To an outsider, he was a ticket-taker with a cash box, a shy man near the door who, at 34, was still-padded in a thin suit of babyfat with the pink cheeks of an innocent and watery blue eyes. Though C. was serious about undoing his sin, he did not look like the past nor did he help anyone remember it. He sat with his back to history, facing the door, instead. The past is for historians and the future is for believers.