — including adultery, with the straying wife stoned to death. Nooshin understands enough of the Spanish to sag a little. She commits adultery every night she sleeps in my arms, shaming her family beyond my comprehension, earning their hatred. Adultery is not something she likes to think about.

When the priest and altarboys arrange themselves for communion, she tries to rise — and runs into my arm, braced like a bar across her lap. “Communion is a sacrament reserved for the believers,” I hiss in the dark.

White teeth flash in a mischievous grin. “What do you care? You’re the one who doesn’t believe in God.”

“You know what a sacrament means? They believe the wafer and wine actually become Jesus Christ. Like, his body and blood.”

“That’s what Catholics actually believe?” Her grin vanishes in the dark. “That’s just gross. And really pagan too, eating your god like that.” But she still struggles against my restraining arm. “Nick? Please? Can we try some?”

And that’s how we wind up queuing in the aisle, slowly shuffling toward the guttering candles, treating the Catholic sacrament of communion like it’s a buffet. The communion wafers are stale and the wine tastes like screwtop Gallo, too sweet and thin. The body and blood of Christ.

“That was cool,” Nooshin gushes, when the service finally concludes and ushers dismiss our pew. “Thanks for taking me to church.” The first and last time I ever want to hear those words.

My attention is focused on making a good impression with the priest, always a pillar of the community in Mexico. He stands outside the massive oaken doors, a half-dead relic shaking the hands of his parishioners as they file out of the darkness and into the light. After he’s in the grave the priest-strapped Catholic Church will write off this parish, consigning it to the deacons and laypeople.

“The American,” the elderly padre beams, showing off his dentures, and frailly clasps my hand. He can’t be younger than 70. “So good to meet you, my son.”

“Likewise, padre.”

“Did you know the mayor, may he rest in peace?”

“I wish I had the pleasure. He was obviously a great man.” I say it plenty loud, broadcasting my flattery.

The padre nods approvingly, then tilts up at Nooshin. “And this would be your…wife?”

“Uh, yeah. My wife.” The words are barely out of my mouth before I regret them. Shit. I should’ve just told the truth. A single word — no — and a cold smile that doesn’t invite further conversation.

Her eyes are squinty in the sunlight, but I can still see the right one twitching in nervous confusion. She understood the introduction. Mi esposa — my wife. For a paralyzing moment her smile looks pasted-on. Then naturalness seeps back into her features. A slow knowing recovery. “The service was beautiful,” she compliments in deliberate Spanish, getting the past tense right.

The priest almost puddles inside his vestments with pride. I quickly drag my so-called wife down the steps to the plaza, where Mexican families are scattering in the directions of home, clattering across the cobbles. Around us kids are bursting with pent-up energy and swirling around the Americans. “Los altos!” — the tall ones! — I hear a rugrat screech in delight.

Nooshin’s wedgie sandals are matching my hiking boots, stride for long stride, as we exit the plaza in the direction of downtown, a modest block of shops that have seen better years. Like the 1700s. “Your wife?” she says in a tiny voice, reaching over to snag my hand. “Why’d you tell him that?”

“Hell if I know.” I try to shrug nonchalantly, as if I was just following the priest’s lead or something, but my shoulders hitch with apprehension. What if my ready agreement was actually a Freudian slip, a window into my subconscious? Or even a portent from that god I don’t believe in, whose body and blood I just sampled?

What the fuck am I saying? Get a grip, for chrissake. Don’t overthink this shit.

“I’m a zan, alright. Your seeghe zan. A temporary wife to you. Although I suppose that’s better than calling me your faheshe, your whore. Not like it really matters in the end. When it’s over with…well, you know.” Nooshin is tugging me across the almost-deserted street toward the opposite sidewalk, where a corner sign spells FARMACIA. Her long inky hair is snapping in the breeze, her face lit with hopelessness. “Let’s get some more condoms. At least I can pretend I’m a real zan for a while…”