Like the Flowing River

I never saw the couple again.

The Second Chance

'I've always been fascinated by the story of the Sybilline books,' I said to Monica, my friend and literary agent, while we were driving to Portugal, 'which is about the importance of seizing every opportunity while it's there, and how if you don't, it's lost for ever.'

The Sibyls, who were prophetesses capable of foreseeing the future, lived in Ancient Rome. One day, one of them came to the Emperor Tiberius' palace bearing nine books. She claimed that they contained the future of the Empire and asked for ten gold talents in payment. Tiberius thought this far too expensive and refused to buy them.

The Sibyl left, burned three of the books, and returned with the remaining six. 'They still cost ten gold talents,' she said. Tiberius laughed and sent her away. How did she have the nerve to sell six books for the price of nine?

The Sibyl burned three more of the books and went back to Tiberius with the three remaining volumes. 'They still cost ten gold talents,' she said. Intrigued, Tiberius ended up buying the three volumes, but he could only read in them a little of what the future held.

When I had finished telling the story, I realized that we were passing through Ciudad Rodrigo, close to the border between Spain and Portugal. There, four years earlier, I had been offered a book, but had declined to buy it.

'Let's stop here. I think that remembering the Sybilline books was a sign for me to put right a mistake I made in the past.'

During the first tour I made of Europe publicizing my books, I had had lunch in Ciudad Rodrigo. Afterwards, I visited the cathedral and met a priest. 'Doesn't the inside of the church look lovely in the afternoon sun,' he said. I liked this remark; we talked a little, and he showed me round the church's altars and cloisters and inner gardens. In the end, he offered me a book he had written about the church, but I chose not to buy it. When I left, I felt guilty; after all, I'm a writer, and there I was in Europe trying to sell my work, so why not buy the priest's book out of solidarity? Then I forgot all about the episode, until that moment.

I stopped the car, and Monica and I walked across the square in front of the church, where a woman was looking up at the sky.

'Good afternoon,' I said, 'I'm looking for a priest who wrote a book about this church.'

'Oh, you mean Father Stanislau. He died a year ago,' she replied.

I felt terribly sad. Why had I not given Father Stanislau the same joy I feel whenever I see someone reading one of my own books?

'He was one of the kindest men I've ever known,' the woman went on. 'He came from a very humble family, but became an expert in archaeology. He helped my son get a grant to go to university.'

I told her why I was there.

'Don't go blaming yourself over a t

rifle like that, my dear,' she said. 'Go and visit the church again.'

I thought this was a sign too and so I did as she said. There was only one priest in the confessional, waiting for the faithful who did not come. I went over to him and he indicated that I should kneel down, but I said:

'No, I don't want to confess. I just came to buy a book about this church by a man called Stanislau.'

The priest's eyes lit up. He left the confessional and returned minutes later with a copy of the book.

'How wonderful that you should come here just for this,' he said. 'I'm Father Stanislau's brother, and it makes me really proud. He must be in heaven now, glad to see that his work is considered so important.'

Of all the priests I could have met, I had come across Stanislau's brother. I paid for the book, thanked him, and he embraced me. As I turned to leave, I heard him say:

'Doesn't the inside of the church look lovely in the afternoon sun!'

These were the same words that Father Stanislau had said four years before. Life always gives us a second chance.

The Australian and the Newspaper Ad

I'm in Sydney harbour, looking at the beautiful bridge that joins the two halves of the city, when an Australian comes up to me and asks me to read an advertisement in the newspaper.

'The print is too small,' he says. 'I can't make out what it says.'

I try, but I haven't got my reading glasses with me. I apologize to the man.

'Oh, that's all right,' he says. 'Do you know something? I think that God suffers from poor eyesight too, not because He's old, but because that's how He wants it to be. That way, when someone does something wrong, He can always say He couldn't quite see, and so ends up forgiving the person because He doesn't want to commit an injustice.'

'And what if someone does something good?' I ask.