Читать книгу Puppies - Maurizio De giovanni - Страница 10

Don Vito Zarrelli hadn’t been able to get a wink of sleep all night long.

That, unfortunately, was nothing new. His spiritual father, an elderly Jesuit he went to see at least once a month, always told him that if he intended to do an adequate job as a priest, it was at the very least necessary that he survive physically. That meant he needed to eat, sleep, laugh, and even drink a beer now and then, perhaps, because the older man had seen so many other young priests, driven by the sacred flame of a calling too beautiful to be true, collapse like a card castle in the face of the first temptation.

It wasn’t so much a matter of spiritual weakness, Father Guarini had explained to him. Rather it was because young people couldn’t withstand the terrible awareness that they were human beings. And therefore, they failed to understand the grim fact that they lacked the power to single-handedly solve all of the world’s problems.

Don Vito was young, that’s true, but if there was one thing he didn’t think, it was that he was anything like a superman. He said so, with a laugh, to the elderly priest: listen, if I were to start listing my shortcomings, we wouldn’t be done for at least a hundred years. And frankly, Father, you don’t have that kind of time.

The fact was that he just couldn’t manage to remain indifferent in the presence of certain situations. That young woman at confession, for instance.

Confession was the most burdensome of all the sacraments. It demanded that you enter into contact with the dark parts of the human soul, becoming an intermediary between sins and God. You needed to offer support, take on the loads of others, and leave it all behind you with the greatest nonchalance, in the shadows redolent with incense and candles. As if you hadn’t just gazed out onto the domains of hell, hatred, depravity, suffering, and the animal instincts that triumph over love and clear thinking.

Since he had no fixed position with any parish church, the young priest was simply sent from parish to parish to give what aid he could offer. The parish priest at Santa Maria degli Angeli was well along in years, now, and when the church curia sent Don Vito out to help him, the older priest made no secret of his contentment. In general, since he knew most of the quarter’s congregation, Don Salvatore tended to keep the confessions for himself. He would say: No offense, Vito, it’s just that it’s less awkward for them to talk to someone they know personally. Don Vito actually felt a sense of relief, and instead dedicated himself to catechism or the parochial support of the elderly, pastoral works for which he felt better suited.

The week before, however, Don Salvatore had been suffering from terrible backaches and he had asked him to stand in for him in that duty as well. And so, after listening to the routine sins and secret desires of five or six regular patrons of the church, Don Vito had heard from the other side of the wooden grate and the red curtain a warm woman’s voice he hadn’t recognized.

Don Vito was thirty years old and came from Calabria. He’d always wanted to be a priest. He felt a sincere, profound compassion for the human race, and an immense love toward God; two simple principles around which he constructed his own life and his mission. He knew that those who are far from the land where they were raised, from family and loved ones, need even more spiritual comfort, and that woman’s voice had the unmistakable accent of Eastern Europe: she might be Romanian, Bulgarian, or Ukrainian. She was certainly young. And she was carrying a burden of pain in her heart. An immense burden of pain.

The conversation hadn’t been a long one, just a few quick exchanges. Then the woman had asked a question. She hadn’t described a sin, or a perversion, or a rape, or a fear she was entertaining. She hadn’t implored him to help her find a way out, and she hadn’t put on the prideful indifference of those who find themselves living a life they never asked for. She hadn’t asked for money, the way they sometimes did, or for a place to sleep, or a job, nor had she started berating God for failing to come to her aid.

She’d asked a simple, terrible question.

Don Vito had made an effort to gather additional information. With the practical spirit that always guided him, he had probed for a crack in the poor girl’s armor, trying to understand just what was going on, and how he could possibly come to her assistance. But that’s not what she wanted.

She wanted to know if she could expect to go to hell.

She wanted to know if she would be cursed to eternal damnation for what she was going to have to do. If God Almighty Himself would be able to pardon the sin that she was inevitably going to have to commit.

Even a father confessor with Don Vito’s limited experience had realized that he was walking on eggshells. If he had tried to step out of the confession booth, take a look around to give the silhouette of that face a color, an expression, and even a name, he would certainly have caused that woman to flee. There was nothing he could do but try to prolong the dialogue in the hope of extracting a few more words.

He had told her that there was no sin, no fault on earth that God cannot pardon and redeem. That no sin must necessarily be irretrievable. That however grim the situation, there was surely a way to remediate it, and that he, Don Vito, would be delighted to help her, if only she would tell him her name, or where she lived.

I live right nearby, Father, the girl had replied. Right nearby. And I’ll give it some thought, I promise you that. I’ll give it some thought and I’ll come back to see you. Tomorrow or the next day.

The priest had made the mistake of imparting absolution, before hastily emerging from the confession booth. By the time he emerged, she had already disappeared.

He had returned to the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli every day for a week, even after Don Salvatore was back on his feet and had fully resumed his normal duties. He hoped that the young woman might come around again, as she had promised, but he hadn’t seen her.

There were so many whom hunger or need drove to the parish church. Santa Maria degli Angeli stood at the center of a mixed quarter, which included commercial and residential streets, but also an impenetrable maze of narrow lanes—the vicoli—where all manner of criminal pursuits flourished. Don Vito couldn’t free himself of the terrible sensation that something bad had happened to the young woman. That voice formulating the question continued to echo in his head, and the worst thing was that he couldn’t speak of it to a soul, because he was bound by the secret of the confessional.

The evening previous, he had finally gone to talk to Father Guarini, who’d listened to him with great attention: his conversations with his spiritual father had the same value as a confession, and they were therefore every bit as much bound by the seal of secrecy. The elderly priest had lingered in a lengthy silence after Don Vito had finished his story, then Guarini had told him that, if in his conscience he had sensed impending danger, if there was something grievous that could still be averted, then he absolutely had to find some way to intervene.

He, who had always counseled reflection first and foremost, was now urging him to act, and hastily.

The second that the digital clock on the nightstand said it was six, Don Vito leapt out of bed.