"I can see that you have read the book then, Your Excellency."
"I have never got beyond the first chapter. Although of course I have glanced at the last. My usual habit with novels."
"Perhaps some ancestor of the father was called Quixada or Quexana."
"Men of that class have no ancestors."
It was with trepidation then that Father Quixote introduced himself to the high clerical figure in the distinguished Mercedes. "My name is Padre Quixote, monsignor. Can I be of any service?"
"You certainly can, my friend. I am the Bishop of Motopo" -- he spoke with a strong Italian accent.
"Bishop of Motopo?"
"In partibus infidelium, my friend. Is there a garage near here? My car refuses to go on any further, and if there should be a restaurant -- my stomach begins to clamour for food."
"There is a garage in my village, but it is closed because of a funeral -- the mother-in-law of the garagist has died."
"May she rest in peace," the bishop said automatically, clutching at his pectoral cross. He added, "What a confounded nuisance."
"He'll be back in a few hours."
"A few hours! Is there a restaurant anywhere near?"
"Monsignor, if you would honour me by sharing my humble lunch. . . the restaurant in El Toboso is not to be recommended, either for the food or for the wine."
"A glass of wine is essential in my situation."
"I can offer you a good little local wine and if you would be contented with a simple steak. . . and a salad. My housekeeper always prepares more than I can eat."
"My friend, you certainly prove to be my guardian angel in disguise. Let us go."
The front seat of Father Quixote's car was occupied by the jar of wine, but the bishop insisted on crouching -- he was a very tall man -- in the back. "We cannot disturb the wine," he said.
"It is not an important wine, monsignor, and you will be much more comfortable. . ."
"No wine can be regarded as unimportant, my friend, since the marriage at Cana."
Father Quixote felt rebuked and silence fell between them until they arrived at his small house near the church. He was much relieved when the bishop, who had to stoop to enter the door which led directly into the priest's parlour, remarked, "It is an honour for me to be a guest in the house of Don Quixote."
"My bishop does not approve of the book."
"Holiness and literary appreciation don't always go together."
The bishop went to the bookshelf where Father Quixote kept his missal, his breviary, the New Testament, a few tattered volumes of a theological kind, the relics of his studies, and some works by his favourite saints.
"If you will excuse me, monsignor. . ."
Father Quixote went to find his housekeeper in the kitchen which served also as her bedroom, and it must be admitted the kitchen sink was her only washbasin. She was a square woman with protruding teeth and an embryo moustache; she trusted no one living, but had a certain regard for the saints, the female ones. Her name was Teresa, and nobody in El Toboso had thought to nickname her Dulcinea, since no one but the Mayor, who was reputed to be Communist, and the owner of the restaurant had read Cervantes' work, and it was doubtful if the latter had got much further than the battle with the windmills.
"Teresa," Father Quixote said, "we have a guest for lunch which must be prepared quickly."
"There is only your steak and a salad, and what remains of the manchego cheese."
"My steak is always big enough for two, and the bishop is an amiable man."
"The bishop? I won't serve him."
"Not our bishop. An Italian. A very courteous man."
He explained the situation in which he had found the bishop.
"But the steak. . ." Teresa said.
"What about the steak?"
"You can't give the bishop horsemeat."
"My steak is horsemeat?"
"It always has been. How can I give you beef with the money you allow me?"
"You have nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Oh dear, oh dear. We can only pray that he doesn't notice. After all, I have never noticed."
"You have never eaten anything better."
Father Quixote returned to the bishop in a troubled state of mind, carrying with him a half-bottle of malaga. He was glad when the bishop accepted a glass and then a second one. Perhaps the drink might confuse his taste-buds. He had settled himself deeply in Father Quixote's only easy-chair. Father Quixote watched him with anxiety. The bishop didn't look dangerous. He had a very smooth face which might never have known a razor. Father Quixote regretted that he had neglected to shave that morning after early Mass which he had celebrated in an empty church.
"You're on holiday, monsignor?"
"Not exactly on holiday, though it is true I am enjoying my change from Rome. The Holy Father has entrusted me with a little confidential mission because of my knowledge of Spanish. I suppose, father, that you see a great many foreign tourists in El Toboso."
"Not many, monsignor, for there is very little for them to see here, except for the Museum."
"What do you keep in the Museum?"
"It is a very small museum, monsignor, one room. No bigger than my parlour. It holds nothing of interest except the signatures."
"What do you mean by the signatures? May I perhaps have another glass of malaga? Sitting in the sun in that broken-down car has made me very thirsty."
"Forgive me, monsignor. You see how unused I am to being a host."
"I have never encountered before a Museum of Signatures."
"You see, a Mayor of El Toboso years ago began writing to heads of state asking for translations of Cervantes with a signature. The collection is quite remarkable. Of course there is General Franco's signature in what I would call the master copy, and there is Mussolini's and Hitler's (very tiny, his, like a fly's mess) and Churchill's and Hindenburg's and someone called Ramsay MacDonald -- I suppose he was the Prime Minister of Scotland."
"Of England, father."
Teresa came in with the steaks and they seated themselves at table and the bishop said grace.
Father Quixote poured out the wine and watched with apprehension as the bishop took his first slice of steak, which he quickly washed down with wine -- perhaps to take away the taste.
"It is a very common wine, monsignor, but here we are very proud of what we call the manchegan."
"The wine is agreeable," the bishop said, "but the steak. . . the steak," he said, staring at his plate while Father Quixote waited for the worst, "the steak. . ." he said a third time as though he were seeking deep in his memory of ancient rites for the correct term of anathema -- Teresa meanwhile hovered in the doorway, waiting too -- "never, at any table, have I tasted. . . so tender, so flavoursome, I am tempted to be blasphemous and say so divine a steak. I would like to congratulate your admirable housekeeper."