The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor

Invariably, Krzysztof would start shouting in that blend of languages only he knew, arguing that he had as much right to confess as the others, or to pray, or to sleep in peace slap bang in the middle of the cathedral. And the more he shouted, the more he was surrounded by guards—gloved, too—who would appear, as though by magic, from behind the pillars, and escort him to his principal place of residence: Square Jean-XXIII, which separated Notre Damefrom the Seine and where every night, after avoiding the rounds of a member of staff of the municipal gardens, he unrolled his sleeping bag and lay down to sleep.
    Only once had Krzysztof dared go into the actual jar. Father Kern, who was on duty that day, had, contrary to custom, left the door open and switched on the fan built into the stained glass window of the chapel, in order to create a draft, then had taken the time to hear Krzysztof’s story—without understanding much of it—from his native Poland to the streets of Paris after quite a few detours, binges, and fights. Krzysztof had been grateful to him ever since.
    Krzysztof wasn’t mean. Only alcohol could make him a little aggressive, but seldom so, and his bouts of bad temper then made him look like a large bear dressed in a grimy red padded jacket. He would generally calm down as quickly as he’d flared up, looking around as he had just done with Father Kern, suddenly remembering he was in a church. And a church, he knew since his childhood in the outskirts of Kraków, was a place reserved for calm and prayer. A place from which shouts and alcohol must be banned; a place where violence, murder, and death had no place either.
    “I tell you, I see! I know!”
    “What do you know, Krzysztof? What do you want to tell me?”
    “Girl! I see!”
    “What girl, Krzysztof?”
    “Girl in white!”
    Father Kern took the Polish vagrant aside and gestured at him to keep his bear’s voice down.
    “When did you see her, Krzysztof? Try to remember. Which day and at what time?”
    “ W niedziele, wieczorem. ”
    “I can’t understand what you’re saying. Was it Sunday? Sunday night?”
    “ Tak . Sunday.”
    “What time?”
    Krzysztof did not understand the question, so Father Kern pointed at his watch. Krzysztof opened his arms in a gesture of powerlessness and also pointed at his bare wrist, deprived of a watch.
    “ W nocy. ”
    “At night? Is that right, Krzysztof? Was it already nighttime when you came across her?”
    “ Tak. W nocy. ”
    “Tell me, Krzysztof. Where did you see her? Was she alone? What was she doing exactly?”
    Krzysztof made a huge effort to remember. Despite the tiredness, despite the alcohol, despite the thousand difficulties he’d had to tackle since that already seemingly distant Sunday night in order to find food, drink, a place to sleep, and avoid fights, he made an effort to search his memory, and somehow or other managed to put some order in his thoughts. However, just as he was about to convey them, he collided head on with the language barrier. Father Kern was growing impatient. Krzysztof tried to express himself through gestures but his large paws also remained silent.
    “Never mind, Krzysztof. Tell me in your own language. You never know, perhaps I’ll understand one or two words. Let’s try.”
    Krzysztof took a deep breath then, in an overpoweringly alcoholic whisper, he began. “In garden. I go to sleep, much plants— schowany za roslinami. I see back of katedra. Zauwazylem dziewczyne —girl—open gate from street. She have code for klódki. Ona weszla do ogrodu. Into garden. White, white. All white. Shelook— Wygladala pieknie w swietle gwiazd. Stairs, she goes up, knock on door. Back of katedra. Door opens, she go inside. Nie wiem, co zdarzylo sie pózniej.”
    Father Kern his eyes to the tall vaults, darkened day after day, month after month, year after year, by the sour breath of hundreds of thousands of visitors. He murmured, “Pray for us poor sinners.” He