The man started to laugh. Jeremy continued.
“Make yourself take off first at the next light, and if you succeed, congratulate yourself: ‘That’s right, now I’m really someone. Everyone will know my worth, everyone will admire me. My life is a success.’ Repeat this a dozen times, no matter what happens.”
The man left the confessional laughing.
“When a woman is more beautiful than me, I’m unhappy,” the next woman confessed. “Yesterday, someone called the secretary of the Sales department beautiful in front of me and I felt bad.”
“You’re right to feel bad, because that woman is also more intelligent than you.”
Silence.
“What—”
“She’s also in better shape than you.”
“But—”
“She’s also more sophisticated than you.”
“But…how do you know? I—”
“She is more spiritual than you.”
“But—”
“She is more fulfilled in her work than you.”
“But that’s not true!”
Her voice echoed through the church.
Jeremy let silence fall again.
“This session is over,” he whispered.
24
Madame de Sirdegault got out of her car. She had just parked in the small private parking lot of the Chalon Bridge Club when she saw Madame Fontaine, another member of the club, shutting her car door at the very same moment. A brunette with short hair, her chubbiness skillfully hidden beneath her elegant clothing, she was a woman whose sympathy was reserved for certain well-chosen people. People who did not include Madame de Sirdegault.
“How are you?” asked Madame Fontaine with an unusually cheerful smile.
Madame de Sirdegault quickly understood the reason for her unusual cheerfulness: she had the newest Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder, the one that all the magazines were advertising, the one that every woman longed for.
She forced herself to greet Madame Fontaine with a slight nod of the head, then turned her back to put her key into her car’s manual lock. It was old, of course, but at least it was a Jaguar!
However, the other woman, who normally kept her distance, suddenly came closer.
“You’re early today!” she called out.
It was obvious that she didn’t give a damn. It was just an excuse to show off. Madame Fontaine continued to stay with her, almost waving the bag in front of her face.
Madame de Sirdegault walked briskly toward the door of the club. She felt a pain in her stomach, as if some sadist were slowly wrenching her insides.
“This sunshine is so nice,” the other woman continued. “I must say, it took long enough this year!”
A hen, thought Madame de Sirdegault. She sounds like a cackling hen.
That evening, alone in the semidarkness of the stately private residence in Cluny that her ex-husband had conceded as part of the divorce, she thought back to that annoying encounter. It was the same every time. Whenever someone bragged about possessions that she didn’t have, she grew angry, with even a touch of hatred. Angry to be insulted that way, angry above all not to be able to compete since her divorce, as she no longer had the means. This spoiled her day, sometimes the evening as well, and whenever she chanced upon the guilty parties again, the resentment surged up in her like smoldering embers that catch fire in the hearth when everyone thought the flames had gone out.
She had confessed these demons to Father Jeremy’s predecessor. She still remembered his reply. Quoting Jesus, he had said: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” That was very beautiful, it had moved her, of course, and she had often thought back to it. But there was just one thing: it didn’t change her resentment, her automatic emotional responses, her uncontrollable thoughts in the presence of a hen like Madame Fontaine.
She thought of Father Jeremy. She didn’t have the courage to go and see him. She didn’t approve of his methods, which didn’t respect tradition, and she had even alerted the bishop on more than one occasion.
She opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of brandy, and poured a few drops into a small liqueur glass.
Holding the glass, she walked over to the tall, small-paned windows. The ancient herringbone parquet floor creaked beneath her feet. The old windows, whose surface was somewhat rippled, slightly distorted the scene outside. Above the rooftops of the medieval houses, the church’s bell tower seemed to lean gently toward her.
Most of the parishioners appreciated Father Jeremy’s methods—especially the newcomers, mainly young people. She sighed. Perhaps she was already too set in her ways to enjoy anything new.
She took a sip of the brandy, savoring the delicate hints of almond. It was Jacoulot. She smiled, thinking she had been drinking the same brand for at least thirty years.
The bell tower seemed to lean a little more toward her. The parishioners who went to confession with Father Jeremy seemed delighted. The conversations in front of the church were often about what had been discussed during confession. Some people laughed about it, others mentioned the benefits they had drawn from it. It was obviously very tempting.
Even Germaine and Cornélie seemed intrigued, despite everything. Of course, they continued to vehemently denounce the priest’s methods in confession, which they had heard of secondhand, but didn’t such passionate protestation hide some repressed desire?
She took another sip of brandy and suddenly wondered if that thought might not apply to herself. The idea upset her, and that evening, she went to bed confused.
When she woke up the next morning, she made up her mind. She dressed and put on her makeup with great care, as she did every day, then put on her jewelry. She was aware of the ridiculous nature of her situation: to get all dressed up to go to confess her attachment to material things. But people don’t change, and besides, it was unthinkable to her to set a foot outside without looking her best, retaining her status, and preserving her reputation as the most elegant woman in Cluny.
