He stood there waiting. Motionless, as if in a deep trance, cigarette lit in his hand. He had forgotten about it, and the ash was falling at his feet. It was slowly dying, a faint whiff of smoke coming out of it. Normally, he would have analyzed the image, asking himself how could a cheap piece of paper and some dry crumbled leaves get such a powerful hold on him His hands trembled when he opened the package, taking out the precious object, as if he was a painter preparing the last touch of a masterpiece. His mouth was never eager to suck the breath of a beautiful girl as it was to inhale the poison of the cigarette. Only its taste could sooth his burning lips. And he would smile bitterly…the Greeks were right about this, as they were about everything. Pharmakon, medicine and poison. You can fool yourself, thinking you have the power to choose, but in the end the illusion is broken. No matter what you do, how you do it, you reach the same conclusion. Death. Just like this one cigarette. A tree had been killed, perhaps a vigorous one, hundreds of years old. A plant had been ripped from the earth that had fed it. They had once been green, full of life. They became a thin roll ready to lose its substantiality after a few puffs. Humans can be cruel, but they need poison, they need vice. Each of them is a slave, without even knowing. It’s in their blood. That is why they need to spill the liquid running through their veins. It gives them a feeling of liberty. That is why they invented vampires, doomed beings sick with immortality. They need to know there are others whose misery is overwhelming. Vampires cannot die, they are cursed to drink the blood of the others. With it, they take all the pain.
People were passing by, whispering, pity and fear mingling in their eyes. He was staring at one point, with an empty look. They thought he was mad. Some old ladies were staring at him, drawing invisible crosses in the air with their wrinkled shaky hands, not knowing if what they saw was the embodiment of evil or one of its victims. It was simple for them. The world was divided in two, following some ethical criteria artificially established by ancient leaders. This made it easier for them to control the masses, and they did not even hide it. It was obvious in the image Christians have worshiped for two thousand years, the shepherd and his herd of sheep. Their mind was structured in simple categories, black and white. No colors in between. And how could this young man be good? He did not move, there was no expression on his face, he seemed carved in stone. Not a strand of his hair was blown by the wind. And his eyes…if people could see them more closely, they would have been horrified. They did not reflect light, no serene image of the world he should have perceived. His eyes seemed a mirror of death, and if they are the door to the inner being, there was no hope left for this poor soul. He had perished along with god…his god, not the deity everyone around him adored in cold churches, mumbling prayers fallen on their knees. That god deserved no bruise.
He had hated those wasted hours, when he had to get out of his room and follow the others, pretending to praise someone he did not believe in. Yet, he was admired for his faith. The irony of it. His eyes were always red, swollen after hours of reading books the other monks did not even know existed, and they thought he spent the nights in prayer. He was quiet and lonely, but not humble, only vain. What could he discuss with those narrow-minded fellows who believed they held the supreme truth? How could there be only one truth? How can you believe without having searched for all the versions? How can you hold in scorn what you do not know? He had read the holy books, he knew them better than the most arduous monks in his monastery. But he had to know other opinions. If this god exists, if he is everything he is supposed to be, why this fear of knowing more? It would only help you shape your knowledge of his grandeur, it would make that ultimate truth seem more obvious. But no matter what people say, they have their doubts. They are scared that they might lose the grain of faith they have. Or maybe they are just lazy. They need to know someone watches their back, so they can live at random, blaming a non-existent entity for their suffering. Nobody ever came to the monastery to thank god for what he was supposed to have given them. From time to time a car would stop at the gate, a group would step into the church crying, tearing up their clothes and hair and crawling. They would scold god for punishing them, and ask him to be generous and help them. He always wondered, if they say god knows it all, if he is everywhere, why come all this way and make such a fuss? He must know about their turmoil, and if he is such a great guy, he would help them without expecting much of a pathetic show.
The moments he enjoyed most were those when he left that dreadful place. He had taken restocking as his responsibility, only to pursue his selfish purposes. People were sometimes throwing strange glances at him when he bought cigarettes, but they were used to what they called the human side of ecclesiasts. If Jesus had lived in those days, they wouldn’t have wondered if he had come into a store asking for a pack of Kent and winking at the shop assistant. The most awkward moments occurred in libraries. He went into the silence facing the amazement of what became his audience. They watched him as he stepped slowly through the aisles, carefully picking a book more or less appropriate for a pursuivant of god. Those were his moments of spiritual rapture. He could spend hours just looking at them, reading all the graphic signs, even those which seemed of no importance. He opened them, caressing the fine, silken pages. He browsed through them, reading passages at random, devoured by curiosity and passion. His eyes gleamed with ecstasy, his entire body was caught in an orgasmic experience. He did not feel any remorse for stealing the money of the monastery. There were enough fools ready to feed the gluttony of his brothers, and nobody observed the absence of a few pounds of potatoes. Instead, he appeased his hunger of knowledge.
If it hadn’t been for that blasted day, he would have went on living like that for at least another decade. Why did she have to break her wings right there, in front of him? He had not seen her arriving, he had quit the annoying habit of noticing people years before. She approached him as he sat on a bench reading “The Myth of Sisyphus” hidden between the covers of a dull copy of a Bible. Damn fools, they never wondered why he kept on reading the Scriptures. He should have known them by heart by now.
