Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (26 page)

The archbishop was flanked by
two men in black with gold sashes, and followed by two minions in
white, red and gold robes. The colours weren’t ideal but there
wasn’t much he could do about that now. His holiness reached the
front and the chaplain bowed reverently. They had a whispered
conversation and then the chaplain smiled, bowed again and returned
to his lectern. Underneath the pomp and ceremony, Perry sensed
stiltedness between them.

‘
The
archbishop apologises for his lateness to you all, he had his own
service to run of course and what with the weather...anyway, after
seeing us, his holiness has an appointment with none other than
President Pellegrini! We are honoured indeed to factor into his
plans on so busy a day.

‘
We will now
proceed straight to confession. For those who do not wish it, you
may return to the cells. I believe some of the Archbishop’s aides
will be walking the grounds talking with you for the next hour or
so,’ he looked to the archbishop and received a nod, ‘yes,
marvellous,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Let us pray. Dear Lord, thank
you for sending the archbishop and his party into our holy chapel
to share with us this most important day, the day he rose, your
son, our saviour the Lord Jesus Christ. We ask for your
forgiveness…
Amen
.’

‘
Amen
.’

People rose and shuffled down
their rows. Perry followed Martín and Osvaldo. People bustled in
the nave, some, like Osvaldo and Ricardo heading towards the exit,
others, like Martín, towards the confession boxes. Perry slowed, he
had to make sure he was last in line and he kept his head down in
shadow as much as he could. The fewer people who saw his new
appearance the better.

People pushed past him on their
way out, but he took his time and it wasn’t long before it was only
the religious dregs left in the chapel. A sizable queue at both
confession boxes, nearly twenty in each by Perry’s reckoning. He
joined the back of the west line, a few behind Martín. On the east
wing, Santi was mirroring his position at the back of the
queue.

The archbishop let himself into
the confession box on Perry’s side, the chaplain on Santi’s. The
archbishop’s aides hurried out to do their rounds.

Time passed and Perry prepared
by doing the little he could, undoing his top and bottom buttons to
save time, loosening his foot in his shoe. The wait was killing
him. Santi’s line was going down a lot faster than his own, perhaps
people had more to unload onto the archbishop. He worried what
Santi would do if he got out earlier, how he would remain in the
chapel without being recognised by the guards or other inmates.
Maybe his plan was too simple, too ridiculous, they were surely
going to get caught. Perry wiped sweat from his brow and ran his
hand across his neck. No smudging yet. He had to keep cool.

The line
slowly shortened and the man in front of Martín went in, Perry took
a stride forward.
Nearly
there
. He checked Santi’s progress; he was
letting himself into the confession box! Perry’s blood thumped
round his body so loud he wondered if the inmate in front could
hear it.
Come on!

And then it was Martín’s turn,
but before he could go in, a door opened with a creak and the
archbishop appeared. He pulled a pocketwatch from a deep fold in
his robes, examined the face and shook his head.

‘
Lo
siento,
there is time only for one more.
The rest will have to see the chaplain,’ his voice was deep and
genuinely apologetic. Perry’s heart dropped. If the archbishop left
before he got changed, that was it. It would all have been for
nothing.

‘
Please,’
Perry said, ‘I really wanted to talk to you, I’ve been looking
forward to this since we heard you were coming.’

The archbishop’s face didn’t
move, ‘I truly am sorry. The President waits for me, I don’t mind
which of you it is but hurry,’ and he returned inside.

The man in front of Perry
scratched his head, ‘Martín, you’re next in line. It should be
you.’

The prisoner in front of him
nodded, ‘I saw him last year. The chaplain will do for me anyway,
go ahead Martín.’

Martín nodded,
‘
Gracias
.’

The man in front of Perry then
turned to face him.

‘
Perhaps next
year
Inglés.
Come,
let’s go to the chaplain.’