When she was ready, she went to the church. Several people were waiting in the semidarkness of the side aisle, and she had to stand in the small line, which displeased her greatly. The perfume of the woman in front of her hung in the air. Cheap perfume.
She was certain that Father Jeremy would recognize her voice, and it cost her a lot to admit her shameful acts this way.
She forced herself to do it with dignity.
When she had finished, silence fell once more, and she waited, stoically, for the priest to deliver her penance.
“You will gather together your most beautiful clothes…”
“Very well.”
“And put them all on.”
She frowned. “Put them all on?”
“Yes.”
“Father, I think you are going to have to explain what you mean.”
“It’s very simple: you will put all your clothes on, in layers.”
“In layers?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
How could something so ridiculous be demanded as penance?
She could feel her anger rising and forced herself to take deep breaths to control herself. Her voice mustn’t betray her annoyance.
“Let’s be reasonable: that’s unimaginable.”
What had come over her to make her go to confession with this young whippersnapper?
“Then you will get all your jewelry together…”
“My jewelry?”
“And wear it all together.”
“Wear all my jewelry?”
“Yes.”
“All of it together?”
“Correct.”
Ridiculous.
She could feel her tension climbing several more notches.
“Then,” he continued, “you will get all your makeup.”
“My makeup.”
She was controlling her anger to such an extent that her lips were trembli
ng and her voice was barely audible.
“You will put on several layers of foundation…”
“Foundation.”
“Several layers of eye shadow…”
“Eye shadow.”
She could scarcely hear her own voice.
Why was a sadistic pervert allowed to officiate in Cluny? She felt like a pressure cooker whose lid was tightly screwed down.
“Three layers of mascara…”
“Mascara.”
What on earth was the bishop thinking?
“Four layers of lipstick…”
“But that is all pointless!” she finally exploded. “Imagine me dressed up like that! I’d suffocate! If I had all that on, no one would even be able to see me!”
Her voice echoed in the church, and in her mind.
The priest said nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
She left the confessional upset, confused. She went home and stayed in for the rest of the day. The last words she had said kept going around and around in her mind, haunting her.
I’d suffocate! If I had all that on, no one would even be able to see me!
That evening, calm again, holding a glass of brandy, the almost-empty bottle close by, she thought about the meaning of the words that had come out of her mouth in that moment of anger.
25
Théo’s happy face was a pleasure to see. Sitting nicely in his turquoise patio chair, his elbows resting on the little fuchsia-colored metal table, he was enjoying an enormous scoop of peach ice cream that spilled over the edges of his cone.
Alice loved going to Louise’s, the ice cream parlor just beneath the ancient door of the abbey. From the makeshift terrace on the rough, badly joined old cobblestones, amid the golden stone that pleasantly reflected the sun’s warmth, there was a wonderful view of the sunlit ruins below.
Alice was calmly drinking her coffee when she noticed, in the distance, the couple from Charolles who had wanted to see Jeremy one Saturday. They recognized her and came over.
“This is a bit of luck,” said the woman. “We were hoping we’d run into you.”
“Me?”
“Father Jeremy’s never ’round when we come, and, well, we’ve got a rather strange request. We heard if we went through you, we’d have a better chance of convincin’ him.”
“Who told you that?”
“A woman outside the church.”
“Okay…But you don’t need any support if you’re asking for a baptism, you know.”
The woman, visibly uneasy, looked at her husband for help.
“Actually, the priest in Charolles refused to baptize our child, so we asked the ones in the villages nearby.”
“He refused? Why on earth would he refuse?”
The woman again looked to her husband for help, in vain.
“Well, when we baptized the older one, we agreed to send him to catechism classes. And…we didn’t. It’s not our fault—he doesn’t want to go. We talked to him about it, tried to encourage him. He doesn’t want to. We can’t force him. But the priest said that under the circumstances, he wouldn’t baptize the baby.”
Alice wondered what problem the priest had with baptizing the second child. She must be missing something.
“And then,” the woman continued, “the priests from the other parishes also refused, because everyone knew, you see? We’re in a bind.”
Alice sighed. “And you really want him to be baptized?”
They opened their eyes wide.
“Of course,” said the woman. “It’s absolutely necessary!”
“It would be terrible if he wasn’t,” her husband added.
Alice couldn’t understand what would be so terrible about it, but he sounded so sincere that she was moved.
“I’ll talk to Father Jeremy,” she finally said.
“Oh, thank you!”
She thought they were both about to fall on their knees in front of her.
“I’m sure he’ll agree,” she added to reassure them.
“Really?”
“I think so.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.”
“You promise, right?”
Alice was touched by the sight of them, holding hands. They seemed to be pleading. She agreed.
