Concerto to the Memory of an Angel Read Free Page B

to the deep timbre of his voice.
    â€œAnd to whom do I have the honor?” he asked, astonished that she had not introduced herself.
    â€œMarie . . . ”
    She hesitated to reveal her name. She was afraid that her name, which had been splashed across so many pages of crime reports, might cast a pall, might spoil his childlike smile. Never­theless, she took the chance.
    â€œMarie Maurestier.”
    â€œI am delighted to meet you, Marie Maurestier.”
    Breathless, she noted that he had not recoiled—nor looked frightened or disapproving—when she revealed her identity: how extraordinary! So very unusual . . . He accepted her as she was, without judging, without locking her in a cage like some strange beast.
    â€œDo you go to church sometimes, Marie?”
    â€œI come to the service every day.”
    â€œYou have never known a crisis of faith?”
    â€œGod would not tolerate my whims. If I did not live up to his expectations, he would quickly bring me up to his level.”
    She had wanted to share a humble thought and now she realized she had uttered a phrase filled with pride. To be up to God’s level! That He would take the time to bring her up! The priest, after a moment’s hesitation, was able to grasp the actual intention of her words.
    â€œFaith is a grace,” he said.
    â€œExactly! When our belief falters, God gives us a good kick in the ass to make us believe again.”
    She was astonished by her own words. “Kick in the ass!” Why had she used this expression that was utterly alien to her vocabulary? What had come over her? She was bawling like a drill sergeant, forthright, impetuous. Did she need to play at being a man when she was in the company of such a gentle soul? Confused, she lowered her eyes, ready to concede her mistake.
    â€œWell, my child, shall we meet again at seven o’clock for the service?”
    She rounded her lips to speak, then nodded. He’s forgiven me, she thought. What a marvelous man!
    Â 
    The next morning she was the first to arrive at the church for the chilly morning mass.
    When Abbé Gabriel came out of the sacristy, a green silk scarf over his immaculate alb, for a moment she was dazzled: he was just as fresh and charming as she remembered. Together they pushed the prie-dieu, set aside the chairs that were wobbly, arranged the bouquets, and piled up the prayer books, as if they were preparing a reception for their friends.
    The village faithful arrived. Their average age was eighty, their clothes were black and their hair was gray; they stood in small groups by the entrance, hesitating to come forward, not out of a sense of hostility toward the new priest but simply to express, through their reserve, how much they had appreciated his predecessor.
    As if he understood, Abbé Gabriel went up to them, introduced himself, found the appropriate words to honor the former priest, who had died at the age of a hundred, then encouraged them to sit in the rows next to the choir.
    As the priest walked up to the altar, Vera Vernet, who for Marie could be none other than “that old bag,” murmured under her mustache, “They can’t be serious, the bishop is making fun of us: he’s much too young. They’ve sent us a seminarian!”
    Marie smiled and did not answer. She felt as if she were attending a service for the first time. Through his fervor, through his commitment in every word and every gesture, Abbé Gabriel was reinventing the Christian mass. He quivered as he read the Gospel, and immersed himself in the prayers, eyes closed, as if his salvation depended upon it. The way he conducted the ritual spoke not of routine, but urgency.
    Marie Maurestier looked at the venerable parishioners around her, and they seemed to have had their breath taken away by what was happening: it was as if they sat not in church pews but in the seats of an airplane breaking the sound barrier. Nevertheless, they allowed