“Good morning, Father. May I sit next to you for a few minutes? I do not wish to disturb you, but I need some advice.” The sweet feminine voice stirred something inside of him and he raised his eyes above the book. They remained stuck to the angelic face in front of him. She looked like one of those old precious dolls of porcelain, so delicate and so rare, but her eyes had nothing of the glassy eyeballs of those inanimate creatures. He did not know what color they had, but there was something about them that fascinated him. They were alive. That was the only word coming into his mind at that moment. They showed feelings, thoughts. They were sad, curious, melancholic, sparkling, childish…all this emotions at the same time, and he could not stop looking at them. It seemed that time had frozen, and only her gaze was still breathing. Yes, breathing…her eyes had a life of their own.
“My apologies, you were probably absorbed in lecture and I interrupted you. Please, do go on and don’t mind me.”
“No, I need to apologize, I was just surprised to see such a graceful presence in our humble edifice. My reaction was inappropriate. I hope you will forgive me.”
“I have nothing to forgive, Father”, she said with a candid smile. “But I do hope you can answer my questions. You see, I have been here for a couple of days and I have observed you. I did not wish to be indiscrete. You were just so…different from all the others. Always secluded, reading the Bible or watching the miracles of nature. I…I do not know so many things, and I have doubts and there are so many mysteries. It’s just too much.”
“What bothers you, my child? Please, sit next to me and I will do my best to answer all of your questions.”
“Well, you see, I come from a poor family. I have no father, I mean not one that I know of. Everybody said that my mother was…”, and with these words her face took the color of shame, as if the sin of the mother was now her own. “I hope God will forgive me for uttering such a scornful word, but she is considered a whore. I was raised mostly by my grandmother, who is a very religious person. She despises my mother and tries to make me hate her, so that I would not follow her example. I know she had sinned, but I still love her, I am the fruit of her sin, how could I resent her? It is very difficult for me to choose between the people I love, so I decided to choose the primordial creator…God. But life is full of temptations, what if I cannot resist them? I need the advice of someone who has gone through all this.”
“It is difficult to take such a decision. Your reasons must be strong enough, and you cannot seek for advice from the outside. We are all different, we were not created in a matrix, and your faith might not be mine, mine might not be the same with that of the brother who has just passed us by. You must be careful when taking such an important decision, because you may be lead by something else than faith. Do not enter a convent only to hide from the sins of this world, monachism is not a shield. You are still young, you cannot discern between your feelings and desires. I cannot advise you to become a nun.”
“If I am not asking too much of you…can you tell me why you have become a monk?”
He smiled, not knowing how to answer this question which still puzzled him, and decided that it was best to say something confusing, yet not too far from the truth.
“My faith brought me here.”
The girl was looking at him with sheer admiration, not suspecting how wrong she interpreted his answer. She bid him goodbye and headed for the church, where she would probably ask for advice from the one she praised the most. The monk was bedazzled by this almost immaterial creature whom he did not despise because of her blind faith like he did with others. He did not know what to make of her, he felt awe, he was astonished, and he could not think of something else but her. He sat back on the bench, staring at the morning sky. Right next to him, the Bible was proudly vaunting the golden letters of its title. He had forgotten about his book.
The image haunted him for more than a year. Those eyes who were so alive…he had a vivid image in his head and nothing could make him take his mind off it. He was forever imagining her in a black frock, with a big cross on her chest and her beautiful eyes hiding humbly under the wimple. Those eyes could not lose their sparkle, the convent would kill her genuine curiosity, she would become just another one in a row of brides of Jesus. Those eyes would passionately gaze only at a crucifix where a wooden figure was bleeding paint. Her life would only be a charade, a cheap imitation, she would never understand how intoxicating knowledge can be. If only she were his, he would teach her, he would give her books, loads of books, the ones he was hiding under the floor of his sanctum.
She came to him one day, serene, as if he were an old friend she had not seen in a very long time. He was just coming back from town, his thoughts were finally concentrated on his older passion…knowledge. He had just found a rare edition of Aristotle’s Poetics and was eager to devour its content. But once he saw her, all his plans fell apart. No piece of Greek philosophy was more exquisite than this being, with her eyes that now seemed to penetrate his mind, to read all his thoughts. Perhaps that is why she had such a wide smile…maybe she was mocking him. But she was too innocent, incapable of jest. Perhaps…had she come for him?
“I have been looking all over for you, Father. I came here to see you.”
“Really? I must say this visit is unexpected, yet it is a wonderful surprise.”
“You are too kind. I have been thinking a lot about our conversation, and I have reached a conclusion. I must devote myself to God, although I am not as worthy of this honor as you are. Your simple words showed so much ardor and modesty, your faith is stronger then anything I have ever seen. Others talk about God for hours, about their passionate belief. You said nothing about this, but the look in your eyes was…it was exactly what I needed to convince me to follow this path.”
Something collapsed inside of him, all the feelings, all frustrations were now flowing as if from a deep well, flooding all his senses, his mind, his eyesight. The figure of the girl was warped, it broke in thousands of pieces, as in a kaleidoscope. He could see her as a nun, the image overlaped by that of the old wrinkled woman who sold fruit and candles outside the monastery. She would become ignorant, narrow-minded, her faith would kill the beauty of her body and spirit. He had to do something, but he was incapable of thinking clearly. The old nun was running in circles, making him dizzy, her broad smile becoming a sneer, then laughter and mockery. “You fool…you think you are better…with your books and secret thoughts…how did they help you…you messed everything up…and now I came to show you your incompetence…good for nothing…hypocrite.”
A bitter taste in his mouth, and he could not talk. What more was there to be said? The girl was probably waiting for a reaction, some sort of encouragement or approval. But he left stumbling, casting no glance behind him. He only stopped on a bridge. An awkward image it was…a young man in monastic frock, with a lit cigarette in his hand, not smoking, just staring at the water. If only those eyes could remain alive…