"What does the Church want with a dozen cases of wine?"
"It's not only my promise. I may lose my place in the procession. Unless the priest will accept cash instead. He won't take cheques. Get out of my way, please. I can't stay here talking, but I wanted to warn you. . ."
"I don't understand what's going on," Father Quixote said.
"Nor do I."
At the head of the path there was a house much in need of repair and a table under a fig tree on which lay the remains of a meal. A young man in blue jeans came hurriedly towards them. He said, "Señor Diego will see nobody today."
"We have only come to buy a little wine," the Mayor said.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. Not today. And there's no use telling me about the feast. Señor Diego will have nothing to do with the feast."
"We don't want it for any feast. We are simple travellers and we've run out of wine."
"You are not Mexicans?"
"No, we are not Mexicans," Father Quixote said with a note of conviction. "Of your charity, father. . . Just a few bottles of wine. We are on our way to the Trappists of Osera."
"The Trappists. . .? How do you know I am a priest?"
"When you have been a priest as long as I have you will recognize a colleague. Even without his collar."
"This is Monsignor Quixote of El Toboso," the Mayor said.
"A monsignor?"
"Forget the monsignor, father. A parish priest, as I suspect you are."
The young man ran towards the house. He called, "Señor Diego, Señor Diego. Come quickly. A monsignor. We have a monsignor here."
"Is it so rare to see a monsignor in this place?" the Mayor asked.
"Rare? It certainly is. The priests round here -- they are all friends of the Mexicans."
"That man we met on the path -- was he a Mexican?"
"Of course he was. One of the bad Mexicans. That's why Señor Diego wouldn't sell him any wine."
"I thought perhaps it was because of his tie."
An old man with great dignity came out on to the terrace. He had the sad and weary face of a man who has seen too much of life for far too long. He hesitated a moment between the Mayor and Father Quixote before, holding out both hands towards the Mayor, he made the wrong choice. "Welcome, monsignor, to my house."
"No, no," the young priest exclaimed, "the other one." Señor Diego turned his hands first and then his eyes towards Father Quixote. "Forgive me," he said, "my sight is not what it was. I see badly, very badly. I was walking with this grandson of mine only this morning in the vineyard and it was always he who spotted the weeds -- not me. Sit down, please, both of you, and I will bring you some food and wine."
"They are going to Osera to the Trappists."
"The Trappists are good men, but their wine, I believe, is less good and as for the liqueur they make. . . You must take a case of wine for them, and for yourselves too, of course. I've never had a monsignor here under my fig tree before."
"Sit down with them, Señor Diego," the young priest said, "and I will fetch the ham and the wine."
"The white and the red -- and bowls for all of us. We will have a better feast than the Mexicans." When the priest was out of hearing he said, "If all the priests here were like my grandson. . . I could trust him even with the vineyard. If only he had not chosen to be a priest. It was all his mother's fault. My son would never have allowed it. If he hadn't died. . . I saw Jose today pulling up the weeds, but I couldn't see them clearly any longer and I thought, 'It is time for me and the vineyard to go.' "
"Is this your grandson's parish?" Father Quixote asked.
"Oh no, no. He lives forty kilometres away. The priests here have driven him from his old parish. He was a danger to them. The poor people loved him because he refused to take money and say the Responses when anyone died. Responses, what nonsense! To gabble a few words and ask a thousand pesetas. So the priests wrote to the bishop and even though there were good Mexicans who defended him he was sent away. You would understand, if you stayed here a little while; you would see how greedy the priests are for the money the Mexicans have brought to these poor parts."
"Mexicans, Mexicans. But who are these Mexicans?"
The young priest came back to the fig tree carrying a tray with plates of ham, four large earthenware bowls and bottles of red and white wine. He filled the bowls with wine. "Start with the white," he said. "Make yourselves at home. Señor Diego and I had eaten before the Mexican arrived. Help yourselves to the ham -- it is a good ham, home cured. You will not get such ham with the Trappists."
"But these Mexicans. . . please explain, father."
"Oh, they come here and build rich houses and the priests are corrupted by the sight of money. They even think they can buy Our Lady. Don't let's talk about them. There are better things to speak of."
"But who are these Mexicans. . .?"
"Oh, there are good men among them. I don't deny it. Many good men, but all the same. . . I just don't understand. They have too much money and they have been away too long."
"Too long away from Mexico?"
"Too long away from Galicia. You are not taking any ham, monsignor. Please. . ."
"I am very happy," Señor Diego said, "to welcome under this fig tree Monsignor. . . Monsignor. . ."
"Quixote," the Mayor said.
"Quixote? Not surely. . ."
"An unworthy descendant," Father Quixote interrupted him.
"And your friend?"
"As for myself," the Mayor said, "I cannot claim to be a true descendant of Sancho Panza. Sancho and I have a family name in common, that's all, but I can assure you that Monsignor Quixote and I have had some curious adventures. Even if they are not worthy to be compared. . ."
"This is a very good wine," Señor Diego said, "but, José, go and fetch from the second barrel on the left. . . you know the one. . . only the very best is worthy of Monsignor Quixote and his friend Señor Sancho. And it is only in the best wine of all that we should toast damnation to the priests here."
When Father José had gone, Señor Diego added with a note of deep sadness, "I never expected a grandson of mine to be a priest." Father Quixote saw that there were tears in his eyes. "Oh, I am not running down the priesthood, monsignor, how could I do that? We have a good Pope, but what a suffering it must be at Mass every day even for him if he has to drink such bad wine as José's old priest buys."
"One takes the merest drop," Father Quixote said, "you hardly notice the taste. It's no worse than the wine that you get dolled up with a fancy label in a restaurant."
"Yes, you are quite right there, monsignor. Oh, every week there are scoundrels who come here to buy my wine so that they can mix it with other wine and they call it Rioja and advertise it along all the roads of Spain to deceive the poor foreigners who don't know a good wine from a bad."
"How can you tell the scoundrels from the honest men?"