Monsignor Quixote (2 page)

‘Bishop of Motopo?'

‘
In partibus infidelium
, my friend. Is there a garage near here? My car refuses to go on any further, and if there should be a restaurant – my stomach begins to clamour for food.'

‘There is a garage in my village, but it is closed because of a funeral – the mother-in-law of the garagist has died.'

‘May she rest in peace,' the bishop said automatically, clutching at his pectoral cross. He added, ‘What a confounded nuisance.'

‘He'll be back in a few hours.'

‘A few hours! Is there a restaurant anywhere near?'

‘Monsignor, if you would honour me by sharing my humble lunch . . . the restaurant in El Toboso is not to be recommended, either for the food or for the wine.'

‘A glass of wine is essential in my situation.'

‘I can offer you a good little local wine and if you would be contented with a simple steak . . . and a salad. My housekeeper always prepares more than I can eat.'

‘My friend, you certainly prove to be my guardian angel in disguise. Let us go.'

The front seat of Father Quixote's car was occupied by the jar of wine, but the bishop insisted on crouching – he was a very tall man – in the back. ‘We cannot disturb the wine,' he said.

‘It is not an important wine, monsignor, and you will be much more comfortable . . .'

‘No wine can be regarded as unimportant, my friend, since the marriage at Cana.'

Father Quixote felt rebuked and silence fell between them until they arrived at his small house near the church. He was much relieved when the bishop, who had to stoop to enter the door which led directly into the priest's parlour, remarked, ‘It is an honour for me to be a guest in the house of Don Quixote.'

‘My bishop does not approve of the book.'

‘Holiness and literary appreciation don't always go together.'

The bishop went to the bookshelf where Father Quixote kept his missal, his breviary, the New Testament, a few tattered volumes of a theological kind, the relics of his studies, and some works by his favourite saints.

‘If you will excuse me, monsignor . . .'

Father Quixote went to find his housekeeper in the kitchen which served also as her bedroom, and it must be admitted the kitchen sink was her only washbasin. She was a square woman with protruding teeth and an embryo moustache; she trusted no one living, but had a certain regard for the saints, the female ones. Her name was Teresa, and nobody in El Toboso had thought to nickname her Dulcinea, since no one but the Mayor, who was reputed to be Communist, and the owner of the restaurant had read Cervantes' work, and it was doubtful if the latter had got much further than the battle with the windmills.

‘Teresa,' Father Quixote said, ‘we have a guest for lunch which must be prepared quickly.'

‘There is only your steak and a salad, and what remains of the manchego cheese.'

‘My steak is always big enough for two, and the bishop is an amiable man.'

‘The bishop? I won't serve him.'

‘Not
our
bishop. An Italian. A very courteous man.'

He explained the situation in which he had found the bishop.

‘But the steak . . .' Teresa said.

‘What about the steak?'

‘You can't give the bishop horsemeat.'

‘My steak is horsemeat?'

‘It always has been. How can I give you beef with the money you allow me?'

‘You have nothing else?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Oh dear, oh dear. We can only pray that he doesn't notice. After all, I have never noticed.'

‘
You
have never eaten anything better.'

Father Quixote returned to the bishop in a troubled state of mind, carrying with him a half-bottle of malaga. He was glad when the bishop accepted a glass and then a second one. Perhaps the drink might confuse his taste-buds. He had settled himself deeply in Father Quixote's only easy chair. Father Quixote watched him with anxiety. The bishop didn't look dangerous. He had a very smooth face which might never have known a razor. Father Quixote regretted that he had neglected to shave that morning after early Mass which he had celebrated in an empty church.

‘You're on holiday, monsignor?'

‘Not exactly on holiday, though it is true I am enjoying my change from Rome. The Holy Father has entrusted me with a little confidential mission because of my knowledge of Spanish. I suppose, father, that you see a great many foreign tourists in El Toboso.'

‘Not many, monsignor, for there is very little for them to see here, except for the Museum.'

