Father of Lies: 3

http://www.abctales.com/story/noo/father-lies-1

http://www.abctales.com/story/noo/father-lies-2

3. Michaelis – the confession of the inquisitor

Can an evil man be saved by love?  As I look at the priest Gaufridi in his cell, squatting in his own shit, I wonder about the answer to that question.

I am an old man now - not so old I cannot continue my profession, but still an ancient dog.  A dog of winter.  With each day given to me, I carry out the actions I need to, but more and more she is on my mind.  My old love, my ghost wife.

I see the shape of her fingers pressed in to the bread on the kitchen table at breakfast, where I sit opposite the daughter I can no longer look at because she looks like a ghost of her too.  At night, I caress the indent of her body on the bed where she used to sleep next to me.

In the complex smell of the hyacinths in the jar my daughter has placed by the wash bowl to lift my spirits, I can smell her hair.  And in the sour water thrown out of the jar when the hyacinths have rotted, I catch the odour of her hair when illness changed it.

On the night she died and when her body had already been moved into its box, I lay on my back on our bed. I remember her cat, which I had always detested, sat watching me impassively from the armoire it was sitting on.  It knew nothing of grief or loss and since then, it has not been haunted in the way I have.

Grey morning light saw her face appearing to me, hovering above the bed facing me, and I tried to kiss her lips.  But what I kissed was mist and then nothing.

By noon, the day was hot and yellow and I could feel the mistral wind blowing under the gap of the door, scattering grass and lavender heads over the flagstones. When I went out to walk over to the church to discuss funeral arrangements, I felt warm air on my ankles coming from the house when I closed the door.  I remember wondering if this was what was left of my wife leaving and then I dismissed this notion as fanciful.

I had her buried deep in the ochre Provence earth and then I buried myself in my work. But I am certain I can smell her when it rains and the earth is soaked, and the thought of this gives me some crumb of comfort.

My profession is an iron ruler.  I follow God’s word and the laws of man.  I do not think – I follow and adhere to the books for seeking out witches and devils.  I detect, I accuse, I punish.  I garner confessions and I record them in my ledger. 

Gaufridi’s confession is no more sensational than many others.  This hollow priest with the sharp reek of his young bitch still coming off his mouth and hands.  His confession has the solidity of containing fifty two points, but it is no more real than his belief in God.

During his torture, there are still times of silence between his pain and in this silence, I think of my wife.  Sometimes, in my ledger, I draw her or even write to her.  Would Gaufridi be surprised if he could read my words?

Dans la fraîcheur du matin
Le parfum des jacinthes remplit la pièce
Mais bien qu'il soit perdu
Ton visage est dans mes pensées
Tes lèvres
Tes yeux

Like every one of God’s creatures, I have a confession and mine is jealousy.  Of other people’s continuing love, no matter how twisted that love is or how broken.

And even when I am the instrument of its breaking, I punish men and women for love. When I am cutting them in the name of inquisition, it is me I would be cutting if I was not such a coward.

Back in his cell, I meet the priest’s eyes and for a moment I think he sees me for what I truly am, but then he looks away.  Perhaps through fear, or pain, or because he sees himself reflected in my eyes.

For I am a winter dog and to speak plain, I do not know where I will go when I die.  But where I hope to go is in to the earth with my wife, my skull resting on hers, our crumbling fingers attempting to hold hands still.  Our bones kissing.

But for now I consider the question I cannot yet answer.  Can an evil man be saved by love, or if not by its current existence, at least by its memory?

*

(Thanks to Stephen King for his idea of a winter dog in his story, ‘Ur'.)