Yesterday I was wandering in a cold and rainy Buda, climbing up a steep, wet, autumnal hill to the Citadella, wrapped in my duffle coat and lost in grave thoughts. On my lonely way to the top I stumbled upon a kind of small underground church built inside the rock. I entered, took off my beret and looked around. Even this cave-like church had the characteristic fragrance that until now I found in every christian place of worship. The fact that I can't describe it nor explain its presence must add to the mild awe that these cold houses of God inspire me. Maybe this scent is simply due to damp waxed wood, which all churches feature in great quantities, but anyway.
I stood for a while at the entrance to that artificial cave, staring at the rounded walls and ceiling covered in a humid concrete. An old man passed by me and into a narrow tunnel where I followed him quietly. The tunnel was only half a dozen meter long and evolved into the actual nave, where a bunch of silent chairs were waiting for the next service. The old man dipped his fingers into a primitive stoup and I tried to remember the last time that I touched holy water. He then marched to a corner where a woman was already kneeling in semi-darkness, and kneeled next to her. I observed the two for a few lengthy seconds.
On my way back to fresh air I wondered why I was all of a sudden feeling so gloomy. It occurred to me that, of this old man and me, one was terribly wrong. Being vaguely atheist, I usually regard prayer as useless and a thing of the weak. But yesterday, walking out of this sacred cave into the calm and chill daylight, the possibility arose that I could as well be the one in the wrong.
Both ways, I thought, this is all very sad. Either there is no God and these poor people are praying for nothing, or there is one and I should be the one kneeling for the salvation of my clumsy soul.
I tried to find an answer in the subsequent light rain damping my canvas shoes. Pensive and moved, I resumed climbing the steep path covered in soaked yellow leaves.
