"On the contrary. I am quite ready to be comfortable, but I wouldn't feel comfortable here. Comfort is a state of mind."
They drove into a poorer quarter of the city, taking streets at random. Suddenly Rocinante stopped and nothing would make her start again. There was the sign of an albergue twenty yards down the street and a dingy doorway. "Rocinante knows best," Father Quixote said. "This is where we stay."
"But it's not even clean," the Mayor said.
"These are obviously very poor people. So I'm sure they will make us welcome. They need us. They didn't need us at the Palace Hotel."
An old woman greeted them in a narrow passage with an air of incredulity. Although they saw no sign of other customers she told them that only one room was available, but it had two beds.
"Is there at least a bath?"
No, not exactly a bath, she told them, but there was a douche on the floor above and a basin with a cold water tap in the room they would share. "We'll take it," Father Quixote said.
"You are mad," the Mayor told him when they were alone in the room, which Father Quixote admitted was rather gloomy. "We come to Madrid where there are dozens of good and inexpensive hotels, and you land us in this unspeakable hostelry."
"Rocinante was tired."
"We shall be lucky if our throats aren't cut here."
"No, no, the old woman is honest, I know."
"How do you know?"
"I could tell from her eyes."
The Mayor raised his hands in despair.
"After all that good wine," Father Quixote said, "we shall sleep well wherever we are."
"I shan't sleep a wink."
"She is one of your people."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"The poor." He added quickly, "Of course they are my people too."
Father Quixote felt much relieved when the Mayor lay down on his bed fully clothed (he feared that his throat would be cut more easily if he undressed), for Father Quixote was not used to taking off his clothes in front of another, and anything, anything, he thought, might happen before nightfall to save him from embarrassment. He lay on his back and listened to a cat wailing on the tiles outside. Perhaps, he thought, the Mayor will have forgotten my purple socks, and he indulged himself in a waking dream of how their journey would go on and on -- the dream of a deepening friendship and a profounder understanding, of a reconciliation even between their disparate faiths. Perhaps, he thought before he fell asleep, the Mayor was not altogether wrong about the Prodigal Son. . . all that happy ending, the welcome home, the fatted calf. The close of the parable did seem a little unlikely. . . "I am unworthy to be called your monsignor," he muttered as he lost consciousness.
It was the Mayor who woke him. Father Quixote saw him, like a stranger, in the last light of the expiring day, and "Who are you?" he asked with curiosity, not fear.
"I am Sancho," the Mayor said. "It is time for us to go shopping."
"Shopping?"
"You have become a knight. We must find your sword, your spurs, your helmet -- even if it is only a barber's basin."
"Barber's basin?"
"You have been asleep and I have lain awake for three hours in case they tried to cut our throats. Tonight it will be your turn to keep vigil. In this dirty chapel that you've landed us in. Over your sword, monsignor."
"Monsignor?"
"You have certainly slept very deep."
"I've had a dream -- a terrible dream."
"Of your throat being cut?"
"No, no. Much worse than that."
"Come. Get up. We have to find your purple socks."
Father Quixote made no protest. He was still under the agonizing spell of his dream. They went down the dark stairs into the dark street. The old woman peered out at them as they passed with an appearance of terror. Had she been dreaming too?
"I don't like the look of her," Sancho said.
"I don't think she likes the look of us."
"We must find a taxi," the Mayor said.
"First let us try Rocinante."
He only had to press the starter three times before the engine woke. "You see," Father Quixote said, "there was nothing really wrong. She was just tired, that's all. I know Rocinante. Where do we go?"
"I don't know. I thought you would know."
"Know what?"
"An ecclesiastical tailor."
"How should I know?"
"You are a priest. You are wearing a priest's suit. You didn't buy that in El Toboso."
"It's nearly forty years old, Sancho."
"If you and your socks last as long as that you will be more than a centenarian before you wear them out."
"Why have I to buy these socks?"
"The roads in Spain are still controlled, father. Stuck in El Toboso you haven't realized how all along the roads of Spain the ghost of Franco still patrols. Your socks will be our safeguard. A Guardia Civil respects purple socks."
"But where do we buy them?" He brought Rocinante to a halt. "I'm not going to tire her for nothing."
"Stay here a moment. I will find a taxi and ask the driver to guide us."
"We are being very extravagant, Sancho. Why, you even wanted to stay at the Palace Hotel."
"Money is not an immediate problem."
"El Toboso is a small place, and I've never heard that mayors are paid very much."
"El Toboso is a small place, but the Party is a great party. What is more, the Party is a legal party now. As a militant one is allowed a certain licence -- for the good of the Party."
"Then why do you need the protection of my socks?"
But the question came too late. The Mayor was already out of earshot, and Father Quixote was alone with the nightmare that haunted him. There are dreams of which we think even in the light of day: was this a dream or was it true -- true in some way or another: did I dream it or did it in some strange way happen?
The Mayor was opening the door beside him. He said, "Follow the taxi. He assures me he will lead us to the finest ecclesiastical clothes shop outside Rome itself. The nuncio goes there and the archbishop."
When they arrived Father Quixote could well believe it. His heart sank as he took in the elegance of the shop and the dark well-pressed suit of the assistant who greeted them with the distant courtesy of a church authority. It occurred to Father Quixote that such a man was almost certainly a member of Opus Dei -- that club of intellectual Catholic activists whom he could not fault and yet whom he could not trust. He was a countryman, and they belonged to the great cities.
"The monsignor," the Mayor said, "wants some purple socks."