That was better than sitting about in the room with one's thoughts.
I went to the garage, took out the cab, and drove slowly through the streets.
There were few people about.
In the working-class districts the long rows of apartment houses stood bald and desolate, like sad old pros'titutes, in the rain.
The fronts were decayed and dirty, the murky windows stared cheerlessly in the morning light, and the peeling plaster of the walls showed in many places deep, yellow-grey holes, as if they had the pox.
I made my way across the Old Town to the cathedral.
I pulled the car up outside the little entry and got out.
Through the heavy oak door I heard the subdued peal of the organ.
It was the hour of morning Mass, and I listened to the organ which had just begun the offertory—that meant it would be twenty minutes at least before the Mass ended and the people came out.
I went into the cloister garden.
It lay in grey light.
The rosebushes were dripping with rain, but most were still loaded with blooms.
My raincoat was fairly big and I could hide under it the sprays I cut off.
Though it was Sunday nobody came, and I took out the first armful of roses to the car unhindered. Then I went back for another.
Just as I had got them safely stowed under my coat, I heard somebody coming through the cloister.
I clamped the bunch tightly against me with my arm and remained standing before one of the Stations of the Cross, as if lost in prayer.
The footsteps came nearer; they did not pass, they stopped.
I began to feel a bit hot. I gazed at the stone picture with an air of deep reverence, made the sign of the Cross, and walked slowly toward the next Station, which was nearer the exit.
The footsteps followed me and stopped again.
I didn't know what to do.
I could not move on immediately; I should have to stick it long enough to say at least ten Ave Marias and a paternoster—else I should give myself away at once.
So I continued to stand there and looked up cautiously to see what was up, with a disapproving expression as if I had been interrupted in my devotions.
I looked into the friendly, round face of a priest and breathed again.
I knew he would not interrupt me while I was praying and was already counting myself saved when I noticed that unfortunately I had picked on the last Station.
No matter how slowly I might pray, I would have to be through in a few minutes, and that was what he was waiting for, obviously.
There was no point prolonging the business.
So I walked off slowly and unperturbed toward the exit.
"Good morning," said the priest. "Jesus Christ be praised."
"Forever, amen," I responded.
That was the Catholic greeting.
"It is unusual to see anyone here at this time," said he amiably, looking at me out of bright, blue, childlike eyes.
I mumbled something.
"Very unusual, unfortunately," he went on, rather troubled. "Men especially one hardly ever sees doing the Stations.
For that reason I rejoice over you, and have ventured to speak to you.
You have some special request I am sure, that brings you so early and in this weather."
Yes, that you go away, thought I, and nodded, relieved.
So far he seemed not to have noticed the flowers.
The thing now was to get shot of him quickly so that he might not notice them.
He smiled at me again.
"I am just about to read my Mass. I will include your request in my prayers."
"Thanks," said I, surprised and embarrassed.
"Is it for the soul of someone departed?" he asked.
I stared at him a moment and my flowers began to slip. "No," said I then quickly, pressing my arm firmly against my coat.
He looked into my face innocently searching with his clear eyes.
He was waiting apparently for me to tell him what it was about.
But nothing suitable occurred to me on the spur of the moment, and besides I had something against telling him any more lies than were necessary.
So I said nothing.
"Then I will pray for help in trouble for someone unknown," said he at last.
"Yes," I replied, "if you would do that.
And I thank you very much."