The Honorary Consul (26 page)

       "That ought to be easy. She doesn't strike me as a difficult woman."

       "No. But I suppose sooner or later a test always comes. Like those bloody examinations we used to have at school. I'm not exactly insured against failing."

       They might have been talking, Doctor Plarr thought, about two different women—one was the woman whom Charley Fortnum loved—the other was a prostitute from Mother Sanchez' house who had waited in his bed the night before. She had asked him something. And then Colonel Perez had rung the bell. It was no use trying to remember now what it was she had asked him.

       ***

       Toward the end of the morning Marta came back from the city with a copy of 'El Litoral'—the Buenos Aires papers had not yet arrived. The editor had given headlines to Doctor Saavedra's offer—larger headlines, Doctor Plarr considered, than the story was likely to receive elsewhere. He waited to see Léon's reaction, but he made no comment when he passed the paper without a word to Aquino. Aquino said, "Who is this Saavedra?"

       "A novelist."

       "Why should he think we want a novelist in place of a Consul? What good is a novelist? Anyway he is an Argentinian. Who cares if an Argentinian dies? Not the General. Not even our own President. Nor the world either. One less of the underdeveloped to spend money on."

       At one o'clock Father Rivas turned on the radio and got a news-bulletin from Buenos Aires. Doctor Saavedra's offer was not even mentioned. Was he listening, Doctor Plarr wondered, in that little room near the prison, listening to a silence which must seem to him more humiliating than a rejection? The kidnapping had already ceased to interest the Argentinian public. There were other more exciting events which clamored for attention. A man had killed the lover of his wife (in a fight with knives of course)—that was a story which never lost appeal to a Latin American; the usual flying saucers had been reported from the south, there had been an army coup in Bolivia, and there was a detailed account of the activities of the Argentina Toot-ball team in Europe (someone had cut up the referee). At the close of the broadcast the announcer said: "There is still no news of the kidnapped British Consul. The time to fulfill the conditions set by the kidnappers expires on Sunday at midnight."

       Someone tapped on the outer door. The Indian who was back on guard stood flattened against the wall with his gun held out of sight. There were all six of them in the room at the moment—Father Rivas, Diego, the driver of the car, the pockmarked Negro Pablo, Marta and Aquino. Two of them should have been on duty outside, but now in the broad daylight, when everything was quiet, Léon had allowed them to come in to listen to the news on the radio, a mistake which he was probably regretting. The knock came a second time, and Aquino turned off the radio.

       "Pablo," Father Rivas said.

       Unwillingly Pablo approached the door. He pulled a revolver from his pocket, but the priest told him sharply, "Put it back."

       Doctor Plarr wondered with a sense of resignation, even of relief, whether this was going to be the climax of the whole absurd affair. Would there be a burst of firing when the door opened?

       Father Rivas may have had the same thought, for he moved to the center of the room as though, if this were indeed the end, he wanted to be the first one to die. Pablo pulled the door back.

       An old man stood outside. He wavered in the speckled sunlight and stared silently at them with what seemed an unnatural curiosity, until Doctor Plarr realized he was blind from cataract. The old man felt the edge of the door with a hand paper-thin, veined like an old leaf.

       "José, what are you doing here?" the Negro exclaimed.

       "I came to find the Father."

       "There is no Father here, José."

       "Oh yes, there is, Pablo. I was sitting by the water tap yesterday and I heard someone say, 'The Father who lives with Pablo is a good Father.' "

       "What do you want a Father for? Anyway, he has gone."

       The old man moved his head from one side to the other as though he were listening with each ear in turn, distinguishing the different breaths that sounded in the room, heavy breaths and muted breaths, one of them hurried, another—Diego's—with an asthmatic whistle.

       "My wife has died," he told them. "When I woke this morning and put my hand out to wake her she was cold as a wet stone. She was all right last night. She made my soup, and it was very good soup. She never told me she was going to die."

