Читать книгу Summer Night, Winter Moon - Jane Huxley - Страница 11

I’ll do anything, I thought, I’ll go anywhere to avoid returning to the house where Piero Giordano, my wife’s father, is sitting in the dark, chain-smoking and staring at the portrait of his vanished daughter. Is it possible to hide glaring guilt from his eyes? A bruised soul from his scrutiny?

I kept roaming in the murky twilight, asking myself at what point sadness turned into grief and grief into despair. Where did it lead? And to whom? Perhaps God (if I could invent Him) or repentance (if I knew how it felt) or absolution (if I could chastise myself enough).

Now, thinking of the occurrence from whose horror I had fled and from whose consequence I might never be able to extricate myself, I came upon the imposing medieval church across the road from Regent’s Park – the Danish church I must have passed a thousand times without ever bothering to enter.

Thoughts of providence, of miracles, prompted me to push the massive wooden door. To my astonishment, it creaked open and let me in. A sense of Christian hospitality (perhaps Catholic since the church was named Saint Katharine) mingled with the overbearing smell of lit candles and incense.

How long since I was last in church? Too long to remember. Except for the image of Father Rowan, the crippled pastor of our Southern Baptist church in Florida, limping along the narrow aisle on his way to the altar. He had a walking stick which he used for support (as well as punishment). Dante and I loathed catechism, but had been warned by our parents that no church meant no dinner, no fishing, no movies.

Now, years later, inside this foreign church, the sound of my footsteps grew louder and louder as I walked across the nave, stopped before a crucified Christ, terrifying in his near-nakedness, his crown of thorns, his glazed eyes.

If it was true that He knew about the sins of the world and still forgave the multitudes, then He would understand the rage which had coursed through my blood, the anger which had seized and devoured me.

I bent down and bestowed a humble touch upon His lacerated feet. They were cool as marble, and so were the eyes that couldn’t see. Or could they?

“I’m not looking for forgiveness, Lord. I just want to stop the sound of that splash.”

I paused. I had barely expressed what I was there to say, and yet I was already spent. The rain seemed to have tapered off, and a bleak sun was shimmering on the stained glass windows as I tore myself away from the crucifix, my throat tight from swallowing the unshed tears, my footsteps hollow as my own faith.