Alice Asks the Big Questions

by Laurent Gounelle

  Blessed are the poor,

  for yours is the kingdom of heaven.

  “Why are you giving me this?” Alice had asked.

  All the sister did was smile, without replying. Alice kept asking, until one of the parishioners grabbed her by the arm: “It’s pointless asking her questions. She’s a deaf-mute.”

  Alice had then made a gesture of thanks without further trying to uncover why the nun had copied down this quote from the Gospels.

  The next time, the sister again slipped her a piece of paper, which Alice accepted with good grace.

  Blessed are you when you are hated

  and persecuted,

  and you will be persecuted

  wherever you go.

  Alice forced herself to smile, wondering if the sister meant to give her the entire set of Gospels as a flat pack.

  The saga had, in fact, continued every time Alice came to church, and she ended up giving the messenger the nickname “Sister IKEA.” The poor woman must have been a bit of a simpleton.

  In the end, Alice’s greatest disappointment was the small number of new parishioners. They had grown from twelve to twenty-one. If she had had to defend this poor result in front of a management committee, she would have loudly and strongly praised the increase of 75 percent, but alone with herself, she felt she had spent a lot of energy with very little to show for it. The newcomers were former members of the flock who had gone astray and finally found their way back to the fold thanks to some positive word of mouth, which of course made Alice feel better about her choices and reinforced her credibility in Jeremy’s eyes. But there were still 379 empty seats.

  This count would have been enough to discourage the most confident of consultants, but Alice kept in mind the marketing study Nike had once carried out with two students: each was given the task of traveling through Africa to assess the shoe market. The first one had handed in a concise report: “They all walk barefoot. Drop it: there is no market here.” The other one had come to a different conclusion: “They all walk barefoot. Get going: there’s an enormous market here!”

  Alice had not come to the end. She still had one card to play, and she’d been working on it with Jeremy for two weeks. Her ace in the hole had the sweet name of Confession.

  Confession: the religious act by which the penitent came to admit his sins and obtained absolution seemed totally outdated, anachronistic, and only practiced by those rare, superstitious people who felt the need to reset the marker to zero before taking a plane or giving up the ghost. But Alice saw things very differently. Even though she herself had an almost allergic reaction to the sight of the somber, wooden confessional, the austere booth that looked so harrowing, she had a feeling that confession could bring a good number of people back to church.

  With the popularity of reality TV, confession had once again become fashionable, and people loved sharing intimate revelations and admissions of all sorts. It was now common to see movie stars and politicians reveal their weaknesses on television without a trace of shame, confessing to adultery, a penchant for alcohol, or sexual perversions. Any pretext was sufficient to get things off your chest and openly detail your idiosyncrasies. The general public was mad about confessions, and to Alice, that was clearly a marketing tool to exploit. All she had to do was reshape the church act to make it more attractive. While certain of this, she had not yet found the magic recipe.

  She simply thought she had to make confession less painful, so the confessor could benefit from advice and thus receive true assistance. In short, to replace the rigid protocol of contrition and absolution with a kind of personalized life coaching.

  “It’s unthinkable,” Jeremy had retorted. “It’s been codified since the sixteenth century.”

  “If you managed to do without it for sixteen centuries, you shouldn’t miss it too much if it stops.”

  He’d shaken his head. “The act of contrition by which the penitent demands forgiveness for his sins is essential,” he had said.

  “Come on, beating ourselves up is pointless, but finding answers to the difficulties in life that have led us to react badly is constructive. Being aware of my mistakes is a fabulous opportunity to understand myself better and evolve. If I’m content with just beating my chest and having you absolve me, what am I learning?”

  She had ended up convincing Jeremy. Now she had to find a way to get the parishioners to come to confession. And the general public as well.

  “Do you want some more maple syrup, Mama?”

  Alice stared at the tin can.

  “What’s wrong with you, Mama? Why aren’t you answering me?”

  She had just had an idea.

  8

  “Unbelievable!”

  Germaine shook her head. Never had she seen anything like it.

  She pulled on her mustard-colored vest so it came down over her long plaid skirt.

  “How can you explain it?” added Cornélie in her nasal voice, just as confused.

  She turned her head, and her heavily lacquered beige hair followed all in one piece, like a rigid hat.

  “I really wonder,” said Germaine, sarcastically.

  The line in front of the confessional led almost to the door of the church.

  Cornélie dipped her finger in the cold water of the font, made the sign of the cross, then dried her hand on her culottes.

  “Every day there are more people.”

  “I told you to ask Father Jeremy.”

  “I did. He doesn’t know,” Cornélie said, defending herself.

  “Hard to believe.”

  “But he doesn’t know. He even seemed surprised himself.”

  “You must not have done it right. I’m just going to have to ask him myself.”

  Cornélie looked dazed. The slightest reproach seemed to make her doubt herself, which amused Germaine a great deal.

  Everyone waited patiently in line. Many new faces, never before seen at church.

  Germaine sighed. “It must be because of the times we’re living in. People have more and more things to feel guilty about.”

