The power and the glory (13 page)

The pious woman was whispering to him: she must have somehow edged her way nearer: she was saying: "Father, will you hear my confession?"
"My dear child, here! It's quite impossible. Where would be the secrecy?"
"It's been so long..."
"Say an act of contrition for your sins. You must trust God, my dear, to make allowances..."
"I wouldn't mind suffering …"
"Well, you are here."
"That's nothing. In the morning my sister will have raised the money for my fine."
Somewhere against the far wall pleasure began again: it was unmistakable: the movements, the breathlessness, and then the cry. The pious woman said aloud with fury: "Why won't they stop it? The brutes, the animals!"
"What's the good of your saying an act of contrition now in this state of mind?"
"But the ugliness..."
"Don't believe that. It's dangerous. Because suddenly we discover that our sins have so much beauty."
"Beauty," she said with disgust. "Here. In this cell. With strangers all round."
Such a lot of beauty. Saints talk about the beauty of suffering. Well, we are not saints, you and I. Suffering to us is just ugly. Stench and crowding and pain. That is beautiful in that corner-to them. It needs a lot of learning to see things with a saint's eye: a saint gets a subtle taste for beauty and can look down on poor ignorant palates like theirs. But we can't afford to."
"It's a mortal sin."
"We don't know. It may be. But I'm a bad priest, you see. I know-from experience-how much beauty Satan carried down with him when he fell. Nobody ever said the fallen angels were the ugly ones. Oh, no, they were just as quick and light and..."
Again the cry came, an expression of intolerable pleasure. The woman said: "Stop them. It's a scandal." He felt fingers on his knee, grasping, digging. He said: "We're all fellow prisoners. I want drink at this moment more than anything, more than God. That's a sin too."
"Now," the woman said, "I can see you're a bad priest. I wouldn't believe it before. I do now. You sympathize with these animals. If your bishop heard you..."
"Ah, he's a very long way off."
He thought of the old man now-in the capital: living in one of those ugly comfortable pious houses, full of images and holy pictures, saying Mass on Sundays at one of the cathedral altars.
"When I get out of here, I shall write..."
He couldn't help laughing: she had no sense of change at all. He said: "If he gets the letter he'll be interested-to hear I'm alive." But again he became serious. It was more difficult to feel pity for her than for the half-caste who a week ago had tagged him through the forest; but her case might be worse. He had so much excuse-poverty and fever and innumerable humiliations. He said: "Try not to be angry. Pray for me instead."
"The sooner you are dead the better."
He couldn't see her in the darkness, but there were plenty of faces he could remember from the old days which fitted the voice. When you visualized a man or woman carefully, you could always begin to feel pity... that was a quality God's image carried with it... when you saw the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, how the hair grew, it was impossible to hate. Hate was just a failure of imagination. He began again to feel an enormous responsibility for this pious woman. "You and Padre José," she said. "It's people like you who make people mock-at real religion." She had, after all, as many excuses as the half-caste. He saw the kind of salon in which she spent her days, with the rocking-chair and the family photographs, meeting no one. He said gently: "You are not married, are you?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"And you never had a vocation?"
"They wouldn't believe it," she said bitterly.
He thought: Poor woman, she's had nothing, nothing at all. If only one could find the right word... he leant hopelessly back, moving carefully so as not to wake the old man. But the right words never came to him. He was more out of touch with her kind than he had ever been: he would have known what to say to her in the old days, feeling no pity at all, speaking with half a mind a platitude or two. Now he felt useless: he was a criminal and ought only to talk to criminals: he had done wrong again, trying to break down her complacency. He might just as well have let her go on thinking him a martyr.
His eyes closed and immediately he began to dream. He was being pursued: he stood outside a door banging on it, begging for admission, but nobody answered-there was a word, a password, which would save him, but he had forgotten it. He tried desperately at random-cheese and child, California, excellency, milk, Vera Cruz. His feet had gone to sleep and he knelt outside the door. Then he knew why he wanted to get in: he wasn't being pursued after all: that was a mistake. His child lay beside him bleeding to death and this was a doctor's s house. He banged on the door and shouted: "Even if I can't think of the right word, haven't you a heart?" The child was dying and looked up at him with middle-aged complacent wisdom. She said: "You animal," and he woke again crying. He couldn't have slept for more than a few seconds because the woman was still talking about the vocation the nuns had refused to recognize. He said: "That made you suffer, didn't it? To suffer like that-perhaps it was better than being a nun and happy," and immediately after he had spoken he thought: A silly remark, what does it mean? Why can't I find something to say to her which she could remember? He gave up the effort: this place was very like the world elsewhere: people snatched at causes of pleasure and pride in cramped and disagreeable surroundings: there was no time to do anything worth doing, and always one dreamed of escape...
