Emmaus (14 page)

At one point the priest managed to mention that I had returned and that the whole community welcomed me, with joyful hearts. Many in the pews nodded yes, and squandered smiles, a happy murmur—all eyes on me. I did nothing. I was only afraid that applause would break out. But it should be said that these are polite people, who know the limits of what is appropriate—an art that is being lost.

Immediately afterward I was staring at the priest's hair, during the sermon, and for the first time realized how it was combed. I should have noticed years ago, but in fact only that day did I really see it. Left long on one side, and combed over the other side of his head, covering the bald spots. So the part, where the hair divided, was ridiculous and low, almost just above the ear. The hair was fair, and combed with the necessary care. Maybe with a gel. Under it, the priest was talking about the mystery of the Immaculate Conception.

Nobody knows this, but the Immaculate Conception has nothing to do with the virginity of Mary. It means that Mary conceived without original sin. Sex has nothing to do with it. And I wondered what importance your hair could have, if you live with the prospect of eternal life, and the building of the Kingdom. How was it possible to waste time on things like that—he must have used a kind of hair spray, he must have gone out one day to
buy it
.

Because I hadn't even learned mercy, or the talent of understanding, from our experiences. Pity for what we are, all of us.

I took advantage of the sermon—that priest was hypnotizing them, I began watching the faces, in the pews, now that they were no longer staring at me. So many people I hadn't seen for a long time. Then, in one of the back pews, first I thought I was mistaken, but it really was her, Andre, sitting in the last seat next to the aisle—she was listening, but looking around, curious.

Maybe it wasn't even the first time she had come.

I hated her now, because I continued to think that she was at the origin of many of our troubles, but undoubtedly at that moment I felt only that in the midst of so many strangers there was someone from my land, so far had the boundaries of my feeling shifted. However absurd, it seemed to me that on that strange raft there was also, then, one of my people—and the instinct to stay close.

But it was a moment.

So, when the Mass was over, I gave her time to leave. I said goodbye to the boys and went to the first pew, knelt down, and prayed, my face in my hands, elbows resting on the wood. It was something I had done often, before. I liked hearing the sounds of the people draining away, yet without seeing them. And finding a point inside myself.

I got up, finally, the velvety movements of the altar boys who were tidying the altar remained.

I turned and Andre was still there, sitting in her place—
the church almost empty. I understood then that the story wasn't over.

I made the sign of the cross and began to go down the aisle between the pews, my back to the altar. Reaching Andre, I stopped and greeted her. She moved over a little on the bench, leaving me room. I sat beside her.

Yet I was brought up to an obstinate resistance, which considers life a noble obligation, to discharge in dignity and fullness. They gave me strength and character, for this, and the legacy of their every sadness, so that I would store it up. Thus it's clear to me that I will never die—except in fleeting acts and forgettable moments. Nor do I doubt that my going will be revealed as sharper than any fear.

And so it will be.

ALESSANDRO BARICCO is a writer, director, and performer. He has won the Prix Médicis Étranger in France and the Selezione Campiello, Viareggio, and Palazzo al Bosco prizes in Italy.

ANN GOLDSTEIN is an editor at the
New Yorker
. She has translated works by Primo Levi, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Alessandro Baricco, Elena Ferrante, among others, and is currently editing the Complete Works of Primo Levi in English. She has been the recipient of several prizes, including a Guggenheim Fellowship, the PEN Renato Poggioli prize, and an award from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.