jean-claude arnaud besson. thirty-nine. group member. paris, france. javier bardem.
Frank Costello: You do well in school?
Colin Sullivan: Yeah
Frank Costello: Good. So did I. They call that a paradox.
His father used to tell him a story.
They weren’t particularly devoted Catholic Parisians, but Papa liked to pretend he was — he went to Sunday Mass, he prayed in the mornings and nights, he said Grace before he let his family eat their meals. The routine made him feel pure and holy, he said, which was, he suspected, the whole purpose of it, anyway.
Jean-Claude, eight years old, strapped unwillingly into his finest and most uncomfortable shoes, mumbled, “Then why do we need to go to Sunday school if we don’t even like God?”
Papa grabbed him roughly around the shoulders and said, “Listen here, mon fils, while you still live and breath, you will never say that again. Not while God can hear you. They can fool you into thinking that He is a benevolent God, they can teach you that as long as you do well, He will listen, but I read the Bible, God’s word itself, and I know better. There’s a passage that tells the story of how the angels, sent by God, destroyed the city of Sodom for being filthy and reprehensible. They told Lot, and his wife, and his daughters, to flee the city while they could, but to never look back. While He was setting fire to Sodom, scorching it from the earth, Lot’s wife disobeyed the angels. She looked back. When she did, she was turned into a pillar of salt, as punishment. That, mon Claude, that is the true nature of God.”
Maman appeared at their side, said, “Oh, mon cher, what are you telling him now? He’s just a child, you know. He’ll have time for this later in life.” Soon after, she ushered Claude away, but that night, he had a nightmare of a burning desert city, clouded by billows of black smoke. A sign from above, perhaps.
And he never forgot that God was cruel.
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