The power and the glory (8 page)

"What of? Why are you going away?"
He came a little nearer: he thought-a man may kiss his own daughter; but she started away from him. "Don't you touch me," she screeched at him in her ancient voice, and giggled. Every child was born with some kind of knowledge of love, he thought; they took it with the milk at the breast: but on parents and friends depended the kind of love they knew-the saving or the damning kind. Lust too was a kind of love. He saw her fixed in her life like a fly in amber-Maria's hand raised to strike: Pedro talking prematurely in the dusk; and the police beating the forest-violence everywhere. He prayed silently: "O God, give me any kind of death-without contrition, in a state of sin-only save this child."
He was a man who was supposed to save souls: it had seemed quite simple once, preaching at Benediction, organizing the guilds, having coffee with elderly ladies behind barred windows, blessing new houses with a little incense, wearing black gloves... it was as easy as saving money: now it was a mystery. He was aware of his own desperate inadequacy.
He went down on his knees and pulled her to him, while she giggled and struggled to be free. He said: "I love you. I am your father and I love you. Try to understand that." He held her tightly by the wrist and suddenly she stayed still, looking up at him. He said: "I would give my life, that's nothing, my soul... my dear, my dear, try to understand that you are-so important." That was the difference, he had always known, between his faith and theirs, the political leaders of the people who cared only for things like the state, the republic: this child was more important than a whole continent. He said: "You must take care of yourself because you are so-necessary. The President up in the capital goes guarded by men with guns-but, my child, you have all the angels of heaven-" She stared back at him out of dark and unconscious eyes: he had a sense that he had come too late. He said: "Good-bye, my dear," and clumsily kissed her-a silly infatuated ageing man, who as soon as he released her and started padding back to the plaza could feel behind his hunched shoulders the whole vile world coming round the child to ruin her. His mule was there, saddled, by the gaseosa stall. A man said: "Better go north, father," and stood waving his hand. One mustn't have human affections-or rather one must love every soul as if it were one's own child. The passion to protect must extend itself over a world-but he felt it tethered and aching like a hobbled animal to the tree trunk. He turned his mule south.
He was travelling in the actual track of the police: so long as he went slowly and didn't overtake any stragglers it seemed a fairly safe route. What he needed now was wine-and it had to be made with grapes: without it he was useless; he might as well escape north into the mountains and the safe state beyond, where the worst that could happen to him was a fine and a few days in prison because he couldn't pay. But he wasn't ready yet for the final surrender-every small surrender had to be paid for in a further endurance, and now he felt the need of somehow ransoming his child. He could stay another month, another year... jogging up and down on the mule he tried to bribe God with promises of firmness.... The mule suddenly dug in its hoofs and stopped dead: a tiny green snake raised itself like an affronted woman on the path and then hissed away into the grass like a match-flame. The mule went on.
When he came near a village he would stop the mule and advance as close as he could on foot-the police might have stopped there-then he would ride quickly through, speaking to nobody beyond a buenos días, and again on the forest path he would pick up the track of the lieutenant's horse. He had no dear idea now about anything: he only wanted to put as great a distance as possible between him and the village where he had spent the night. In one hand he still carried the scrumpled ball of paper. Somebody had tied a bunch of about fifty bananas to his saddle beside the machete and the small bag which contained his store of candles, and every now and then he ate one-ripe, brown, and sodden, tasting of soap. It left a smear like a moustache over his mouth.
After six hours' travelling he came to La Candelaria, which lay, a long mean tin-roofed village, beside one of the tributaries of the Grijalva River. He came cautiously out into the dusty street it was early afternoon: the buzzards sat on the roofs with their small heads hidden from the sun, and a few men lay in hammocks in the narrow shade the houses cast. The mule plodded forward very slowly through the heavy day. The priest leant forward on his pommel.
The mule came to a stop of its own accord beside a hammock: a man lay in it, bunched diagonally, with one leg trailing to keep the hammock moving, up and down, up and down, making a tiny current of air. He said: "Buenas tardes." The man opened his eyes and watched him.
"How far is it to Carmen?"
"Three leagues."
"Can I get a canoe across the river?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
The man waved a languid hand-as much as to say anywhere but here. He had only two teeth left-canines which stuck yellowly out at either end of his mouth like the teeth of long-extinct animals which you find enclosed in clay.
