Prologue

For the sins I learned to enjoy in silence.

If God is watching, I hope He looks away.

*******

There’s a man. He comes every day to prayer. I’ve seen him more than I’ve seen myself in the mirror lately.

He is the man people fear. The man Father Christian warned me to stay away from. The man I should stay away from.

Pakhan Sokolov.

Moscow’s law and jury.

My sister’s brother-in-law.

He comes to confess his sins.

Arrives before the bells finis ringing. Never alte, and never too early. As if time bends enough to make room for him.

The chapel changes when he enters. I feel every holy things leaving the church replaced by his demonic aura. It doesn’t leave my notice how Father Christian bows to the man.

I keep my eyes down too. I have learned that much.

Still, I know where he stands. Third pew from the front. Always the same place. As if it belonged to him before it belonged to me.

He doesn’t kneel just stands there to make my spine prickle beneath my habit. When he finally sits, the wood creaks under his weight.

I tell myself its nothing. I tell myself I am imagining the way his gaze lifts until it finds me.

The first time it happened, I prayed harder.

The second time, I prayed longer.

By the third, I realized prayer does not make him disappear.

Father Christian says fear is a test. That temptation wears many faces. That the devil does not wear horns.

I wonder, then, why God allows him to look at me like that.

When confession begins, I busy my hands with hymn sheets I don’t need to organize. Paper trembles between my fingers. I press them together until the shaking stops.

He moves when his turn comes. He’s a very patient man, I’ve noticed.

And I’m forced to walk slowly to the other side of the confession booth.

I don’t mean to listen but his voice has that timbre that hypnotizes me.

“I have sinned,” he says.

There is no hesitation or shame. Father Christina murmurs something I cannot hear.

Pakhan Sokolov does not list his crimes, but I know his hands are red. Redder than any blood he sheds. I also know he does not seek absolution. He speaks as if confession is not a plea but a courtesy.

As if forgiveness is optional.

“And these are sins,” he adds. “I do not regret.”

I lower my head as he leaves the booth, his massive body rattling the board, before Father Christian follows him out. And when he turns, his eyes meet mine. And he smiles.

As if he had sinned again.