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Wait. This was the first lesson I had learned about love. The day drags along, you make thousands of plans, you imagine every possible conversation, you promise to change your behavior in certain ways--and you feel more and more anxious until your loved one arrives. But by then, you don't know what to say. The hours of waiting have been transformed into tension, the tension has become fear, and the fear makes you embarrassed about showing affection.
I didn't know whether I should go in. I remembered our conversation of the previous day--the house was the symbol of a dream.
But I couldn't spend the whole day just standing there. I gathered up my courage, grasped the key firmly, and walked to the door.
PILAR!"
The voice, with a strong French accent, came from the midst of the fog. I was more surprised than frightened. I thought it might be the owner of the house where we had rented the room--although I didn't recall having told him my name.
"Pilar!" I heard again, nearer this time.
I looked back at the plaza shrouded in mist. A figure was approaching, walking hurriedly. Perhaps the ghosts that I had imagined in the fog were becoming a reality.
"Wait," the figure said. "I want to talk to you."
When he had come closer, I could see that it was a priest. He looked like a caricature of the country padre: short, on the heavy side, with sparse white hair on a nearly bald head.
"Hola," he said, holding out his hand and smiling.
I answered him, a bit astonished.
"Too bad the fog is hiding everything," he said, looking toward the house. "Since Saint-Savin is in the mountains, the view from this house is beautiful; you can see the valley down below and the snow-covered peaks. But you probably already knew that."
I decided that this must be the superior from the monastery.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "And how do you know my name?"
"Do you want to go in?" he said, trying to change the subject.
"No! I'd like you to answer my questions."
Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he sat down on the curb. I sat down next to him. The fog was growing thicker by the minute. The church was already hidden from sight, and it was only sixty feet away from us.
All I could see was the well. I remembered what the young woman in Madrid had said.
"She is present," I said.
"Who?"
"The Goddess," I answered. "She is this mist."
"So, he must have talked to you about that," he laughed. "Well, I prefer to refer to Her as the Virgin Mary. That's what I'm used to."
"What are you doing here? How do you know my name?" I repeated.
"I came here because I wanted to see you two. A member of the Charismatic group last night told me you were both staying in Saint-Savin. And it's a small place."
"He went to the seminary."
The padre's smile disappeared, and he shook his head. "Too bad," he said, as if speaking to himself.
"You mean, too bad he went to the seminary?"
"No, he's not there. I've just come from the seminary."
For a moment, I couldn't say anything. I thought back to the feeling I'd had when I woke up: the money, the arrangements I needed to make, the call to my parents, the ticket. But I'd made a vow, and I wasn't going to break it.
A priest was sitting beside me. As a child, I used to tell everything to our priest.