"What were the police doing here?" the priest asked, and a cloud of flies came down, settling on the mules neck: he poked at them with a stick and they rose heavily, leaving a small trickle of blood, and dropped again on the tough grey skin. The mule seemed to feel nothing, standing in the sun with its head drooping.
"Looking for someone," the man said.
"I've heard," the priest said, "that there's a reward out-for a gringo."
The man swung his hammock back and forth. He said: "It's better to be alive and poor than rich and dead."
"Can I overtake them if I go towards Carmen?"
"They aren't going to Carmen."
"No?"
"They are making for the city."
The priest rode on: twenty yards farther he stopped again beside a gaseosa stall and asked the boy in charge: "Can I get a boat across the river?"
"There isn't a boat."
"No boat?"
"Somebody stole it."
"Give me a sidral." He drank down the yellow, bubbly chemical liquid: it left him thirstier than before. He said: "How do I get across?"
"Why do you want to get across?"
"I'm making for Carmen. How did the police get over?"
"They swam."
"Mula. Mula," the priest said, urging the mule on, past the inevitable bandstand and a statue in florid taste of a woman in a toga waving a wreath: part of the pedestal had been broken off and lay in the middle of the road-the mule went round it. The priest looked back: far down the street the mestizo was sitting upright in the hammock watching him. The mule turned off down a steep path to the river, and again the priest looked back-the half-caste was still in the hammock, but he had both feet upon the ground. An habitual uneasiness made the priest beat at the mule-"Mula. Mula"-but the mule took its time, sliding down the bank towards the river.
By the riverside it refused to enter the water: the priest split the end of his stick with his teeth and jabbed a sharp point into the mule's flank. It waded reluctantly in, and the water rose-to the stirrups and then to the knees: the mule began to swim, splayed out flat with only the eyes and nostrils visible, like an alligator. Somebody shouted from the bank.
The priest looked round: at the river's edge the mestizo stood and called, not very loudly: his voice didn't carry. It was as if he had a secret purpose which nobody but the priest must hear. He waved his arm, summoning the priest back, but the mule lurched out of the water and up the bank beyond and the priest paid no attention-uneasiness was lodged in his brain. He urged the mule forward through the green half-light of a banana grove, not looking behind. All these years there had been two places to which he could always return and rest safely in hiding-one had been Conception, his old parish, and that was closed to him now: the other was Carmen, where he had been born and where his parents were buried. He had imagined there might be a third, but he would never go back now.... He turned the mule's head toward Carmen, and the forest took them again. At this rate they would arrive in the dark, which was what he wanted. The mule, unbeaten, went with extreme languor, head drooping, smelling a little of blood. The priest, leaning forward on the high pommel, fell asleep. He dreamed that a small girl in stiff white muslin was reciting her Catechism-somewhere in the background there was a bishop and a group of Children of Mary, elderly women with grey hard pious faces wearing pale blue ribbons. The bishop said: "Excellent... excellent," and clapped his hands, plop, plop. A man in a morning coat said: "There's a deficit of five hundred pesos on the new organ. We propose to hold a special musical performance, when it is hoped..." He remembered with appalling suddenness that he oughtn't to be there at all... he was in the wrong parish... he should be holding a retreat at Conception. The man Montez appeared behind the child in white muslin, gesticulating, reminding him.... Something had happened to Montez, he had a dry wound on his forehead. He felt with dreadful certainty a threat to the child. He said: "My dear, my dear," and woke to the slow rolling stride of the mule and the sound of footsteps.
He turned: it was the mestizo, padding behind him, dripping water: he must have swum the river. His two teeth stuck out over his lower lip, and he grinned ingratiatingly.
"What do you want?" the priest said sharply.
"You didn't tell me you were going to Carmen."
"Why should I?"
"You see, I want to go to Carmen, too. It's better to travel in company." He was wearing a shirt, a pair of white trousers, and gym shoes through which one big toe showed-plump and yellow like something which lives underground. He scratched himself under the armpits and came chummily up to the priest's stirrup. He said: "You are not offended, Señor?"
"Why do you call me Señor?"
"Anyone can tell you're a man of education."
"The forest is free to all," the priest said.
"Do you know Carmen well?" the man said.
