Papal decree

17

When a commandment comes from God, it cannot be questioned. It is known that He always writes without error. His will is law, always, even if it is not written. It will come to pass from that day forward. And if to protect Him certain commandments must be violated, commandments that He himself inscribed and gave to Moses to communicate to us; well, then, let His will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

One of the Ten Commandments he violated constantly, Thou shalt not kill, but He slept like a baby every night since He knew the majesty of His work in the astonishing Creation.

The mail was delivered every week without the name of the sender or the recipient listed, since it could be for only him, for only he and she lived there.

She always woke up before he did and never went to bed unless she was told to or unless he was not at home, which, fortunately, happened frequently. She rarely spoke unless he asked her a question, though she did speak to herself when she was alone. Every day, like taking medicine, before bed, and first thing in the morning, she had a random passage from the Bible to read, or at least that’s what she thought.

Tonight he returned without prior warning, and she was still not asleep at nine. She was reading a novel that he didn’t know about. Her lip split from the hard slap he gave her and splattered blood on the pillow.

‘The sun has already set,’ he said in a calm voice and with an expression that made it seem the remark should be considered an act of leniency.

‘Forgive me,’ she murmured, her eyes tearing with pain.

She got up and ran for her room.

‘Stop,’ he ordered, and approached her menacingly. He grabbed the book roughly. ‘I’m confiscating this. Go to your room.’

Everything had its time, rules, and discipline. A fault, whatever it was, required a punishment, and the slap in the face that split her lip was not itself the punishment, but a warning.

These outbursts could be avoided if she followed the rules. She knew them backward and forward. She had no excuse to disobey what had been determined.

He looked at the book and read the title, The Man Who Never Existed, by one Hans Schmidt. A heresy in two hundred pages that pretended to point out the road to salvation. He couldn’t understand it. God showed them the way. Why did she have to look for other ways? He was too merciful. Some people needed to learn the hard way how to stay on His track.

He threw the book in the fireplace, which was burning with a hot flame, and opened his briefcase. He took out the last envelope he had received. Inside there was a letterhead with round strokes in large letters. On the top line he read AD MAIOREM DEI GLORIAM. On the next line was Deus vocat, followed by the name of the chosen ones. Normally there was one name, rarely two. This time he read two: Yaman Zafer and Sigfried Hammal.

He threw the letter and envelope into the fireplace.

He got up and went to see her. She was kneeling by the bed to pray. The power of prayer. He didn’t interrupt her, since nothing is more sacred than the direct contact with God through prayer. To ask forgiveness, grace, an idea, a suggestion, this was the privileged, sacred channel that should never be interrupted. He waited with his arms crossed, staring at her. As soon as she made the sign of the cross, signaling the end of the communication, she got up and lay down in bed. He went to a chest at the foot of the bed and opened a drawer. His back was turned to her, so he didn’t see her eyes fill with tears, which she quickly wiped away. Her shaking lessened, then stopped, for better or worse. He looked at her and came over. He carried a syringe containing a yellow liquid.

‘Give me your arm,’ he ordered.

She wouldn’t. He pulled her to the edge of the bed and inserted the needle. He slowly emptied the syringe and waited. He looked at his watch. Two minutes later she’d be sleeping like a baby. Breathing quietly. A sleep without dreams. A holy repose. He undressed, folding and hanging each piece of clothing on a chair. He got on the bed, on top of her, raised her nightgown, opened her sleeping legs, and entered her. He went in and out in a frenzy, and she never opened her eyes or uttered a sign. A few minutes later he finished, with a few drops of sweat on his face. She remained asleep, unchanged, with the same quiet breathing.

He left her asleep and went to look at the mail. A box in the door with a lock only he had the key to. There was an envelope in it, as he suspected. A cold smile, if it could be called that, spread over his lips. He opened the box and took it out. The same letterhead across the top and then the name of those chosen by God to join Him. He had no time to waste. This time there were three names.