Perry glanced over and saw
Santi slip out in robes and move into the shadows. He could get
changed in the other box, like Santi, but not before the archbishop
left. He racked his brains for something, anything. Could he steal
away by the Mary statue and change there?

‘
Perry,’ it
was Martín.

‘
Huh?’

‘
Take my
turn.’

‘
What? No
Martín…I…it’s your turn,’ he fumbled with the words, caught out by
the surprise of it. Yes it was what he wanted, but to deny his
friend felt wrong.

‘
Rápido
,’ Martín grabbed him by the
shoulders and pushed him gently forward, ‘before the archbishop
leaves.’

‘
Martín, I
don’t know what…thank you,’

He felt Martín
pat him on the back, ‘
Suerte.’
Luck.

Stunned, Perry stepped inside
and closed the door behind him. Did Martín know? He could worry
about that later.

He took a couple of breaths to
collect himself.

‘
Quick! Make
your confession,’ the voice ordered on the other side of the
grille, startling him into action.

His sweaty
fingers slipped over his next button, found purchase and he
threaded it though the hole. He cleared his throat and remembered
his plan. He had to disguise his voice too. The archbishop may be
in a rush but an English accent was easy to pick out. He prepared
to speak his Spanish in a drawly tone much like a Frenchman he’d
once heard speak at
Julio
station, ‘er oui of course, er, yes. Forgive me
archbishop, for I ‘ave sinned,’ he softened his mouth as he spoke,
lengthened his Spanish. And his fingers made quick work of the next
three buttons.

‘
I ‘ave not
spoken to my fasser in a year. I dishonour ‘im.’

‘
And why have
you not written to him at least?’

‘
He is in
prison too monsieur, back home,
en
France
. I do not know ‘is
address.’

Monsieur? Where had that come
from? Don’t overbutter the toast you idiot!

‘
That’s hardly
your fault is it?’

‘
If I were a
good son I would find it out
non
?’

‘
Yes, quite
right I suppose. Look, I think for this you must do just that,
write to your father and more importantly pray for him.’

Perry pulled his feet through
the trousers.

‘
Oui
, I will do just as you
say.’

‘
In the name
of the Father, the Son and the Holy spirit,
Amen
.’

Perry adjusted
his collar. He was ready. ‘
Amen.
’

He let himself out and
immediately saw Santi, stood by the chapel wall directly in front
of the archbishop’s door. He looked stony faced, relaxed almost.
Perry tiptoed over to join him. His holiness was still shuffling
about in the confession box.

‘
Father
Pedro,’ Perry said.

‘
Father Hood,’
Santi nodded back.

‘
Hood?’ Perry
whispered.

‘
He’s the only
English name I remember. Robin Hood. Did you disguise your voice in
there?’

‘
Did a
Frenchman,’ Perry hissed.

The door opened, the archbishop
blew his cheeks out. He had a satchel and an umbrella in his
hand.

‘
Archbishop,’
Perry said, without trying to hide his English accent, ‘I am
Peregrin Hood, a missionary working with the chaplain in the
penitentiary. He regrets he cannot see you off,’ Perry waved a
hand, ‘As you can see he now has a couple more people to attend
to.’

Santi stepped forward. ‘He
asked, with the greatest respect, that given your shortened visit,
your aides could perhaps dwell a little longer in the
penitentiary?’

The archbishop bristled. ‘Who
does that jumped up sow think-’

‘
-though he
has offered our services to help you with your effects and provide
an escort.’

‘
Fine,’ the
archbishop shoved his satchel into Perry’s arms, ‘it’s heavy. I
hope you can walk fast.’

Perry took it, ‘I’m sure we can
manage.’

‘
Take this,’
he handed the umbrella to Santi, ‘it’s not becoming for an
archbishop to hoist his own umbrella when the weather is
atrocious.’

‘
I’d be
honoured,’ said Santi.

Perry heaved the satchel onto
his shoulder. ‘Shall we?’

