The Fourth Circle by Zoran Zivkovic, Mary Popović

all the miracles of the day gone by, though more than enough for one righteous life, were as nothing in comparison to this last; for, verily, what I saw under the drawn-back hood could only be called the miracle of miracles.
    I would likely recognize her in total darkness. All my life she has been before my eyes, since that distant moment when the Master, recently departed from the side of his teacher Theophilus, saw her for the first and only time, at that fair long ago, when she stood by her many-colored tent, inviting the crowd to buy some merchandise that I, besieged by the fogs of oblivion, can no longer remember.
    But I remembered very well, as did my Master, her smile, innocent and wan-ton at the same time, which she lavished on the unlettered, gullible mob, tempting them to buy—quite needlessly, and so the more iniquitously, since the crowd would have bought readily enough without prompting....
    That same smile, depicted with the skill of the Unclean One himself, I later saw on countless monastic walls painted by my Master, who lent to Marya's virtuous countenance a quality that is the substance of the greatest blasphemy.
    In the beginning, I used to rebuke the Master for this impropriety, thinking we would arouse the anger of the igumans; it seemed impossible that their aus-tere, experienced eyes would miss the tinge of lasciviousness in Marya's smile, when it was not missed by many of the ordinary monachs who covertly nourished their most lustful and indecent thoughts while beholding it.
    I know all about it: more than once did I catch them as they furtively gave rein to their carnal desires, having first gazed unblinkingly on her face, apparently
meekly saying their prayers the while. Why else would some of them, no less sinful but readier to repent, give themselves up willingly to the redemptive penance of the scourge, without any urging from the head of the monastery, but in the hope of washing from themselves a sin that is surely amongst the greatest of all?
    The greatest, yes, but who can blame them for this temptation—I, of all mortals, have the least right to sit in judgment on them, may the Lord have mercy on me for my wrongdoing—when truly this was the work of the Devil.
    Yet the igumans never said anything about that smile; whether because they would thereby be admitting the fornication of their own eyes or because their eyes were truly incorruptible to the charms of the flesh, I could not tell. But wherever we went about the monasteries, Marya's two-edged smile remained behind us, a source of torment to the faltering and of fortitude to the faith of the more steadfast.
    Though more of the first sort, alas, I deemed myself now at that blessed age when I could never again see in Marya's image on a wall aught but infinite chastity and grace, which alone are fitting and pleasing to the Almighty. But this was only a fond illusion because as soon as I recognized the features of that divine countenance under the hood, filled with that ancient flame, once extinguished and now rekindled, the cause of so much repentance in my youth, I felt my withered face blush.
    Confused by the great wonder of this unhoped for arrival but also by the memory of sins long forgotten and now brought back to life by Marya's presence, rather than seek some rational explanation that my poor mind could understand for this visit by her after the passing so many years I, worthless, folded my hands in desperate plea for unmerited forgiveness.
    But my impure, old man's mouth made no sound at all, for her slender white hand slipped from the sleeve of her monastic robe and with the gentlest touch covered my lips, and I felt a strange shiver creep up my spine to the very top of my head and spill over in untold bliss. The touch was brief, only a breath or two, and then the hand was withdrawn swiftly, but still I felt for a long time yet as if all heavenly mercy burned upon my lips.
    That was all that I received from Marya—far more than