"Not well. I have a few friends."
"You're going on business, I suppose?"
The priest said nothing. He could feel the man's hand on his foot, a light and deprecating touch. The man said: "There's a finca off the road two leagues from here. It would be as well to stay the night."
"I am in a hurry," the priest said.
"But what good would it be reaching Carmen at one, two in the morning? We could sleep at the finca and be there before the sun was high."
"I do what suits me."
"Of course, Señor, of course." The man was silent for a little while, and then said: "It isn't wise travelling at night if the Señor hasn't got a gun. It's different for a man like me..."
"I am a poor man," the priest said. "You can see for yourself. I am not worth robbing."
And then there's the gringo-they say he's a wild kind of a man, a real pistolero. He comes up to you and says in his own language-Stop: what is the way to-well, some place, and you do not understand what he is saying and perhaps you make a movement and he shoots you dead. But perhaps you know Americano, Señor?"
"Of course I don't. How should I ? I am a poor man. But I don't listen to every fairy-tale."
"Do you come from far?"
The priest thought a moment: "Conception." He could do no more harm there.
The man for the time being seemed satisfied. He walked along by the mule, a hand on the stirrup: every now and then he spat: when the priest looked down he could see the big toe moving like a grab along the ground-he was probably harmless. It was the general condition of life that made for suspicion. The dusk fell and then almost at once the dark. The mule moved yet more slowly. Noise broke out all round them: it was like a theatre when the curtain falls and behind in the wings and passages hubbub begins. Things you couldn't put a name to-jaguars perhaps-cried in the undergrowth, monkeys moved in the upper boughs, and the mosquitoes hummed all round like sewing machines. "It's thirsty walking," the man said. "Have you by any chance, Señor, got a little drink...?"
"No."
"If you want to reach Carmen before three, you will have to beat the mule. Shall I take the stick...?"
"No, no, let the poor brute take its time. It doesn't matter to me..." he said drowsily.
"You talk like a priest."
He came quickly awake, but under the tall dark trees he could see nothing. He said: "What nonsense you talk"
"I am a very good Christian," the man said, stroking the priest's foot.
"I dare say. I wish I were."
"Ah, you ought to be able to tell the people you can trust." He spat in a comradely way.
"I have nothing to trust anyone with," the priest said. "Except these trousers-they are very torn. And this mule-it isn't a good mule; you can see for yourself."
There was silence for a while, and then as if he had been considering the last statement the half-caste went on: "It wouldn't be a bad mule if you treated it right. Nobody can teach me anything about mules. I can see for myself it's tired out."
The priest looked down at the grey swinging stupid head. "Do you think so?"
"How far did you travel yesterday?" "Perhaps twelve leagues."
"Even a mule needs rest."
The priest took his bare feet out of the deep leather stirrups and scrambled to the ground. The mule for less than a minute took a longer stride and then dropped to a yet slower pace. The twigs and roots of the forest path cut the priest's feet-after five minutes he was bleeding. He tried in vain not to limp. The half-caste exclaimed: "How delicate your feet are! You should wear shoes."
Stubbornly he reasserted: "I am a poor man."
"You will never get to Carmen at this rate. Be sensible, man. If you don't want to go as far off the road as the finca, I know a little but less than half a league from here. We can sleep a few hours and still reach Carmen at daybreak." There was a rustle in the grass beside the path-the priest thought of snakes and his unprotected feet. The mosquitoes jabbed at his wrists: they were like little surgical syringes filled with poison and aimed at the bloodstream. Sometimes a firefly held its lighted globe dose to the half-caste's face, turning it on and off like a torch. He said accusingly: "You don't trust me. just because I am a man who likes to do a good turn to strangers, because I try to be a Christian, you don't trust me." He seemed to be working himself into a little artificial rage. He said: "If I had wanted to rob you, couldn't I have done it already? You're an old man."
"Not so very old," the priest said mildly. His conscience began automatically to work: it was like a slot machine into which any coin could be fitted, even a cheater's blank disk. The words proud, lustful, envious, cowardly, ungrateful-they all worked the right springs-he was all these things. The half-caste said: "Here I have spent many long hours guiding you to Carmen-I don't want any reward because I am a good Christian: I have probably lost money by it at home-never mind that...