He knew he was not going to sleep anymore. He had finished praying the rosary, but he was still tired and did not feel like getting out of bed. He had been lying there for more than an hour, eyes open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

The heat inside the shack was suffocating after the sun had beaten down relentlessly on its roof for six or seven hours. At the very least, he should get up and open the windows to let some air circulate.

But he did not. Laziness, that old acquaintance, kept him pinned to the uneven mattress. It was a different kind of laziness from that of ordinary men: not mere idleness, but another form of punishment. Every minute he remained there, meditating on his sins, was another stone added to his penance.

He preferred to endure the heat and remain there, brooding over his memories and thinking about his misdeeds. That too was a form of mortification, he told himself, of atonement for all his selfishness—for all the harm he had done.

He closed his eyes and, as always, Dorothy’s face appeared: he had not treated his wife well. He remembered the nights he came home late, smelling of another woman’s perfume. He remembered his clumsy lies and her silent tears. Yes, he had cheated on her—and more than once. He had actively sought out other women—younger, more attractive—and slept with them.

Poor Dorothy… he told himself. So kind, so noble, so compassionate… When she found out about his infidelities, she forgave him, and that gesture made him reform his life. If she had confronted him, if she had reproached him for everything, if she had asked him for a divorce… then he would have surrendered irredeemably to lust, wildly and without restraint.

But no. Dorothy forgave him, though that was not enough. The damage had already been done, and the cancer that had been stalking her silently finally revealed itself after so much distress… and carried her to the grave.

Alder felt profoundly guilty, and there was not a moment when he did not regret his terrible sins. Perhaps for that reason, he got up at once, overcoming his laziness. The tile floor was warm beneath his bare feet. He walked over to the broken mirror hanging above the sink and looked at himself. The image reflected back at him was that of an old, gaunt man with an overgrown beard and sunken eyes.

He knelt before the crucifix and prayed Lauds in a hoarse voice. Afterward, he opened the underground compartment where he kept the eggs and sausages and began cooking them in the skillet.

As he did so, he looked at himself in the mirror again and remembered what he had always heard, what Scripture said: husband and wife are "one flesh"—that is, a single being in body and soul. And if he was rotten, she too had suffered the consequences of that debauchery. And so it was: the cancer devoured her…

"Oh, God!" he cried aloud. "Why did she have to die before I did?" he lamented. "Did I not deserve death a thousand times over before that angelic soul did?"

He tried to compose himself and returned to cooking. He looked at himself in the mirror again, and, seeing himself wearing the apron and holding the skillet’s handle, he clearly saw his wife, Dorothy, who seemed to smile at him through the mirror.

A tear welled in his old, sunken eyes and rolled down his wrinkled cheek as he remembered once again all the harm he had done. He completely lost his appetite, but forced himself to eat anyway. That too was a form of mortification, he told himself, and he chewed the sausages without ceasing to cry, gazing at the empty chair across from him. Dorothy seemed to be sitting there, just as she had when she was alive, looking at him with that expression of forgiveness, affection, and understanding.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Suddenly, someone was knocking at the door. His sorrowful reverie vanished at once, and his heart began to race. Who could it be? he wondered. Since his wife had died so long ago, he had gradually stopped speaking to everyone who knew him. She had really been the one who maintained the couple’s social contacts, and after her death, all those relationships had slowly faded away because he made no effort to preserve them.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knocks sounded again: three raps from someone’s knuckles against the door, as though they were punching him in the chest. He grew irritated, alarmed, agitated, and worried. Could he not be left in peace in his own home?

What he could not do was open the door. That would reveal his presence, and others would come. Who could it be? he wondered again. He could see a little of the outside through one of the windows because one of the blind’s slats was broken at the edge. He peered out with the utmost care… but could not see anyone.

Then he heard someone speaking. It was a woman’s voice… a young woman’s, judging by its tone… That was truly unheard of! He would have expected a few children playing tricks. Although he never went out during the day, it was possible that one of them had seen him at some point and now wanted to play a prank on him…

The woman spoke again, and another man, also young, answered her. They were a couple, and now he could see them clearly through the gap left by the broken slat as they walked away: they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.

There was no doubt about it. Only they—in these perverse modern times—still dressed the way Alder himself had dressed in his youth: despite the day's heat, the man walking away wore dark dress trousers and classic shoes, along with a classic shirt—albeit short-sleeved. She wore an ankle-length printed dress that didn't even fully expose her arms, ending instead at the elbows. Looking thoroughly prim and proper, brochures in hand, they walked off down the street, and Alder breathed a sigh of relief. They likely wouldn't be back; he could consider himself safe and secure.

But that disruption of his daily routine had unsettled him. Even though he had seen her only from behind—and the woman displayed none of the "charms" typical of a young girl—her slender figure and long, curly hair now formed an image that tormented him. And he was tormented all the more when, as if on a journey through time, he saw himself mirrored in that man—the girl’s companion.