  Cornélie frowned, looking thoughtful, as if those words had given her food for thought.

  “It’s been a long time since we came to confession,” she said after a moment.

  “We don’t need to.”

  Cornélie seemed relieved. “You’re right. Nothing to do with us.”

  They could hear the rustling of fabric. Jeremy had just come out of the confessional. He gestured to the penitents to be patient, then quickly headed for the vestry.

  “Father…”

  “He can’t hear,” Cornélie whined.

  “I’ll catch him on his way back.”

  Germaine followed the priest, who disappeared into the back of the church. She moved silently because of her old sneakers. The door to the vestry was slightly open. Inside was a rather bare, narrow room: a coatrack, a dresser in dark wood with a small mirror on top, and a small tabernacle. The priest must have gone into the bathroom. If she waited, she’d catch him.

  A minute later came the soft sound of footsteps. Instinctively, she stepped back into the shadows behind a column and watched. What she saw stupefied and shocked her in the extreme: Father Jeremy, walking past the mirror, had just blown himself a kiss while whispering quickly but distinctly the contemptible words she would never forget:

  “I love you.”

  Horrified, Germaine crushed herself as far back as she could behind the marble pillar until she felt the cold stone of the wall against her back. She held her breath as the priest walked past her, causing the air around her to shift. She shivered in spite of herself, as if the devil himself had brushed against her.

  She waited until he had disappeared into the confessional, then crossed the nave again to join her friend, whom she dragged outside to tell her what had happened, bursting with indignation.

  The church was bathed in sunlight, and some tourists were admiring the medieval facades of the houses around the square.

/>   “He wasn’t like that before,” said Cornélie.

  “Things haven’t been right here for a few months now.”

  “Yes. Since the beginning of spring. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Germaine nodded in agreement. “I have my own ideas on the matter.”

  Cornélie opened her eyes wide.

  Germaine let the suspense last for a few moments. “Have you noticed that young woman who’s been prowling around on Sundays?”

  “Brunette, shoulder-length hair?”

  “Yes,” said Germaine.

  “That’s Alice, the daughter of the old widower who lives in the house opposite the conservatory.”

  “I’ve seen her talking to Father Jeremy several times before Mass, and sometimes again afterward. I’m sure she’s got something to do with all these changes.”

  “But we also talk to Father Jeremy.”

  “Yes, but with her it’s different. I can feel it. I’m sure this is all coming from her.”

  “Do you think she and he…?”

  Germaine raised her eyebrows knowingly.

  “But I think she’s married.”

  “In any case, she must be the one who’s perverting him. Look at all the bizarre things he has us do in church now. Like giving compliments to our neighbors, pointing out the positive attributes God has given them.”

  “That’s true.”

  “All that is immoral. We can’t talk about our attributes while man is a sinner.”

  “It’s true, man is a sinner.”

  “And more so woman.”

  “Indeed!” said Cornélie, seeing a young woman in a low-cut dress walk by. “More so woman.”

  9

  The path to the bishopric ended in a narrow lane bordered by centuries-old thorny thickets. Their dark green needles stood out against a pale blue sky across which raced heavy, dark clouds.

  The last time Jeremy had had an interview with Bishop d’Aubignier, a few months earlier, he had admitted his concerns, his doubts about the importance of his mission given the small number of parishioners who attended more out of loyalty than for spiritual reasons. The bishop had played down his qualms: all priests went through a period of discouragement at the beginning of their calling. It was normal, he’d said, sweeping away Jeremy’s anguish with a wave of the hand, without truly trying to understand. Jeremy felt like a woman whose depression was ignored simply because “it’s normal while you’re having your period.”

  What a change in only a few months. Jeremy now felt confident, serene, at one with his mission, and happy about the results obtained, which he was careful not to take pride in. Alice’s methods had indeed allowed him to attract people to the church, especially to confession, where he heard new voices whispering to him every day. Of course, he was no fool—these newcomers were seeking the enlightenment of the priest-coach more than the light of God, but he sincerely believed it was a stepping-stone that could eventually lead to a possible spiritual awakening.

  The church was enjoying a true increase in attendance, even if it was far from being full. It was very big, nearly four hundred seats, and Jeremy knew very well that he would never fill it. But now he wisely accepted that fact.

  The bishop must be rubbing his hands together in joy. His ambition was no secret—everyone knew he already saw himself as a cardinal. How could he not rejoice in the rebirth of one of the parishes in his diocese? And what a parish! Probably the most symbolic in all of Christianity, yet for two centuries in such a steep decline that it had seemed impossible it would ever recover.

  Jeremy gently closed the door of his Renault and looked up at the imposing edifice. Made of white Burgundy limestone with tall, small-paned windows, it had housed authority for centuries.

  He walked up the front steps. In the gusting wind, his cassock whipped his legs. He entered and was received by a secretary, who led him in silence down the long hallway to the antechamber of the bishop’s study, a narrow room with high ceilings and whitewashed walls, and furnished with austere Louis XIII armchairs in dark wood and olive-green velvet.

