Paulo Coelho - Aleph

The couple’s lavish clothes are in marked contrast to the bare room stripped of all comfort, apart from a fire that has been lit to warm the place a little. A ray of sunlight enters through a chink in the stone wall and sets the jewels of the woman’s rings and necklace glittering.

“This isn’t the first time the Holy Office has visited the town,” says the Inquisitor. “On previous visits, you neither complained nor thought that what we were doing was unjust. On the contrary, you approved of this practice over supper, saying that it was the only way to stop the forces of evil from spreading. Whenever we purged the town of its heretics, you applauded. You saw that we are not cruel tyrants but seekers after truth, which is not always as transparent as it should be.”

“But—”

“But those things happened to other people, to those whom you deemed deserving of torture and the pyre. Once”—he points at the man—“you yourself denounced a family who were neighbors of yours. You said that the mother practiced the black arts and caused your cattle to die. When we proved this to be true, they were condemned and…”

He pauses before completing the sentence, as if savoring the words.

“… and I helped you to buy that family’s lands for next to nothing. Your piety was well rewarded.”

He turns to me: “Bring me the Malleus Maleficarum. ”

I go over to the shelf behind his desk. He is a good man, convinced that he is doing the right thing. He is not carrying out some personal revenge; he is working in the name of his faith. Although he has never confessed his feelings to me, I have often seen him gazing off into the distance, as if asking God why He has placed such a heavy burden on his shoulders.

I hand him the thick leather-bound volume with the title emblazoned on the front.

“It’s all in here, in the Malleus Maleficarum , a long, detailed investigation into the universal conspiracy to bring back paganism, the belief in nature as our one salvation, the superstitious belief in the existence of past lives, the vile art of astrology and the so-called ‘science’ that denies the mysteries of faith. The Devil knows he cannot work alone, that he needs witches and scientists to seduce and corrupt the world.

“While the men are away, fighting and dying in wars to defend the Faith and the Kingdom, the women start thinking that they were born to govern, and the cowards who believe themselves to be sages turn to mediums and scientific theories for what they could easily find in the Bible. It is up to us to prevent this from happening. I did not bring these girls here. I am simply charged with ascertaining if they are innocent or if they must be saved.”

He gets up and asks me to go with him.

“I must leave now. If your daughter is innocent, she will be at home with you before a new day dawns.”

The woman throws herself on the ground and kneels at his feet.

“Please! You held her in your arms when she was just a baby.”

The man plays his last card.

“I will give all my lands and all my wealth to the Church, right now. Give me a pen and some paper, and I will sign. I want to leave here hand in hand with my daughter.”

The Inquisitor pushes the woman away, but she remains kneeling, sobbing helplessly, her face buried in her hands.

“The Dominican Order was chosen precisely so that this kind of thing would not happen. The old Inquisitors were easily bribed, but we Dominicans have always made a living from begging and will continue to do so. Money does not tempt us; on the contrary, your scandalous offer only makes your daughter’s situation worse.”

The man grabs me by the shoulders.

“You were like a son to us! When your parents died, we took you into our house so that your uncle would not continue to mistreat you.”

“Don’t worry,” I whisper in his ear, afraid that the Inquisitor might hear. “Don’t worry.”

Even though he had taken me in only so that I could work like a slave on his land. Even though he, too, had beaten and insulted me whenever I did anything wrong.

I extricate myself from his grasp and walk over to the door. The Inquisitor turns around one last time to the couple.

“One day, you will thank me for having saved your daughter from eternal damnation.”

“UNDRESS HER.”

The Inquisitor is sitting at a vast table surrounded by a series of empty chairs. Two guards make a move toward her, but the girl holds up her hand.

“I don’t need them; I can do it alone. Just, please, don’t hurt me.”

Slowly she removes her velvet skirt embroidered with gold thread, as elegant as the dress her mother wore. The twenty men in the room pretend to take no notice, but I know what is going through their minds: lewd thoughts, lust, greed, perversion.

“And your blouse.”

She takes off the blouse, which was doubtless white yesterday but which is now dirty and crumpled. Her gestures seem to be too slow and studied, but I know what she’s thinking: He’ll save me. He’ll stop this now . And I say nothing, but silently ask God if what is happening is right. I start to repeat the Lord’s Prayer over and over, asking God to enlighten both her and my Superior. I know what he’s thinking, that the denunciation had its roots not only in jealousy and vengeance but in the woman’s extraordinary beauty. She is the very image of Lucifer, the most beautiful and most perverse of Heaven’s angels.

Everyone here knows her father, knows how powerful he is and what harm he can do to anyone who touches his daughter. She looks at me, and I do not turn away. The others are scattered about the great subterranean room, hidden in the shadows, afraid that she might emerge from this alive and denounce them all. Cowards. They were summoned here to serve a great cause, to help purify the world. Why are they hiding from a defenseless young girl?

“Take off your other clothes, too.”

She is still gazing fixedly at me. She raises her hands and unties the ribbon on her blue slip, which is all that is covering her body now, and lets it fall to the floor. Her eyes plead with me to stop what is happening, and I respond with a slight nod, indicating that she need not worry, everything will be all right.

“Look for the mark of Satan,” the Inquisitor tells me.

Picking up a candle, I go over to her. The nipples of her small breasts are hard, although I cannot tell whether this is because she is cold or involuntarily aroused by the fact of standing naked before all these men. Her skin is covered in goose pimples. The tall windows with their thick glass let in little light, but the light that does enter glows on her immaculately white skin. I do not need to look very hard. On her pubis—which, when I was most sorely tempted, I often used to imagine kissing—I can see the mark of Satan hidden among her pubic hair, at the top left-hand side. This frightens me. Perhaps the Inquisitor is right, for here is irrefutable proof that she has had sexual relations with the Devil. I feel a mixture of disgust, sadness, and rage.

I need to be sure. I kneel down beside her naked body and look at the mark again: a crescent-shaped mole.

“It’s been there since I was born.”

Like her parents, she thinks she can establish a dialogue and persuade everyone of her innocence. I have been praying hard ever since I came into the room, desperately asking God to give me strength. There will be some pain, but it should all be over in less than half an hour. Even if that mark is irrefutable proof of her crimes, I loved her before I gave myself, body and soul, to the service of God, knowing that her parents would never allow a noblewoman to marry a peasant.