onegoodmove

Ian McEwan is one of may favorite authors and an atheist. You may have watched the segment on him in the [Root of All Evil](http://richarddawkins.net/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=6). I recently finished reading [Enduring Love](http://amazon.com/dp/0385494149/?tag=onegoodmove-20) a novel he wrote ten years ago, and one of his best. The protaganist, Joe Rose, is one I like a lot, a science writer,and a rationalist. He is a character who has much in common with the author. It's not suprising, but interesting, how McEwan draws on his personal experiences and imbues this character with his own feelings and beliefs in this story.

realted: [I think I'm right, therefore I am](http://books.guardian.co.uk/reviews/generalfiction/0,6121,98968,00.html)

I said,"there is nothing we can do but wait," and gestured in the direction of the road, one field away.

Parry took a couple of steps closer and looked down at Logan then back to me. The gray-blue eyes gleamed. He was excited, but no one could ever have guessed to what extent. "Actually, I think there is something we can do."

I looked at my watch. It was fifteen minutes since I had phoned the emergency services. "You go ahead," I said. "Do what you like."

"It's something we can do together?" he said as he looked about for a suitable place on the ground. The wild though came to me that he was proposing some form of gross indecency with a corpse. He was lowering himself and with a look was inviting me to join him. Then I got it. He was on his knees.

"What we could do," he said with s a seriousness that warned against mockery, "is to pray together?" Before I could object, which for the moment was impossible because I was speechless, Parry added, "I know it's difficult. But you'll find it helps. At times like this, you know, it really does help."

I took a step away from both Logan and Parry. I was embarrassed, and my first thought was not to offend a true believer. But I got a grip on myself. He wasn't concerned about offending me.

"I'm sorry," I said pleasantly. "It's not my thing at all."

Parry tried to speak reasonably from his diminished height. "Look, we don't know each other and there's no reason why you should trust me. Except that God has brought us together in this tragedy and we have to, you know, make whatever sense of it we an?" Then, seeing me make no move, he added, "I think you have a special need for prayer?"

I shrugged and said, "Sorry. But you go right on ahead." I Americanized my tone to suggest a lightheartedness I did not feel.

Parry wasn't giving up. He was still on his knees. "I don't thin you understand. You shouldn't you know, think of this as some kind of duty. It's like, your needs are being answered? It's go nothing to do with me, really, I'm just the messenger. It's a gift."

As he pressed harder, so the last traces of my embarrassment disappeared. "Thanks, but no."

Parry closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, not praying so much as gathering his strength. I decided to walk back up the hill. When he heard me moving away, he got to his fee and came over. He really didn't want to let me go. He was desperate to persuade me, but he was not going to drop the patient, understanding manner. So he seemed to smile through a barrier of pain as he aid, "Please don't dismiss this. I know it's not something you'd normally do. I mean, you don't have to believe in anything at all, just let yourself do it and I promise you, I promise—"

As he tripped over the terms of his promise, I interrupted him and stepped back. I suspected that at any moment he would be reaching out to touch me. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm going back to see my friend." I couldn't bring myself to share Clarissa's name with him.

He must have know his only chance of keeping me now was a radical change of tone. I was already several steps away when he called sharply, "Okay, fine. Please just have the courtesy to tell me this."

It was irresistible. I stopped and turned.

"What is it exactly, that stands in your way? I mean, are you able to tell me, do you actually know yourself what it is?"

For a moment I thought I wouldn't answer him—I wanted him to know that his faith laid no obligations on me. But then I changed my mind and said, "Nothing. Nothing's standing in my way."

He was coming toward me again, with his arms hanging loose at his side and with the palms turned up and the fingers spread in a little melodrama of the reasonable man perplexed. "Then why don't you take a chance on it?" he said through a worldly laugh. "You might see the point of it, the strength it can give you. Please, why don't you?"

Again, I hesitated and almost said nothing. But I decided he ought to know the truth. "Because, my friend, no one's listening. There's no one up there."

Parry's head was cocked, and the most joyous of smiles was spreading slowly across his face. I wondered if he had heard me right, because he looked as though I had just told him I was John the Baptist. It was then that I noticed over his shoulder two policeman climbing over a five-barred gate. As they ran across the field toward us, one of them used a hand to keep his hat in place, Keystone Kops style. They were coming to set in motion the official processing of John Logan's fate and, as I saw it, to deliver me from the radiating power of Jed Parry's love and pity.