Emmaus by Alessandro Baricco

with her all the weak souls she met on her path.
    She should have thrown us out. We would have liked it. Martyrs.
    Instead she asked a question.
    What do you think I should do?
    To me it was astonishing. But not to the Saint, who was following the thread of his thoughts.
    Make her go to church, he said.
    She should confess, he added.
    He was so frighteningly certain that not even I doubted that it was the right thing to say at that moment. The folly of saints.
    Then he told her about us, without arrogance, but with a confidence that was like a blade. He wanted her to know why we believed, and in what. He had to tell her that there was another way of being in the world, and that we believed it was the way, the truth, and the life. He said that without the dizzying height of heaven there remains only the earth, a small thing. He said that every man carries within himself hope in a higher and more noble meaning of things, and that they had taught us that that hope became certainty in the full light of revelation, and a daily task in the half-light of our lives. So wework for the establishment of the Kingdom, he said, which is not a mysterious mission but the patient construction of a promised land, the unconditional homage to our dreams, and the eternal satisfaction of our every desire.
    That’s why no marvelous thing must fall in vain, because it’s a stone of the Kingdom, you see?
    He was talking about the marvelousness of Andre.
    A cornerstone, he said.
    Then he was silent.
    The woman had sat listening without ever changing her pose, only darting a few quick glances at me, but out of politeness, not because she expected me to speak. If she thought anything, she hid it well. Allowing herself to be humiliated like that, and by a boy, besides, seemed to make no impression on her—she had let him have his say, about her daughter. Without betraying resentment, or even boredom. When she opened her mouth her tone was entirely courteous.
    You said that she should go to confession, she said.
    She seemed to have stayed there, before the whole speech. That made her curious.
    Yes, answered the Saint.
    And why should she do that?
    To make peace with herself. And with God.
    Is that why one confesses?
    To wipe out our sins and find peace.
    Then she said yes, with a nod of her head. As of something that she could understand. Then she got up.
    There must have been a way of putting an end to all that, and the simplest was to thank us, close the door behind us, forget. Smile about it, later. But that woman had time, and she must have stopped being compliant long ago. So she stood there, silently, as if on the edge of a farewell, but then she sat down again, in the same exact position as before, but her gaze was different, with a hardness that she had kept in reserve, and she said that she remembered the last time she had confessed, she remembered when she had gone to confession for the last time. It was in a very beautiful church, of pale stone, whose very proportions and symmetry inclined toward peace. It had seemed to her natural then to seek a confessor, although she had no familiarity with the act, and no faith in the sacraments. But it had seemed to her the right thing to do, to complete that unfamiliar beauty. I saw a monk, she told us. White robe, wide sleeves over narrow wrists, pale hands. There was no confessional, the monk was seated, she sat opposite him, she was ashamed of her short dress, but she forgot about it at the first words, which were from the monk. He asked her what was weighing on her soul. She answered without thinking, she said that she was incapable of being grateful to life and this was the greatest of sins. I was calm, she told us, but my voice wanted nothing to do with my calm, it seemed to see an abyss that I couldn’t see, so it trembled. I said that that was the first sin and also the last. Everything in my life was wonderful, but I was unable to be grateful, and I was ashamed of my happiness. If