Concerto to the Memory of an Angel

by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

She no longer spoke about God the way she used to. God used to belong to her collection of weaponry; she would say “God” the way you fire a gun; peremptorily, with the way she said “God” in a loud voice she could obtain silence, she could chase intruders, and create a void around her. Sometimes, to reinforce her arguments, she would quote pell-mell from the Gospels and the Fathers of the Church, scattering shot against her adversaries to rebuff them or hurt them, if she couldn’t kill them; she aimed quickly, precisely, fired right in the bull’s eye. God had enabled her in succession to establish her virtuous reputation and endure the petty quarrels that others picked with her. Now she saw God not as a terrible, avenging god but as a fount of tenderness. When Gabriel, who said “our dear Lord” rather than “God,” murmured the name of the Creator, he gave the impression he was evoking a vital source, the best wine to drink, or even a remedy for every ill. By his side, Marie was initiated into a new theology; she renounced her former sheriff for the god of love, a kindly, merciful Jesus, six foot four inches in height, like Gabriel, and who had Gabriel’s features.