The guard at the door had his
back to them, and as the party approached, the sound of their
footsteps must have registered. The guard turned to face them.
Perry felt his hands start to shake; they were going to get made.
It was one thing to fool a hurried archbishop, but a guard who knew
their faces, what had he been thinking?

On seeing
them, the guard’s eyes locked onto to the archbishop, he crossed
his chest and bowed his head and the three of them walked past
untroubled. Perry looked over in wide-eyed amazement at
Santi:
magic.

Archbishop Aneiros charged
ahead of them.

‘
Come on keep
up,’ he barked.

They trotted faithfully behind
him, through a corridor, to a guarded door and as if under some
spell, each guard they passed made the sign of the cross and bowed
their heads in reverence. Perry couldn’t believe their luck.

The archbishop’s mood helped
them no end, as they neared the exit, he shouted ahead:

‘
Open that
door, I’m in a hurry!’

The guards ran like scared
children, fumbling keys in the lock so the three of them barely had
to break stride. And before Perry knew it, he was standing in the
doorway of the penitentiary with a fellow inmate and the Archbishop
of Buenos Aires. He was dumbstruck, absorbing the tantalising sight
of freedom.

Lines of rain, drawn from
heaven to their feet, nearly disguised the carriage splashing its
way towards them.

‘
Are you
needed inside?’ the archbishop asked.

Perry shook his head, sensing
an opportunity, ‘How can we serve you your Grace? The chaplain has
no further need of us today.’

‘
No,’
confirmed Santi, ‘we are at your disposal.’

‘
Just make
sure I don’t get wet and keep that satchel dry, it’s Patagonian
leather, I won’t have it marred by the rain.’

Perry and Santi looked at each
other and smiled. Santi pushed the umbrella open and used his
height to good effect, following the archbishop down the steps,
Perry following behind. The coachman opened the door and helped the
archbishop up into the carriage. Santi clambered up after him,
shook the umbrella out and then gave Perry his hand. Perry grasped
it, slippery but firm and pulled himself into the protection of the
carriage.

31

Lightning
flickered behind clouds and the rain fell in heavy globules.
Puddles became islands of rainwater growing out like eggs dropped
on a griddle. It wasn’t long before a stream of rainwater swept
down
Las Heras
Street, turning the ground to little more than a muddy
riverbed. Bat-like coachmen in glistening raincoats drove their
carriages through the growing river streets with desperate speed
before conditions worsened.

One coach, with gilded gold on
its sides, made its way down a tree-lined avenue. The two fine
draft horses found purchase with their heavy hooves and tugged the
carriage and its three passengers forward, as if they alone were
unzipping the grimy underbelly of the city.

The coach took
a right down
Callao
and then a left onto the grand
Avenida de Mayo.
The few pedestrians
cowered under umbrellas, scurrying like beetles. The avenue opened
out into a wide square, the
Plaza de
Mayo
; its pyramid centrepiece peering above
a rank of drowning palm trees. The carriage pulled to a stop
outside a grand building, the pink government house. The coachman
hopped to the floor with a splash, wiped the carriage handle with
his sleeve and opened the door.

The archbishop poked his head
out. ‘Couldn’t you have got us nearer the door?’

‘
Sorry your
holiness.’

The archbishop shook his head
disapprovingly and turned to the two companions in his
carriage.

‘
Imbecile.’

‘
Indeed,’
Perry agreed, though he couldn’t see how the carriage could have
gotten closer given there was a stone staircase in the way. The
archbishop turned his attention to outside again.

‘
Look at that
ground, I can’t walk through that! And why aren’t those fools in
the doorway coming down to receive us? It’s just a bit of
rain.’

Perry wiped the window of the
carriage with his sleeve and peered through the threads of grey. It
was hard to make out, but there were a group of people loitering,
the reception party he assumed. Perry glanced over at Santi, his
expression reflected his own thoughts - time to get away from
here.