Emmaus by Alessandro Baricco Page A

it’s not happiness, I said to the monk, it’s at least joy, or goodfortune, granted as it is to few other people, but to me yes, and yet I am never able to translate it into any peace of mind. The monk said nothing, but then he wanted to know if she prayed. He was younger than she was, his head completely shaved, a hint of a foreign accent. I don’t pray, I told him, I don’t go to church, I would like to tell you about my life, I told him about it, something about it. But I don’t repent of this, I said finally. I would like to repent of my unhappiness. It didn’t make sense, but I was crying. Then the monk leaned toward me and said I mustn’t be afraid. He didn’t smile, he wasn’t paternal, he was nothing. He was a voice. He said that I mustn’t be afraid, and then many other things that I don’t remember, I remember the voice. And the gesture at the end. His hands approached my face, and then one touched my forehead and made the sign of the cross. Lightly.
    Andre’s mother had kept her eyes lowered during the story, staring at the floor. She searched for words. But then she looked at us, for what she still had to say.
    I went back the next day to find him. No confession, a long walk. Then I went back again, and again. I couldn’t help it. I returned also when he began to ask me to return. It was all very slow. But every time something was consummated. The first time we kissed it was I who wanted it. The rest he wanted. I could have stopped at any moment; I didn’t love him so much, I could have done it. But instead I went all the way with him, because it was unusual—it was the spectacle of perdition. I wanted to see up to what point men of God can make love. So I didn’t save him. I never found a good reasonto save him from me. He killed himself eight years later. He left me a note. I remember only that he spoke of the weight of the cross, but unintelligibly.
    She looked at us. She still had something to say and it was just for us.
    Andre is his daughter, she said. She knows it.
    She made a small, treacherous pause.
    I imagine that God knows, too, she added. Because he has not been stingy with punishment.
    But it wasn’t her look that struck me; it was the Saint’s, a look I knew, which had to do with the demons. He is like a blind man at such moments, because he sees everything but somewhere else—within himself. We had to leave. I got up and found the right words to smooth over the sudden rush—it seemed I had gone there just for that reason, that must have been what I knew how to do. Andre’s mother was perfect, she even thanked us, without a hint of irony. She shook our hands as she said goodbye. Before we left I caught a glimpse of something—leaning against the wall, in the entrance—that absolutely shouldn’t be there, but that undoubtedly was Bobby’s bass. He plays the bass in our band—his bass is shiny black, with a decal of Gandhi pasted on it. Now it was there, in Andre’s house.
    We could come back when we wanted, Andre’s mother said.
    What the hell is your bass doing at Andre’s house? We didn’t even wait till the next day to ask. A meeting of the prayer group at the parish church that night gave us the opportunity: we were all there, except Luca, the usual business at home.
    Bobby turned red, he really hadn’t expected that. He said he was playing with Andre.
    You’re playing? And what are you playing?
    The bass, he said.
    He was trying to laugh it off. He’s like that.
    Don’t give us that bullshit, what are you playing with her?
    Nothing, it’s for a show she’s doing.
    You play with us, Bobby.
    And so?
    And so if you start playing with someone else you should tell us.
    I would have told you.
    When?
    At that point it was clear that he was upset.
    What the fuck do you want from me? I didn’t marry you.
    He took a step forward.
    Why, instead, don’t you