“I last came to confession more or less six — no — seven years ago.”
“Why so long, my son?”
“I lost faith.”
“What else, my son?”
The priest’s voice was weary and passionless. My blasphemous confession didn’t make much impression on him. I was crestfallen. I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. Desperately I was trying to remember the formulae from school confessions.
“Since then … since then I offended the Lord with many sins …”
“Confess them, my son.”
“I was …” I hesitated again, “I was disobedient with my superiors … I lied, and then bore false witness against my brother …”
I was getting hopelessly confused.
“What else, my son?”
I frowned and after some thought whispered triumphantly:
“I sinned against the sixth commandment.”
The priest stirred in his seat.
“Many times?”
“Oh, no, not that many,” I sighed regretfully.
“What else, my son?”
I couldn’t sense any concern in my confessor’s voice. Feverishly I was looking for words with which I could reveal to him the full horror of my inner life, which should terrify a holy man. In vain. The priest was already whispering the final formula. In a moment I would hear him knock on the confessional and walk away defeated. I quickly pressed my lips to the wooden lattice and whispered earnestly:
“Father … Holy Father,” I corrected myself, “I concealed one sin.”
The priest leaned to the lattice. I lowered my voice.
“I concealed a terrible sin …” I went for a dramatic pause and then whispered emphatically:
“I killed a human being.”
Ah, no more indifferent “What else, my son?” now. The priest was panting. After a moment’s silence he asked in an unnaturally loud voice:
“Whom?”
“My aunt.”
“Oh, my son … It’s a terrible sin, terrible …”
The priest was lost for words. Now that he was lost for words I was cold and to the point.
“How did it happen?”
In the priest’s voice, apart from a hellish, almost unchristian curiosity, I detected a note of enthusiasm.
“Holy Father,” I whispered gravely, “’tis unfitting to speak about.”
“In confession one must tell everything, everything,” he insisted pleadingly.
I decided to be succinct.
“Ok, then. I killed her with a hammer.”
“A hammer … Oh my son, it’s a terrible sin, a grave sin …”
“Holy Father, more important than the gate of Hades is my soul,” I replied courteously.
The priest fell silent for a while and then asked:
“Had your aunt wronged you in any way?”
“No.”
“So why did you kill her?”
I hung my head.
“Were you led to it by the repulsive jingle of gold?”
The priest was trying to rise to his role. I felt grateful.
“No, Father, to the contrary.”
“Why to the contrary?”
“Killing my aunt, I deprived myself of my main means of support. She gave me board and lodging.”
“So why did you do it?”
“I’m a murderer, Father.”
The priest fell silent again. And after a while:
“How old are you, my son?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Oh, twenty-one … Was it … was it your first time?”
“First time what, Father?”
“Had you killed before?”
“No, Father. I would have confessed, wouldn’t I?”
“True. Oh, my son, repent your deed and cry over your soul.”
“I can’t repent, Father.”
“Why, my son?”
“I’m a hardened sinner.”
“Oh, my son …” The priest was hopelessly confused. “Oh, my son, cry over your soul…”
Curiosity won the upper hand.
“But you had to have a motive. Why did you kill?”
“I don’t know, Father.”
He hesitated.
“You are not … sick, are you?”
“No, Father.”
“Then why, my son? Why?”
“I sought peace in crime.”
“You can find peace only in prayer.”
“I’m too young to waste my days on prayers.”
“But, son …” the priest was irritated. “There are so many other sins …” He stopped abruptly. After a while he started again: “Are you feeling weak and abandoned?”
“Oh, I am, Father.”
“Then repent your sin and cry with me. Difficult years of prison, provided you spend them in remorse and penitence, will atone for your crime.”
“I’ve no intention of going to prison.”
“How have you managed to hide your crime?”
“I haven’t. I’ve done it only this morning.”
“What have you done with the corpse?”
“For now it’s in my kitchen. I’ll try to get rid of it.”
“How …” He bit his tongue, apparently realizing the question was not quite in keeping with his work as a confessor.
“I’ve got a plan.”
“I don’t want to know. Do you repent of your sin, my son?”
“I can’t, Father.”
“Repent, my son,” he pleaded with me tearfully. “Or you’ll go to hell.”
“Is it horrible, Father?”
“Oh, son!” the priest cried, grateful for my question.
And he began to paint the picture. The way he did it told me he was just a catechist. But his picture of hell surpassed all the best religion lessons I could remember from childhood. My confessor was inspired. Throughout his life he had been unleashing the horrors of hell to scare small-time sinners for their pranks played on teachers, for masturbation or laziness, to have his efforts rewarded with today’s confession. The grand vision of inferno painted for the benefit of such an extraordinary criminal was the sweet fruit that fell into his lap in an empty church, out of the blue, on an afternoon one could expect nothing from. Necessity breeds inventors, necessity breeds heroes. Today I learned that necessity — or rather need — breeds artists. I had seen many reproductions of Old Masters depicting hell but none had come close to my confessor’s tirade. That was real hell. Seething, blazing, putrid. I easily forgave my confessor some catechetical naïveté for the sweeping power of his vision.
The church was empty again. The monk had put out all the lights except for the little red lamp. There were only two of us, the hero’s golden arm and hell. At last the priest ran out of breath.
“My son,” he pleaded, “repent your crime.”
“I can’t, Father.”
“Then I can’t give you absolution.”
It all began to turn nasty.
“Then I’ll walk away with hell in my heart.”
I got on my feet, as if ready to leave. The priest rustled hurriedly inside the confessional.
“No, son, don’t go away.” He lowered his voice and I heard in his words a playful note.
“If you can’t find in yourself perfect remorse, the most pleasing to the Lord, then imperfect remorse will be enough … Think of all the horrors of hell, and fear the deed that condemns you to such torture. That will be enough.”
The priest’s voice was so sympathetic I was ready to express my imperfect remorse. Still, I held back. Showing imperfect remorse would give my confessor paltry satisfaction. This extraordinary confession would have a very cheap and trivial epilogue in a common criminal’s fear of chains and fire. So I said: