Jean-Marie Le Clézio - The Flood

Other women arrived and sat down beside Besson, taking the places of those who had gone. Finally one of them turned to him and whispered: ‘It’s your turn.’

Besson hesitated. Then he got up and walked across to the little black box of the confessional. He pulled the purple velvet curtain aside, and knelt down. After a few seconds there was the sound of a panel being slid open, and a little light filtered through the grille. ‘Pray,’ a voice whispered in his ear.

Besson listened to the lengthy muttering that followed, spoken in a breathy whisper that filled the confessional. When it was over the voice told him to say Amen.

‘Amen,’ said Besson.

‘When was your last confession, my son?’

Besson reflected for a moment.

‘It was — I think it was sixteen years ago. Fifteen or sixteen years.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Why did you go so long without confessing?’

‘I don’t know, I–I lost my faith.’

‘What sins have you committed, my son?’

Besson hesitated again.

‘Almost all of them,’ he said.

‘Will you list them, please?’ said the voice, patiently.

‘It may take a long time,’ Besson said.

‘That’s all right,’ said the voice. ‘We’re in no hurry. What are your sins?’

‘I have lied,’ Besson said. ‘I have been a habitual liar. I have stolen. I have blasphemed. I have had evil thoughts. And — and I have committed degrading acts…. I have — I have been egotistical, covetous, full of envy. I have taken pleasure in spreading harm around me…. I have doubted the existence of God, and of His bounty. I have been indifferent to Him. I have sworn. I have taken advantage of others for my own profit. I have been idle, and self-indulgent. I have refused to help others, to aid those who might have need of me…. I have scorned the poor. I have been luxurious, and full of pride, and on many occasions excessively angry. I have struck my mother. I have felt hatred for my father. I have entertained thoughts of murder, and planned criminal projects. I have committed the sin of vanity, and of complacency in vice. I have refused to follow good advice…. I have prayed to the Devil. I have been dishonest. I have failed to keep my promises. I have squandered other people’s money. I have desired evil things, I have longed for war. I have been a libertine. I have shown lack of respect towards my parents and relations. I have killed animals.’

‘Is that all?’ the voice asked.

‘No,’ Besson said, ‘no, it isn’t. I have also been coarse in my behaviour. I have fallen into the sin of despair. I have rejected love. I have been cowardly, and have made insulting statements about the Church. I have — I have thought of suicide. I have felt arrogant contempt for others, and I have never loved my neighbour. I have been cruel. I have been malicious.’

‘Is that all, my son?’ the voice said again.

Besson reflected for a moment.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I have committed many other sins.’

‘What are they?’

‘I have been impatient, ill-tempered, and unfaithful. I have committed the sin of gluttony. I have laughed at other people’s misfortunes. I have never been charitable. I have been unclean both in thought and deed, and I have shown lack of respect both for my own body and for the woman’s. I have committed acts of filthiness. I have soiled what was pure.’

‘What else?’

‘I have blasphemed on many occasions. I have said that God is dead.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I–I have cheated in my work. I have cheated during examinations. I have been unjust. I have refused to work. I have taken pleasure in hurting other people’s feelings. I have worshipped money and beauty. I have worshipped violence. I have uttered slanders. I have transgressed against God. I have loved sinfulness.’

For a few seconds there was silence in the confessional. Besson could hear the sound of regular breathing. As he stared into darkness, his nose picked up the faint odour of box-wood. Then he bent forward to the grille once more and whispered: ‘I have tried to find out too much. I believed—’ He hesitated. ‘I have forgotten what truth is. I have forgotten—’

‘Forgetfulness is not a sin,’ the voice said.

‘I forgot through mere sloth. Because it suited me to forget.’

‘Is that all, my son?’ murmured the voice.

‘I have insulted Our Lady. I have said that Jesus was a man like other men.’ Besson paused a moment, thinking. ‘I have failed to perform my religious duties. And this I have done deliberately, as an insult. I have not said my prayers. I have disbelieved in the life everlasting.’

‘What else?’

‘I can’t remember anything more now. But there’s plenty. I have been indifferent. And I’ve committed all my sins not once, but a hundred times, a thousand times, as often as possible. When temptation came, instead of thrusting it aside, I would plunge into sin, and snap my fingers at my conscience. I have ceased to be a believer. I have said—’ He paused again. ‘I have forgotten everything, even the sins themselves. I have been cynical and indifferent. I have thought of nothing but pleasure, my own physical pleasure.’

‘Have you been happy?’ the voice asked.

Besson’s reply was embarrassed, almost inaudible. ‘No,’ he whispered.

There was a cough from the other side of the grille; and Besson suddenly realized that it was an old man’s voice. Its blend of firmness and gentleness bore the weight of the years: it was a voice that had to be heard and reckoned with. It had, surely, already embarked on the road that led to death, and its murmured utterances were all darkened by this shadow, this sense of decline. It belonged to a physically frail man, with rounded shoulders and pale grey eyes, faded now after much use. Besson longed to catch a glimpse of him, however fleeting. He pressed his face right against the holes in the grille, and tried to make out his features. But it was so dim that all he could see was a vague shadowy silhouette, and the sharp glint of gold-rimmed spectacles.

When the voice reached him again it was tremulous, as though a breath of wind had blown on it.

‘Are you sorry you committed these sins?’ it asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Besson said.

‘Are you sorry, now, that you committed these sins?’ the voice repeated patiently.

‘Sometimes, yes,’ Besson said. ‘Some of them.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Pride. And the lies, and the blasphemies—’

‘Repeat after me: Eternal God, Thou art all good, and deserving of all my love—’

Hesitantly Besson whispered: ‘Eternal God — Thou art all good — and deserving of all my love—’

‘May you find peace,’ said the voice.

Besson was touched by the simplicity of these words. He said: ‘You are good—’

But the voice began to whisper, in a kind of fury: ‘No, no, I am not good — never say that. God alone is good. God alone can judge. I am not here to judge you or to understand you, but to give you help. Only to give you help.’

He paused for a moment, then in a calmer voice murmured: ‘You will find peace, my son.’

‘What must I do?’ Besson asked.

‘Turn towards God,’ the voice said. ‘Learn to see Him. Love His works. His beauty is everywhere; it is that you must admire. It is that which will give you rest and peace.’ He broke off for a moment. ‘God’s creatures speak for themselves,’ he went on. ‘They will show you that life is an eternal principle. Death is no more than a change in the appearances.’

‘And what about animals?’ Besson asked.

‘God has chosen men,’ the voice said slowly. ‘Men have not chosen God.’

‘Why do I not have faith?’