One morning about ten o’clock an immense fist appeared in the sky above the city. Then it slowly unclenched and remained this way, immobile, like an enormous canopy of ruin. It looked like rock, but it was not rock; it looked like flesh but it wasn’t; it even seemed made of cloud, but cloud it was not. It was God, and the end of the world. A murmuring, which here became a moan, there a shout, spread through the districts of the city, until it grew into a single voice, united and terrible, rising shrilly like a trumpet.

Luisa and Pietro were in a small square, warmed by the early sun, enclosed by strange palaces and partly by gardens. But in the sky, at an immeasurable height, hung the hand. Windows were thrown open amid fearful cries, while the initial shout of the city gradually subsided, and half-dressed young women looked out to watch the apocalypse. People left their houses, many of them breaking into a run. They felt the need to move, to do something, anything, but they didn’t know where to turn. Luisa burst into uncontrollable tears: “I knew it,” she stammered between sobs, “I knew it had to end this way . . . never when you were in church, never when you were praying . . . I didn’t give a damn, didn’t care at all, and now . . . I felt it had to happen this way! . . .” What could Pietro do to console her? Even he began to cry like a baby. Most of the people were in tears too, especially the women. Only two friars, spry little old men, went along as happily as if they were on their way to a party. “Now it’s all over for the smart ones!” they joyfully exclaimed, proceeding at a brisk pace, turning toward the most notable passers-by. “You’re not so smart anymore, eh? We’re the smart ones now!” they sneered. “Always mocked, always considered dunces—now we’ll see who the smart ones are!” Cheerful as schoolboys, they passed through the middle of the growing crowd, which glared at them without daring to make any resistance. Minutes after they had disappeared down an alley, a man instinctively rushed in pursuit of them, as if a precious opportunity had been allowed to slip away. “By God!” he shouted, beating his forehead, “and to think they could have confessed us.” “Damn it!” someone else quickly added, “What idiots we’ve been! They turn up right under our noses and we let them get away!” But who could ever catch up with the sprightly friars?

In the meantime women and evil men who had previously been arrogant were returning from churches, cursing, disappointed, and discouraged. The more clever confessors had vanished—it was reported—probably bought up by the most influential people and the powerful industrialists. It was very strange, but money amazingly preserved its certain prestige even though it was the end of the world; it was estimated that maybe a few minutes, or hours, or even several days were still left, but who knew. As for the rest of the available confessors, such a frightening throng formed in the churches that they were not even considered. It was said that serious incidents occurred precisely because of the extreme overcrowding, and that swindlers dressed as priests were even offering to make house calls to hear confessions for exorbitant prices. On the other hand, young couples hurriedly withdrew to make love one last time, stretching out on the grass in gardens without the slightest pretense of restraint. The hand, meanwhile, had turned an ashen color, even though the sun was shining, and as a result it was more frightening. The rumor that the catastrophe was imminent began to circulate; a few people were certain they would not see noon.

Just then a young priest was seen on the small, elegant balcony of a palace, a little higher than street level (it was reached by two fan-shaped flights of stairs). With his head sunk between his shoulders, he seemed as if he were afraid to leave. It was strange to see a priest at that hour, in that sumptuous house peopled by courtesans. “A priest! A priest!” was being shouted somewhere. With lightning speed the people succeeded in stopping him before he could get away. “Confess us, confess us!” they cried at him. He paled, was dragged to a rather pretty niche which jutted out from the balcony like a covered pulpit; it seemed especially made for this purpose. Dozens of men and women immediately bunched together, creating an uproar, surging from below, clambering up the ornamental projections, clinging to the columns and the edge of the bannister; after all, it wasn’t very high.

The priest began to hear confessions. Very quickly he listened to breathless secrets from unknown people (who at this point were not concerned with whether the others could hear them). Before they finished, he traced a small sign of the cross with his right hand, absolved them, and immediately turned toward the next sinner. But there were so many of them. The priest looked around in a daze, measuring the rising sea of sins that were to be erased. With great effort Luisa and Pietro also came beneath him, got their turns, managed to be heard. “I never go to Mass, I tell lies,” the young girl shouted hurriedly in a frenzy of humiliation, afraid that she wouldn’t make it in time, “and then any sin you want . . . add all of them, really . . . and I don’t say this because I’m frightened that all these people are here, believe me, it’s only that I desire to be near God, I swear to you, . . .” and the priest was convinced of her sincerity. “Ego te absolvo, . . .” he murmured and turned to listen to Pietro.

Now an inexpressible longing arose among men. One asked: “How much time until the universal judgment?” Another, a well-informed man, looked at his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said authoritatively. The priest heard the man and suddenly tried to leave. But, insatiable, the people held him. He looked feverish. It was clear that the wave of confessions came to him as no more than a confused murmur devoid of sense; he made signs of the cross one after another, repeated Ego te absolvo mechanically.

“Eight minutes!” warned a man’s voice from the crowd. The priest literally trembled, he stamped his feet on the marble like a child throwing a tantrum. “And me? What about me?” he began to implore, desperate. They cheated him of his soul’s salvation, those cursed people; the Devil take them, however many there were. But how would he deliver himself? How provide for himself? He was on the brink of tears. “And me? Me?” he asked of a thousand postulants, voracious of Paradise. Yet no one paid any attention to him.