‘What do you keep in the Museum?'

‘It is a very small museum, monsignor, one room. No bigger than my parlour. It holds nothing of interest except the signatures.'

‘What do you mean by the signatures? May I perhaps have another glass of malaga? Sitting in the sun in that broken-down car has made me very thirsty.'

‘Forgive me, monsignor. You see how unused I am to being a host.'

‘I have never encountered before a Museum of Signatures.'

‘You see, a Mayor of El Toboso years ago began writing to heads of state asking for translations of Cervantes with a signature. The collection is quite remarkable. Of course there is General Franco's signature in what I would call the master copy, and there is Mussolini's and Hitler's (very tiny, his, like a fly's mess) and Churchill's and Hindenburg's and someone called Ramsay MacDonald – I suppose he was the Prime Minister of Scotland.'

‘Of England, father.'

Teresa came in with the steaks and they seated themselves at table and the bishop said grace.

Father Quixote poured out the wine and watched with apprehension as the bishop took his first slice of steak, which he quickly washed down with wine – perhaps to take away the taste.

‘It is a very common wine, monsignor, but here we are very proud of what we call the manchegan.'

‘The wine is agreeable,' the bishop said, ‘but the steak . . . the steak,' he said, staring at his plate while Father Quixote waited for the worst, ‘the steak . . .' he said a third time as though he were seeking deep in his memory of ancient rites for the correct term of anathema – Teresa meanwhile hovered in the doorway, waiting too – ‘never, at any table, have I tasted . . . so tender, so flavoursome, I am tempted to be blasphemous and say so divine a steak. I would like to congratulate your admirable housekeeper.'

‘She is here, monsignor.'

‘My dear lady, let me shake your hand.' The bishop held out his beringed palm down as though he expected a kiss rather than a shake. Teresa backed hurriedly into the kitchen. ‘Did I say something wrong?' the bishop asked.

‘No, no, monsignor. It is only that she is unaccustomed to cooking for a bishop.'

‘She has a plain and honest face. In these days one is often embarrassed to find even in Italy very
marriageable
housekeepers – and alas! only too often marriage does follow.'

Teresa came rapidly in with some cheese and retired at the same speed.

‘A little of our
queso manchego
, monsignor?'

‘And perhaps another glass of wine to go with it?'

Father Quixote began to feel warm and comfortable. He was encouraged to press a question which he wouldn't have dared to ask his own bishop. A Roman bishop after all was closer to the fount of faith, and the bishop's welcome to the steak of horsemeat encouraged him. It was not for nothing that he had called his Seat 600 Rocinante, and he was more likely to receive a favourable answer if he spoke of her as a horse.

‘Monsignor,' he said, ‘there is one question I have often asked myself, a question which is perhaps likely to occur more frequently to a countryman than to a city dweller.' He hesitated like a swimmer on a cold brink. ‘Would you consider it heretical to pray to God for the life of a horse?'

‘For the terrestrial life,' the bishop answered without hesitation, ‘no – a prayer would be perfectly allowable. The Fathers teach us that God created animals for man's use, and a long life of service for a horse is as desirable in the eyes of God as a long life for my Mercedes which, I am afraid, looks like failing me. I must admit, however, that there is no record of miracles in the case of inanimate objects, but in the case of beasts we have the example of Balaam's ass who by the mercy of God proved of more than usual use to Balaam.'

‘I was thinking less of the use of a horse to its master than of a prayer for its happiness – and even for a good death.'

‘I see no objection to praying for its happiness – it might well make it docile and of greater use to its owner – but I am not sure what you mean by a good death in the case of a horse. A good death for a man means a death in communion with God, a promise of eternity. We may pray for the terrestrial life of a horse, but not for its eternal life – that would be verging on heresy. It is true there is a movement in the Church that would grant the possibility that a dog may have what one may call an embryo soul, though personally I find the idea sentimental and dangerous. We mustn't open unnecessary doors by imprudent speculation. If a dog has a soul, why not a rhinoceros or a kangaroo?'

