The Big Smoke was engulfed in flames. All she could remember clearly was the fire. The scent of damp wood burning smelled like roasting flesh. Daylight seemed to liquefy.
I watch in hope for the LORD, I wait for God my Savior!
She had never seen men dressed like that. Dressed all in white, their faces covered. Phantoms of smoke, rushing in her home, their eyes colored by the cinnabar torrent flowing from their spears.
My God will hear me!
Fire was devouring everything. She still remembers Mummy and Daddy standing in front of her, blocking the way of the men in white; she hears shouting, is that Daddy or the men in white shouting?
Do not gloat over me, my enemy! Though I have fallen, I will rise.
A glare blinds her completely, the iron spear darts out, shears off all the flames, her eyes are riveted on the spear, she sees only the spear, shining, dazzling her, Daddy is in front of the spear.
Though I sit in darkness, the LORD will be my light.
"Where is the LORD your God?"
"Where is the Lord your God? Look at that. They don't know what to invent to sell their rags, my sister, don't you think?" On the other side of the counter, the nun looks patiently at the newsagent. He continues: "I must say, the Catholic Church hasn't been getting much good press lately." He giggles, pleased with his wit. "Don't take this the wrong way, but with all these scandals... Here, would you like to read it, sister? Are you allowed to read non-Catholic newspapers?"
"Not at all," says the nun, taking hold of the newspaper the man is handing her. "But you won't say anything, signore ?"
The man has a silly laugh and turns slightly red. This old Italian rustic village doesn't have many young women left. And young women with a beautiful smile, like this nun's, even less so.
The nun reads the rest of the headline. "Where is the Lord your God? The Catholic Church in crisis is bringing in priests from Latin America to fill its European churches." She skims the rest of the front page, at last, another title catches her eye a little more. "A new Jack the Ripper in London."
"It's three euros if you want to buy it, sister," says the newsagent.
She looks up from the page to peer quietly at the man over her thick dark glasses. A fleeting smile animates her features, then she says: "No, thank you, I'll be fine. I'll buy the lotto games as usual."
"It's insane how much your sisters love these. And what would they do with all that money if they won?"
"I don't know, they'd recruit a few priests, maybe."
The man gives a short, dry laugh before turning and looking for the games in his display. What a shame such a beautiful woman should be religious. Such red cheeks and lips call out to freedom, to love. He watches her through his shelves; her skin is delicate, her emerald eyes handsome, with a winning beam that steals into the hearts. Standing upright by the kiosk's large window, she looks bemused by the storm that was brewing for the evening. A penetrating rain has been pouring down on this small village of the eastern outskirts of Rome for several hours already, and the situation hardly seems to be improving. Fortunately, the nun has come by car - he is a little worried about her after all - she looks so frail and petite, but no, it is her car, the black one parked on the other side of the road. So to speak, she's wearing nothing but her white woolen dress and black chasuble, hardly a protection against the rain, and besides, her veil is already a little soaked.
"You make me remember, I have mail for you. From Rome."
The nun snaps out of her reverie at once, perhaps even her expression tenses a little, in any case, she quickly seizes the brown envelope he hands her.
"I thank you, signore . That's for the games, it's all there."
"Thank you, sister. Hurry home now, the rain is only getting worse. Be careful if the paths to the monastery are flooded." The nun nods without a word as she grabs the games, greets him and leaves; as for him, he watches her trot off to her car with a foreboding feeling.
Once in her car, the nun doesn't take the time to wipe the pearls of rain off her glasses, she turns on the ignition and drives on for a few blocks, then, having made sure she's well away from the kiosk, she pulls off to the side of the road and puts the brake back on. The sound of raindrops on the windscreen, or the hum of the engine, it is all barely audible over the deafening race of her heart. Her hands tremble a little as she grabs the flap of the kraft envelope and, in her haste, rips it open. She swears, asks God for forgiveness, and eventually pulls out the contents.
With a feverish hand, she grasps the document by the end, her eyes barely daring to stop at the words they see, at last, she decides to begin her reading with what resembles the last section of the paper. Reader, you should see her very tense expression, the anguish animating her complexion, but I won't keep you in suspense for too long because, after a while, her whole face relaxes, she lets out a deep sigh and leans back in the driver's seat.
At this moment, dear reader, everything's going well for our nun. Certainly, the roads may be a little flooded, but after all, it's nothing she hasn't seen in three years in this village. Rain is not uncommon in this part of Italy, she has already driven in such weather - she's always the one who drives to town to get the necessities for the community. Let's just say she enjoys a few privileges there.
Anyway, our nun is now turning the ignition back on and resuming her journey to the monastery. If you look up, reader, you'll be able to catch a glimpse of it, rising from the verdurous hills like a timeless obelisk. As she is driving, we have time to give a closer look at her. In her soul reigned the same restful chiaroscuro as in the long naves of the monastery, where the light of the stained glass alternated with the opacity of the stone. There were straight, tidy things in her, as clear as the flames of altar candles, and then, too, there were benign shadows that moved vaguely.