       "You must get the priest of the 'barrio', José"

       "He is not a good priest," the old man said. "He is the Archbishop's priest. You know that very well, Pablo."

       "The Father who came here was only a visitor. A relation of my cousin in Rosario. He has gone away again."

       "Who are all the people in the room, Pablo?"

       "My friends. What do you suppose? We were listening to the radio when you came."

       "My goodness, have you a radio, Pablo? How rich you have become all of a sudden."

       "It is not mine. It belongs to a friend."

       "What a rich friend you have. I need a coffin for my wife, Pablo, and I have no money."

       "You know that will all be arranged, José". We in the 'barrio' will see to that."

       "Juan says you bought a coffin from him. You have no wife, Pablo. Let me have your coffin."

       "I need the coffin for myself, José. The doctor has told me I am a very sick man. Juan will make you a coffin and all of us in the 'barrio' will pay him."

       "But there is the Mass. I want the Father to say the Mass. I do not want the Archbishop's priest." The old man took a step into the room, feeling toward them with his hands, palms up.

       "There is no Father here. I told you. He has gone back to Rosario."

       Pablo stood between the old man and Father Rivas as though he feared that even in his blindness he could pick a priest out.

       "How did you find your way here, José"?" Diego asked. "Your wife was the only eyes you had."

       "Is that Diego? I can see well enough with my hands." He held them out, fingers pointed first at Diego, then at where the doctor stood, and afterward he turned them toward Father Rivas. They were like eyes on stalks, of some strange insect. He didn't even look at Pablo. Pablo he took for granted. It was the others, the strangers, whom his hands and ears sought. He gave the impression that he was numbering them like a prison warder, while they stood in silence for his inspection. "There are four strangers here, Pablo." He took a step toward Aquino and Aquino shuffled back.

       "They are all friends of mine, José."

       "I never knew what a lot of friends you have, Pablo. They are not of this 'barrio'."

       "No."

       "They will be welcome all the same to come and see my wife."

       "They will come later, but I must lead you home now, Jose."

       "Let me hear the radio speak, Pablo. I have never heard a radio speak."

       "Ted!" the voice of Charley Fortnum called from the next room, "Ted!"

       "Who is that calling, Pablo?"

       "A sick man."

       "Ted! Where are you, Ted?"

       "A gringo!" The old man added with awe, "I have never known a gringo in the 'barrio' before. And a radio. You have become a big man, Pablo."

       Aquino turned the sound of the radio full on to drown the voice of Charley Fortnum and a woman's voice spoke loudly of the outstanding merits of Kellogg's Rice Krispies. "Popping with life and vigor," the voice said. "Golden and Honey Sweet."

       Doctor Plarr went quickly into the back room. He whispered, "What do you want, Charley?"

       "I dreamed someone was in the room. He was going to cut my throat. I was damn scared. I wanted to be sure you were still here."

       "Don't speak again. There's a stranger here. If you speak you will put all our lives in danger. I'll come back to you when he's gone."

       In the other room, as he returned, a woman's tinned voice- was saying, "She will love the scented smoothness of your cheek."

       The old man said, "It is like a miracle. To think a box is able to say beautiful things like that."

       Then someone began to sing a romantic ballad of love and death.

       "Here, José, touch the radio. Hold it in your hands." They all felt easier when the old man's hands were occupied—not turning to look at them. He held the radio close to his ears as though he were afraid to miss a single one of the beautiful words it spoke.

       Father Rivas took Pablo aside. He whispered, "I will go with him if you think it will do any good."

       "No," Pablo said, "all the 'barrio' will be gathered at his hut to see the body of his wife. They will know he has gone to fetch a priest. If the Archbishop's priest comes, he will want to know who you are. He will want to see your papers. He might send for the police."

       Aquino said, "An accident should happen to the old one before he gets back."

       "No," Pablo said, "I will not agree to that. I have known him since I was a child."

       "Anyway," the driver Diego gave his opinion in a sullen voice, "to stop his mouth would be too late now. How did the woman at the water tap know a priest was here?"