  Jeremy waited motionless for a long moment, then went over to the window. Clouds were gathering outside, passing through the sky and casting moving shadows on the tree-covered hills.

  Inside, total silence. If Jeremy hadn’t been brought there by a secretary, he would have thought he was entirely alone in a building abandoned by its occupants, with only the wind as company—the wind that was gradually growing louder and stronger. He had waited for so long that he began to wonder whether his host was actually there or had been held up somewhere.

  Weary, he finally sat down in one of the armchairs, and at that very moment, the large door to the study opened and the bishop appeared.

  Jeremy instinctively leaped up, as if guilty for having allowed himself to rest. “Your Grace…”

  The bishop looked him up and down with an enigmatic smile. He was wearing a very silky violet cassock that emphasized his superiority and the authority of his position. Jeremy followed him into his study.

  The bishop was a man in his fifties. He had gray hair, intelligent eyes, and a serious face, though Jeremy had seen him be charming to people when he wanted to convince them of something.

  The room was enormous, with parquet flooring and a Persian rug. It was bathed in a light that gave new life to the authentic Aubusson tapestries that decorated the walls.

  Jeremy sat down in a cane chair beside a long rectangular table while his host picked up some papers from his desk.

  “And what news have you from the parish?”

  “Very good news,” said Jeremy enthusiastically. “I’ve taken steps to attract new members of the flock, and the results are very encouraging.”

  The bishop let him speak and went to sit down in the enormous armchair at the end of the table. He was holding documents that he kept looking at as he listened to his visitor. The episcopal ring he wore on the fourth finger of his right hand had a large amethyst surrounded by diamonds that reflected the light every now and then.

  “I brought you here,” he said suddenly, weighing each syllable, “because I want to have a clear idea of what has been going on in Cluny these past few months.”

  Silence filled the room. Jeremy swallowed.

  Sitting high in his great armchair, the bishop stared at him, a slight smile barely masking the harshness of his expression. The dim light filtering through the clouds made him look pale.

  “Is there anything you wish to tell me, Father Jeremy?”

  Caught off guard, Jeremy tried to remain calm. “I’ve implemented some ideas to attract parishioners to church, and—”

  “Ideas? What kind of ideas?”

  “Let’s say that I have tried to…modernize some of our practices a little, in order to be heard by a larger number of believers, Your Grace.”

  The bishop nodded pensively. “And you might not have gone…a bit too far, by chance?”

  Jeremy looked at him. What had he been told? What was the bishop reproaching him for?

  “I act at every moment within my mind and soul to respect the spirit of the Gospels to the letter.”

  The bishop looked over one of the papers he was holding. “The spirit of the Gospels,” he repeated slowly. “The spirit of the Gospels…And do you respect equally the spirit of the church you belong to?”

  He had spoken those words in a tone of voice that was intended to sound mild, before looking Jeremy directly in the eyes, clearly watching for the slightest reaction on his part.

  “I hope so, Your Grace.”

  “You hope so, or you’re sure?”

  Jeremy hesitated for a few seconds. “I hope so, most sincerely.”

  The bishop made a face, staring at him in silence for a long moment. Jeremy felt he was in the hot seat, naked, being evaluated and judged.

  The bishop finally sighed slowly and did not press further. To Jeremy’s great relief, he moved on to matters of daily life in the parish. Ten minutes later, he stoo
d up to accompany his visitor to the door.

  Jeremy followed him, and as he walked around the table, he anxiously looked at the piece of paper the bishop had just put down.

  It was a little poster on a pale purple background. The heading read FREE! to attract people’s attention. Then followed a few words inviting people to come and talk about personal problems in all confidentiality.

  Jeremy froze when he saw the address given, the address of his church. When he saw the rest, he felt a mixture of shame and anger rise within him.

  A charcoal sketch of his confessional box took up half the page. Just above it were a few words in a large, playful font:

  The Advice Shack

  10

  A pile of garbage.

  Enormous.

  At the foot of the Montparnasse Tower, just next to the entrance. Overflowing garbage cans, buried under a mountain of black bags, hundreds of them piled up. A disgusting, foul smell. The employees went into their offices, covering their mouths and noses with a handkerchief or a bit of cloth or simply their bare hands. The garbage strike had been going on for only five days and the situation already seemed unbearable. The amount of waste produced by the five thousand employees in the building was quite simply staggering.

  A few yards away, the window washer was stepping onto his platform, ready to rise to the top of the vertical face of the office building to do his daily task. The tall Senegalese man was a familiar figure to all the occupants of the building. He enjoyed a kind of permanent right of intrusion at the moment when you expected it least: while you were on the phone, concentrating on a case file while scratching your head, or surfing the internet during work hours. He would appear without warning outside the window, sometimes giving you a knowing wink, sometimes a bright smile, sometimes the opposite: putting on an outraged expression, his eyes wide, pretending to have caught you in some unspeakable act.

  Alice had exchanged a few words with him at the end of one workday as he was getting off his platform. She had asked him his secret, as he always seemed to be in a good mood even though his job was hardly an easy one.