He didn't sleep again: he was striking yet another bargain with God. This time, if he escaped from the prison, he would escape altogether. He would go north, over the border. His escape was so improbable that, if it happened, it couldn't be anything else but a sign-an indication that he was doing more harm by his example than good by his occasional confessions. The old man moved against his shoulder and the night just stayed around them. The darkness was always the same and there were no clocks-there was nothing to indicate time passing. The only punctuation of the night was the sound of urination.
Suddenly, he realized that he could see a face, and then another: he had begun to forget that it would ever be another day, just as one forgets that one will ever die. It comes suddenly on one in a screeching brake or a whistle in the air, the knowledge that time moves and comes to an end. All the voices slowly became faces-there were no surprises: the confessional teaches you to recognize the shape of a voice-the loose lip or the weak chin and the false candour of the too straightforward eyes. He saw the pious woman a few feet away-uneasily dreaming with her prim mouth open, showing strong teeth like tombs: the old man: the boaster in the corner, and his woman asleep untidily across his knees. Now that the day was at last here, he was the only one awake, except for a small Indian boy who squatted cross-legged near the door with an expression of interested happiness, as if he had never known such friendly company. Over the courtyard the whitewash became visible upon the opposite wall. He began formally to pay his farewell to the world: he couldn't put any heart into it. His corruption was less evident to his sense than his death. One bullet, he thought, is almost certain to go directly through the heart-a squad must contain one accurate marksman. Life would go out in a "fraction of a second" (that was the phrase), but all night he had been realizing that time depends on clocks and the passage of light. There were no clocks and the light wouldn't change. Nobody really knew how long a second of pain could be. It might last a whole purgatory-or for ever. For some reason he thought of a man he had once shrived who was on the point of death with cancer-his relatives had had to mule their faces, the smell of the rotting interior was so appalling. He wasn't a saint. Nothing in life was as ugly as death.
A voice in the yard called: "Montez:" He sat on upon his dead feet; he thought automatically: "This suit isn't good for much more": it was smeared and fouled by the cell floor and his fellow prisoners: he had obtained it at great risk in a store down by the river, pretending to be a small farmer with ideas above his station. Then he remembered he wouldn't need it much longer-it came with an odd shock, like locking the door of one's house for the last time. The voice repeated impatiently: "Montez."
He remembered that that, for the moment, was his name. He looked up from his ruined suit and saw the sergeant unlocking the cell door. "Here, Montez." He let the old man's head fall gently back against the sweating wall and tried to stand up, but his feet crumpled like pastry. "Do you want to sleep all day?" the sergeant complained testily: something had irritated him: he wasn't as friendly as he had been the night before. He let out a kick at a sleeping man and beat on the cell door: "Come on. Wake up, all of you. Out into the yard." Only the Indian boy obeyed, sliding unobtrusively out, with his look of alien happiness. The sergeant complained: "The dirty hounds. Do they want us to wash them? You, Montez." Life began to return painfully to his feet. He managed to reach the door.
The yard had come sluggishly to life. A queue of men were bathing their faces at a single tap; a man in a vest and pants sat on the ground hugging a rifle. "Get out into the yard and wash," the sergeant yelled at them, but when the priest stepped out he snapped at him: "Not you, Montez."
"Not me."
"We've got other plans for you," the sergeant said.
The priest stood waiting while his fellow prisoners filed out into the yard. One by one they went past him: he looked at their feet and not their faces, standing like a temptation at the door. Nobody said a word: a woman's feet went draggingly by in black worn low-heeled shoes. He whispered without looking up: "Pray for me."
"What's that you said, Montez?"
He couldn't think of a lie: he felt as if ten years had exhausted his whole stock of deceit.
"What's that you said?"