‘Or a mosquito?'

‘Exactly. I can see, father, that you are on the right side.'

‘But I have never understood, monsignor, how a mosquito could have been created for man's use. What use?'

‘Surely, father, the use is obvious. A mosquito may be likened to a scourge in the hands of God. It teaches us to endure pain for love of him. That painful buzz in the ear – perhaps it is God buzzing.'

Father Quixote had the unfortunate habit of a lonely man: he spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘The same use would apply to a flea.' The bishop eyed him closely, but there was no sign of humour in Father Quixote's gaze: it was obvious that he was plunged far in his own thoughts.

‘These are great mysteries,' the bishop told him. ‘Where would our faith be if there were no mysteries?'

‘I am wondering,' Father Quixote said, ‘where I have put the bottle of cognac that a man from Tomelloso brought me some three years back. This might be the right moment for opening it. If you will excuse me, monsignor . . . Teresa may know.' He made for the kitchen.

‘He has drunk quite enough for a bishop,' Teresa said.

‘Hush. Your voice carries. The poor bishop is very worried about his car. He feels it has failed him.'

‘In my opinion, it is all his own fault. When I was a young girl I lived in Africa. Negroes and bishops always forget to refill with petrol.'

‘You really think . . . It's true he is a very unworldly man. He believes that the buzz of a mosquito . . . Give me the cognac. While he drinks, I'll see if I can do anything about his car.'

He took a jerrycan of petrol from the boot of Rocinante. He didn't believe the problem was as simple as all that, but there was no harm in trying, and sure enough the tank was empty. Why hadn't the bishop noticed? Perhaps he had and was too ashamed to admit his foolishness to a country priest. He felt sorry for the bishop. Unlike his own bishop, the Italian was a kindly man. He had drunk the young wine without complaint, he had eaten the horse steak with relish. Father Quixote didn't want to humiliate him. But how was he to save the bishop's face? He ruminated for a long time against the bonnet of the Mercedes. If the bishop had not noticed the gauge it would surely be easy to pretend a mechanical knowledge which he didn't possess. In any case it would be as well to get some oil on his hands . . .

The bishop was quite happy with the cognac from Tomelloso. He had found on the shelves among the textbooks a copy of Cervantes' work which Father Quixote had bought when he was a boy, and he was smiling over a page as his own bishop would certainly not have done.

‘Here is a very apposite passage, father, which I was reading as you came in. What a moral writer Cervantes was, whatever your bishop may say. “It is a duty of loyal vassals to tell their lords the truth in its proper shape and essence without enlarging on it out of flattery or softening it for any idle reason. I would have you know, Sancho, that if the naked truth were to come to the ears of princes, unclothed in flattery, this would be a different age.” In what condition did you find the Mercedes, has it been bewitched by some sorcerer in this dangerous region of La Mancha?'

‘The Mercedes is ready to be driven, monsignor.'

‘A miracle? Or has the garagist returned from the funeral?'

‘The garagist has not yet returned, so I took a look at the engine myself.' He held out his hands. ‘A messy job. You were very low in petrol – that was easy to remedy, I always have a spare jerrycan – but what was the real fault?'

‘Ah, it wasn't only the petrol,' the bishop said with satisfaction.

‘There were some adjustments to be made to the engine – I never know the technical names for these things – it needed a good deal of fiddling around, but it is working satisfactorily now. Perhaps when you reach Madrid, monsignor, it would be as well to get a professional overhaul.'

‘Then I can be off?'

‘Unless you would like to have a short siesta. Teresa could prepare my bed.'

‘No, no, father. I feel completely refreshed by your excellent wine and the steak – ah, the steak. Besides, I have a dinner tonight in Madrid and I don't like arriving in the dark.'

As they made their way to the main road the bishop questioned Father Quixote. ‘For how many years have you lived in El Toboso, father?'

‘Since my childhood, monsignor. Except during my studies for the priesthood.'