But we will discuss this in detail later. For now let's follow her path, for a surprise awaits her at the end. Our nun is beginning to resent herself for not listening to the newsagent. The dirt road leading to the monastery has quickly disappeared into a muddy alley, the surrounding fields pouring torrents of rain down the hillside. The unevenness of the path lends itself to cavities disgorging water in trickles, like church gargoyles. Her windshield wipers frankly struggle to sweep away the deluge flowing over her vehicle, and before long she finds herself unable to see more than a few meters away.
Just when she didn't think it was possible, the rain redoubles in intensity, so much that she can barely hear the sound of her engine over the din of the storm. She cannot say if it is her palms sweating or if the steering wheel actually started to become damp. In any case, she keeps on driving in these adverse conditions for some time when an explosive crack of thunder catches her by surprise; before she has time to jump, a thud coming from the back of the car startles her even more. With her heart pounding, she senses the car being pulled backwards. Instinctively, she cuts the engine and puts on the handbrake. Nothing in the rear-view mirror, at least it's not an animal.
"Scared the crap out of me," she says, recovering from her emotions. It takes her a few seconds to cool off and, from the back seats, she manages to grab a raincoat, puts it on in some way and gets out of the car. The door opens with difficulty, and when it does, the nun is stunned by the violence of the wind lacerating her face. She turns her back to the wind while still seated, after which she manages to hop down in the mud. Gusts of wind buffet her as she tries to make her way to the rear of the car, and it's only a matter of seconds before every fiber of her clothing is soaked through. She's relieved to see that her tire has just got caught in a crevasse, it doesn't seem to have punctured and, with a little push on the engine, she should get through without too much trouble.
Cold and shivering, she climbs straight back into the car and starts the engine, running her shaking hands over the air vents to warm them up a little. It was then that she thought she saw, through the thick curtain of rain, just a few yards from her car, a human shadow. Hardly believing her eyes, she turns her windshield wipers up to maximum speed, but no, she's not mistaken, there's someone standing there only a couple of yards ahead.
At this point, the reader should be aware that our nun is not a very emotional personality. In fact, very little surprises her or catches her off guard, so much that her placid nature takes over in most situations. Thus, picture our nun, petrified in her driver's seat, watching what seems to be a man staggering towards her car. She tries to calm herself down as best she can, thinking that perhaps this is just a lost traveler, in need of help, but then, in the three years she has been driving these roads, she had rarely come across anyone, let alone in such weather.
A few seconds pass interminably, during which the nun stares at the shadow, at a loss as to what to do. She barely realizes it when it collapses; in her defense, it hardly made a sound with the deafening noise of the rain. She remains motionless for a few moments, without uttering a sound, and then something must have started up inside her again as she rushes out of the car and towards the man lying on the ground.
All our nun's efforts are concentrated on putting one step in front of the other as the wind pushes her back with unbelievable force. All her muscles tense up under the effort, a physical pain quickly takes hold of all her limbs, the wind and the rain are so cold that she cannot feel her nose, her ears, her fingers anymore.
Only a few steps away from the man, she is struck by his height, then by his extreme pallor. Her dread increases as she realizes that it may already be too late. She doesn't despair, however, and when she reaches his level, she falls to her knees beside him. As she moves her hand closer to feel for a pulse, the man's eyes open wide.
She stops, caught in a gaze of hard, glacial, almost violent intensity. For a moment, she sees only those two irises as dark as deep wood. Her own eyes lock onto the man's, and she can't tear herself away. At last, after perhaps a few seconds or a minute, her previously numb muscles relax, and she gradually regains control of her breathing, her arms, the suppleness of her neck.
She blinks and the figure reappears to her, but this time the look is that of an exhausted man at the end of his strength. His gaze rests painfully on her, his parched lips unable to form a word. An indescribable pity floods the young nun's heart. She bends over him gently and barely dares to touch his shoulder with her fingertips.
" Cosa ti è successo? "¹ she says in a whisper.
The man's expression barely changes as she speaks; perhaps indeed he didn't hear her over the noise of the rain drenching them both. The silence makes the nun regain control of herself, and she blinks several times to chase droplets away from her eyes. She takes a closer look at the figure lying beside her: from head to toe, the man is dressed in a thin leather suit. In some places, the garment is in fact completely lacerated. The nun turns deathly pale as her gaze falls on the man's upper body. There, a gaping, bloody wound crosses his entire chest. The wound is sharp and clean, undoubtedly the work of a blade. She swallows, takes a quick look at the stranger's face. She cannot help but ask herself how anyone could survive this long with such a wound, and how even he dragged himself there in such weather. At this same moment, the expression of the man changes ever so slightly; she sees the corners of his eyes crinkle up as if to smile, almost ironically. The sight of it makes her extremely uncomfortable.
' I'll think about it later ,' so she says to herself as she pulls a small cell phone from her soaked pocket. At the other end of the line, the reverend mother answers.
¹"What happened to you?"