The shoes had stopped moving. The woman's voice said: "He was begging." She added mercilessly: "He ought to have more sense. I've nothing for him." Then she went on, flatfooted, into the yard.
"Did you sleep well, Montez?" the sergeant badgered him.
"Not very well."
"What do you expect?" the sergeant said. "It'll teach you to like brandy too well, won't it?"
"Yes." He wondered how much longer all these preliminaries would take.
"Well, if you spend all your money on brandy, you've got to do a bit of work in return for a night's lodging. Fetch the pails out of the cells and mind you don't spill them-this place stinks enough as it is."
"Where do I take them to?"
The sergeant pointed to the door of the excusado beyond the tap. "Report to me when you've finished that," he said, and went bellowing orders back into the yard.
The priest bent down and took the pail: it was full and very heavy: he went bowed with the weight across the yard: sweat got into his eyes. He wiped them free and saw one behind another in the washing queue faces he knew-the hostages. There was Miguel, whom he had seen taken away: he remembered the mother screaming out and the lieutenant's tired anger and the sun coming up. They saw him at the same time: he put down the heavy pail and looked at them. Not to recognize them would have been like a hint, a claim, a demand to them to go on suffering and let him escape. Miguel had been beaten up: there was a sore under his eye-flies buzzed round it as they buzz round a mule's raw flank. Then the queue moved on: they looked at the ground and passed him: strangers took their place. He prayed silently: O God, send them someone more worthwhile to suffer for. It seemed to him a damnable mockery that they should sacrifice themselves for a whisky priest with a bastard child. The soldier sat in his pants with his gun between his knees paring his nails and biting off the loose skin. In an odd way he felt abandoned because they had shown no sign of recognition.
The excusado was a cesspool with two planks across it on which a man could stand. He emptied the pail and went back across the yard to the row of cells. There were six: one by one he took the pails: once he had to stop and retch: splash, splash, to and fro across the yard. He came to the last cell. It wasn't empty: a man lay back against the wall: the early sun just reached his feet. Flies buzzed around a mound of vomit on the floor. The eyes opened and watched the priest stooping over the pail: two fangs protruded....
The priest moved quickly and splashed the floor. The half-caste said in that too-familiar nagging tone: "Wait a moment. You cant do that in here." He explained proudly: "I'm not a prisoner. I'm a guest." The priest made a motion of apology (he was afraid to speak) and moved again. "Wait a moment," the half-caste commanded him again. "Come here."
The priest stood stubbornly, half-turned away, near the door. "Come here," the half-caste said. "You're a prisoner, aren't you?-and I'm a guest-of the Governor. Do you want me to shout for a policeman? Then do as you're told: come here." It seemed as if God were deciding... finally. He came, pail in hand, and stood beside the large flat naked foot, and the half-caste looked up at him from the shadow of the wall, asking him sharply and anxiously: "What are you doing here?"
"Cleaning up."
"You know what I mean."
"I was caught with a bottle of brandy," the priest said, trying to roughen his voice.
"I know you," the half-caste said, "I couldn't believe my eyes, but when you speak..."
"I don't think …"
"That priest's voice," the half-caste said with disgust. He was like a dog of a different breed: he couldn't help his hackles' rising. The big toe moved plumply and inimically. The priest put down the pail. He argued hopelessly: "You're drunk."
"Beer, beer," the half-caste said, "nothing but beer. They promised me the best of everything, but you can't trust them. Don't I know the jefe's got his own brandy locked away?"
"I must empty the pail."
"If you move, I'll shout. I've got so many things to think about," the half-caste complained bitterly. The priest waited: there was nothing else to do: he was at the man's mercy-a silly phrase, for those malarial eyes had never known what mercy is. He was saved at any rate from the indignity of pleading.
"You see," the mestizo carefully explained, "I'm comfortable here." His yellow toes curled luxuriously beside the vomit. "Good food, beer, company, and this roof doesn't leak. You don't have to tell me what'll happen after-they'll kick me out like a dog, like a dog." He became shrill and indignant. "What have they got you here for? That's what I want to know. It looks crooked to me. It's my job, isn't it, to find you? Who's going to have the reward if they've got you already? The jefe, I shouldn't wonder, or that bastard sergeant." He brooded unhappily: "You can't trust a soul these days."