Afternoons studying with Silvia, in some cases, serve as the only antidote to the venom of sadness. We study, and sometimes a line of Dante or a saying from a philosopher carries us off. I tell her about my visits with Beatrice. I repeat to her everything we say and I feel better; the meetings with Beatrice stay within me like a stone to be digested. But digesting stones is impossible. In some way, the chats with Silvia contain the enzyme that helps break down those hard stones. Silvia listens to me attentively, without commenting. Even her silence is enough. Once, however, she asked me, “Should we pray for her?”
I trust Silvia, and if she thinks that something is good, I’ll do it. So sometimes we say a prayer. Not that I believe in it, but Silvia does. And so we say this prayer for the healing of Beatrice, “God, (if you exist—I add this secretly), make Beatrice get better.”
It is no big deal of a prayer, but the substance is there. And if God is God, He doesn’t need too many words. If God doesn’t exist, all those words are useless; but, if God does exist, maybe He will awaken from his century-old sleep and finally get busy doing something that is worthwhile. I’ve never said this to Silvia, so as not to offend her, but that is what I think.