When the End of the World Comes

 

When the end of the world arrives, not much changes. Summer is as hot as ever. On a small island in the Mediterranean, Greeks are capitalizing on German tourists. In a beach villa, a young girl lives with her very wealthy and not-so-happy father. She enjoys swimming in the sea, sunbathing, walking on the beach, and collecting shells. Sometimes she takes her father for walks, but he suffers from the heat. Besides, business isn't going so well this summer, so she's constantly on her phone and has no time for nonsense.

The girl is quite pretty—especially young, with a slim, athletic, and tanned body. Handsome young men always seem to hang around such girls (sunsets and underwater shell-hunting expeditions—you've probably seen millions of such scenarios). However, business isn't going well only for our girl's father—the entire western part of the island has died out—the villas are empty, and people from the villages have left for the mainland to earn some money during the so-called season.

There's one such cove on the island, where the beach is the wildest, almost inaccessible from land: the precipitous slope ends abruptly in a rocky ledge, barely a speck of sand and twigs, and a hut built of driftwood—a bit awkward, blending completely into the landscape, for it wasn't built by man, but rather by the sea, throwing up new building materials, that shaped it. There's one rather dangerous path leading there—after two weeks of swimming and sunbathing, the girl was bored enough to risk descending that steep slope.

The hut was empty when she arrived. A few rags, cans, a pot on the hearth, and hanging nets. Everywhere reeked of fish. The fisherman, who arrived some time later, smelled the same as his hut—he looked very old: thin and wrinkled, with gnarled hands and a face that was surprisingly noble. He must have once been a beautiful young man.

He wasn't thrilled that she'd come. He only knew a few words of English, and before she understood what he wanted to tell her, it was too late—the tide had cut off her return—the rocky ledge became a separate island at night. For some reason, he refused to take her back in his boat, though she explained as best she could that her father would reward him for his trouble. "Well, Last Day," he said, cutting off further discussion. He went to wash up, pulled out a brand-new white robe, woven as a single piece, a brown cloak, and sandals. He dressed in these strange clothes and solemnly began preparing the meal. The girl wore little more than a bathing suit, and she was already starting to feel chilly when he brought out a cloak for her from the back of the hut, along with an extra table setting. Only when he pulled out the seven-branched candlestick did she think she understood something – Saturday, or the Sabbath, was approaching, and the fisherman had a very Jewish nose. She knew a few Jews – they had business dealings with her father. Actually, they were all "non-believers," yet somehow they didn't do business on Saturdays. This one seemed very traditional – the meal was already ready, he handed her matches, and showed her how to light the candles (she'd probably seen this ritual in a movie somewhere...). She brushed the evil spirits away from the fire and the house with slow, circular movements, and he uttered the appropriate words in Hebrew.

The sun was slow to set, as if trying to hear the evening song to the end – the old man in the scarf swayed and spoke melodiously. There was so much dignity and beauty in it! She realized how much she was missing: raised among non-believers, living from day to day. Faith had always been associated with loud careerists calling for conversion (and for confirming their faith with appropriately large donations...). And all this talk about the end of the world – it had become so fashionable this year, blaring on television and radio, hanging out at train stations and in shopping malls with flyers with garish headlines like "Convert, the end is near!". Sure, there are plenty of wars, overpopulation, famine, environmental pollution. But ultimately, it was always like this.

This old Jew, dignified and simple at the same time, who didn't convince her of anything and clearly lived without money, seemed to her the person she had been searching for for a long time.

The sun had dipped below the horizon. The fisherman pulled down his scarf and turned to the girl. He had tears in his eyes. "Pray, pray kid!" She spread her hands, shaking her head – she didn't know any prayers. "Repeat: Pater noster..." "Pater noster." "Qui es in cealis..." "Qui es..."

A prolonged thunderclap rolled across the sky, and the girl thought she heard the screams of many people. Perhaps even all the people in the world. A strange light appeared over the sea. Frightened, she crouched close to the ground, and the Fisherman stretched out his hand towards the light and cried out in a surprisingly strong voice, "Marana tha!"

Then she saw Christ. In a wonderfully kind voice, he said, in an unknown language, but in a way they both understood, "Greetings, John. You had to wait many years for the fulfillment of the Apocalypse." Peter and the others standing around the Lord called out to the beloved disciple, and the fisherman, young and full of energy as before, ran toward them.

She was left alone before the Judge.