Yes. That man could have been him, with those brochures resembling the catalogues of the books he sold. And the young woman… Yes. The young woman could have been one of his lovers—seduced by Alder himself while he was making door-to-door sales—with whom he was now setting out for a stroll after having consummated their lust.

And all the while, his wife, Dorothy—chaste, virtuous Dorothy—was sitting right there in that very chair across from him, embroidering, completely unaware...

He began to feel a profound anguish and a terrible sense of guilt; a sharp pang of intense pain pierced his stomach, and he nearly fainted.

He sat down and tried to calm himself by taking deep breaths; he attempted to put everything out of his mind and focus on the task at hand—listening to Gregorian chants, as they relaxed him immensely.

But even there, his luck failed him. The cassette player he used for those tapes had dying batteries, and its motor lacked the power to turn the rollers that drove the tape across the playback head. Having no spare batteries, he switched on the radio—which required less power—and tuned in to the religious station where he listened to Mass: Radio Maria.

However, at that moment, there was a talk show hosted by a young woman who was interviewing an even younger woman—one who had an overly sensual voice...

The topic of the interview was Christian courtship. The young woman spoke about faithfulness and abstaining from sexual relations until marriage, emphasizing the importance of chastity and loyalty between a couple.

And then, he couldn't help but picture the woman he had just seen leaving his house—once again. Yes. Her again—the same girl in the long skirt, speaking to him in that incredibly sensual voice, after having been seduced during a door-to-door book sale. A woman who had ceased to be faithful to her boyfriend or husband because of the lust of a traveling salesman...

Then he made up his mind. He could no longer stay there—with his wife embroidering while he walked outside with that very young female client. So he stepped out into the street in broad daylight, leaving behind the protection his home afforded him. This, too, was a form of mortification, he told himself—a way to make amends for and purge his sins—and he ventured off in the direction opposite to the one the Witnesses had taken.

The scorching summer sun beat down on him mercilessly, and within seconds he was sweating profusely. It was hardly surprising, since he always dressed the same way—in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt—because he owned nothing else. But the temperature that day was extremely high, as they were in the middle of a "heat wave." There was no way to cool off, although Alder rolled his sleeves up above his elbows. Then he headed toward the pastureland, certain that at that hour—three in the afternoon—there would be absolutely no one there.

And so it was. Apart from a few pedestrians he passed along the way, who looked at him strangely, the only creatures in the meadow where the cows grazed were the cows themselves, lying on the ground. The animals, of course, paid no attention to him, and Alder continued wandering aimlessly through the pasture in the full sun as he melted in the heat.

At last, he could go no farther and collapsed in the shade of some bushes, where he fell asleep within seconds.

It was not until several hours later that he awoke with a start. A dog was sniffing him.

"Toby! Toby!" his owner called from several yards behind him. "Come here!"

As the woman arrived to restrain the dog, Alder straightened up and gazed at his nemesis: an attractive, curvaceous young woman in her thirties, wearing two skimpy garments that covered—well, the bare minimum. The intense heat—even as evening approached—compelled people to dress lightly, and this stranger looked as though she were wearing a bikini or something similar: ultra-short shorts and a sort of open top that left little, if anything, to imagination.

His heart began to race painfully. An old, carnal memory pierced his mind like a knife. The woman’s very presence—and, worse yet, the fact that he had seen her in broad daylight and at such close range—stirred up such profound agitation that he bolted, running at full speed with Toby barking incessantly at his heels, beyond his owner's ability to hold him back.

He finally reached his home, his heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst from his mouth. He closed the door and leaned back against it, waiting until the dog grew bored and wandered off. Only then did the woman—whose voice suggested she was the owner—appear, scolding the animal for its rudeness. Naturally, he did not look out to witness the scene; the last thing he needed was to see her again—this time from behind—and thus gain a complete view of her anatomy, adding to his torment.

After a long while, Alder managed to calm himself, though he could not help but recall that magnificent body. The memory battered him relentlessly, and with every recollection, a sharp pang in his abdomen seemed to pierce his stomach.

He then removed his shirt, took out a seven-tailed scourge, and began to lash his back mercilessly until he felt blood running down his spine. Even so, the memory of that figure—of those legs and that neckline that revealed practically her entire bosom—persisted in tormenting him. He began to recite the Act of Contrition and the Confiteor, never ceasing his flagellation, his gaze fixed on the crucifix that hung above his bed.

That proved to be the solution. Christ spoke to him from the cross, seeming to say: "Enough, Alder; kneel before Me and pray Vespers."

And that is what he did. With all the devotion he could muster—his eyes brimming with tears that soaked the pages of the book—he recited the hymn, antiphons, and psalms appointed for that hour. When he finished, he was calmer, and that wretched memory no longer tormented him with such vivid intensity. That said, he swore before the same crucifix never to go out at those hours again, and from then on, he restricted his walks exclusively to the nighttime.