       Pablo said, "I have told no one."

       "There are never any secrets for long in a barrio," Father Rivas said.

       "He knows of the radio and the gringo," Diego said. "That is the worst of all. We ought to move from here quickly."

       "You would have to carry Fortnum on a stretcher," Doctor Plarr said.

       The old man shook the radio. He complained, "It does not rattle."

       "Why should it rattle?" Pablo asked.

       "There is a voice in it."

       "Come, José," Pablo said, "it is time for you to go back to your poor wife."

       "But the Father," Jose said, "I want the Father to anoint her."

       "I tell you, José", there is no Father here. The Archbishop's priest will do that."

       "He never comes when we send for him. He is always busy at a meeting. It will be many hours before he comes, and where will the soul of my poor wife be wandering all that while?"

       Father Rivas said, "She will come to no harm, old man. God does not wait for the Archbishop's priest."

       The man's hands turned quickly toward him. He said, "You—you there who spoke—you have a priest's voice."

       "No, no, I am not a priest. If you had your sight you would see my wife is here beside me. Speak to him, Marta."

       She said in a low voice, "Yes. This is my husband, old one."

       Pablo said, "Come. I will take you home."

       The old man clung obstinately to the radio. The music was loud, but not loud enough for him. He pressed it against his ear.

       "He told us he came here alone," Diego whispered. "How could he? Suppose someone led him here on purpose and left him at the door..."

       "He has been here twice before with his wife. The blind remember a path well. Anyway if I take him home I can tell if someone is waiting for him or watching."

       "If you do not return in two hours," Aquino said, "if they stop you... then we shall kill the Consul. You can tell them that." He added, "If only I had aimed at his back yesterday, we would be far away by now."

       "I have heard a radio," the old man said with astonishment. He laid it down gently like a fragile thing. "If only I could tell my wife..."

       "She knows," Marta said, "she knows everything."

       "Come, José." The Negro took the old man's right hand and pulled him toward the door, but he was stubborn. He twisted round, and with his free hand he seemed to be counting them over again. He said, "What a big party you have here, Pablo. Give me something to drink. Give me some 'caña'."

       "We have nothing to drink here, José." He pulled the blind man out and the Indian closed the door quickly behind them. For a moment they felt relief like a breath of wind cooling the thunder-heavy day.

       "What do you think, Léon?" Doctor Plarr asked. "Was he a spy?"

       "How can I tell?"

       "I think you should have gone with the poor man, Father," Marta said. "His wife is dead and there is no priest to help him."

       "If I had gone I would have endangered all of us."

       "You heard what he said. The Archbishop's priest cares nothing for the poor."

       "And do you think I care nothing for them? I am risking my life for them, Marta."

       "I know that, Father. I was not accusing you. You are a good man."

       "She has been dead for hours. What difference can a little oil make now? Ask the doctor."

       "Oh, I deal only with the living," Doctor Plarr said.

       The woman touched her husband's hand. "I did not want to offend you, Father. I am your woman."

       "You are not my woman. You are my wife," Father Rivas said with angry impatience.

       "If you say so."

       "I have explained to you how it is over and over again."

       "I am a stupid woman, Father. I do not always understand. Does it matter so much? A woman, a wife..."

       "It does matter. Human dignity matters, Marta. A man who feels lust takes a woman for the period of his desire, but I have taken you for life. That is marriage."

       "If you say so, Father."

       Father Rivas said in a voice which sounded tired with having eternally to teach the same thing, "Not if I say so, Marta. It is the truth."

       "Yes, Father. I would feel better if sometimes I could hear you pray..."

       "Perhaps I pray more often than you know."

       "Please do not be angry, Father. I am very proud that you chose me."

       She turned on the others who were in the room. "He could have slept with any woman he liked in our 'barrio' in Asunci6n. He is a good man. If he did not go back with the old one, he must have had a good reason. Only, please, Father..."