And in a way, everything was destined. Every single moment, each decision she’d made in her life, led her to that moment in the middle of the street, her heels clicking softly on the old asphalt and a finite number of beads of sweat forming along her hairline. Perhaps even the number of beads of sweat was destined, predestined in the chemical soup that made up her brain, her body, her who sentient existence. Indeed, the same could be said not just of this moment crossing the street but of every single instant in her life. Every moment and act led to this particular act, this particular moment, which was leading to a yet-unseen but just as inevitable future, though only inevitable when the future became the present and one could look back and see the line of events leading, seemingly like fate, up to that moment. Ingrained rituals made it feel more inevitable and less like fate, but the difference between “ingrained rituals” and “fate” might be merely semantic.

But was it fate, real fate, that led Pani Basia to cross that street at that moment? Such a simple act, something Pani Basia did countless times in a given week, an automated function that had become almost ritualistic: left, right, left, first step. Could fate be little more than habit and ritual? The more often one repeats an act, the greater the chance that something that smacks of fate will happen.

As a Catholic, Pani Basia couldn’t really entertain seriously the thought of fate. Such a Protestant, such a Calvinistic idea, this fate. “Destined for God’s grace” and other such formulations. Though Pani Basia had only heard of Calvin in passing and would have been unable to provide even a general overview of his theology, she certainly would have found the proposal of predestination patently absurd. “A child’s religion,” she might suggest, preferring what she saw as the grown up acceptance of consequences inherent in Catholicism.

Furthermore, it couldn’t possible be fate. Pani Basia could change her mind at any moment, pivot on her toes, and head back across the street. That would prove that crossing the street wasn’t fate, unless she was fated to prove that crossing the street wasn’t fate, or to attempt it, or to create a child’s paradox to play with.

In the end, if anyone had suggested all these flights of philosophical fancy and theological fantasy, Pani Basia would have likely waved it all off. In and out of the classroom, Pani Basia was the mistress of her will and soul.