* * *
The bishop nervously twisted his amethyst ring while walking past the tall windows in his episcopal office. Outside, clouds were gathering in the sky. The wind was up, an omen of an impending storm. The air already carried the scent of it.
“You have been very patient until now, Your Grace,” said the curate.
He was standing, as straight as always. He had gray hair and features marked by intransigence, despite his youth.
The bishop did not reply. He had always approved of some freedom in the parishes, but it was true that Father Jeremy was going a bit too far.
“He doesn’t listen to us,” the curate insisted, pinching his lips together.
Outside, the first drops of rain were falling. The swallows flew swiftly and close to the ground in an impromptu ballet.
The bishop thought back to the reports he had heard. Everyone agreed. Father Jeremy was losing his way.
“We must persevere,” said the bishop. “Let’s try to reason with him.”
“A waste of time. He pays no attention whatsoever to our advice.”
The rain was falling hard now. The little foals from the neighboring field set off at a gallop.
“Jesus tells us that we must find the lost sheep,” said the bishop.
“This lost sheep doesn’t want to come back into the fold, Your Grace.”
The bishop sighed. By all accounts, his curate was right.
“We are risking the image of our entire diocese,” the curate continued.
The truth was not so simple. There was very little chance that Father Jeremy’s deviations would reach the Holy See. The growing number of his congregation, on the other hand, could only serve the church. The pope appreciated those bishops capable of bringing the flock back to the church.
“I’m going to think about it,” he said. “The Lord will guide my decision.”
* * *
Wednesday, August 10, at exactly 2:00.
Alice picked up her phone and dialed the number. The secretary answered, announced Alice, and put the call through.
“So,” said Jacques Laborie, “what is the question that’s been bothering you?”
Alice smiled. Picking up a conversation where they’d left off a few weeks before was rather surreal.
“Well, you explained the initial explosion, the Big Bang, the formation of the stars and the planets, the beginnings of life coming from the stars and their combustion, but I’ve been wondering about a very specific point. I’ve often heard scientists tell religious people that God did not create the universe, because it started with the Big Bang.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. The Big Bang created the universe. So my question is: who created the Big Bang?”
The physicist started to laugh. “I see what you’re getting at. But if you’re trying to find a God somewhere, you’d be better off looking at what happened just after the Big Bang.”
“After?”
“I would say there is where you might catch a glimpse of a mystery that might allow certain hypotheses.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“I explained to you last time that life emerged from fragments of stars that grouped together.”
“Yes, and because of that, we’re all stardust.”
“Exactly. You must understand that if there hadn’t been any stars, there wouldn’t be any life. The universe created by the Big Bang would have been sterile.”
“I see.”
“So it’s better to concentrate on what made the formation of stars possible in the universe.”
“Okay.”
“And then, we must realize that it was necessary for certain conditions to come together durin
g the creation of the universe, conditions that are extremely precise.”
“All right.”
“It’s a matter of the properties of the universe. It was necessary for the universe to have very particular, very specific properties. Otherwise, stars would not have appeared.”
“And what determines the properties of the universe?”
“Certain factors, like the amount of dark matter, the rate of the initial expansion, the mass of protons, the speed of light, the mass of electrons, the gravitational constant, and many others.”
“All right.”
“It was absolutely necessary that each of those factors come together in an extremely precise way for the universe to have the necessary properties to create stars.”
“Okay.”
“It is as if there had to be an ultra-fine calibration of each of the factors, because if a single one of them had been slightly different, even by an infinitesimal amount, then the conditions would not have been fulfilled. And as I said: no stars, no life.”
Alice thought for a moment. “So the question that comes to mind is, who did the calibrating?”
“Exactly!”
“Couldn’t it be possible that it was…chance? There’s the Big Bang, the explosion, and hey, presto! By sheer luck, the universe suddenly appears with all the properties necessary to form the stars: the right amount of dark matter, the right rate of expansion, the correct mass for protons, and all the rest?”
“It’s possible.”
“But? I sense you aren’t convinced.”
He took a deep breath. “It would have been sufficient for a single one of the factors determining the properties of the universe to change by a hair for the conditions not to be met, and for the stars and life to never have appeared. You have to understand that it’s a question of an extremely precise calibration.”
Alice thought about it and acquiesced. “And what is the probability for such a calibration to have happened by chance?”
“Something on the order of ten to the power of minus sixty. If you changed a single figure up to the sixtieth decimal point, everything would be lost: no stars, no life. The void.”
Alice fell silent, deep in thought.
“My famous colleague Trinh Xuan Thuan uses an image to illustrate this probability of ten to the power of minus sixty, that life came about by chance,” Jacques Laborie continued. “It’s the probability of an archer hitting a one-centimeter-square target placed deep in the universe, fourteen billion light-years away.”
Alice Asks the Big Questions Page 17
