"Your vodka inspires me with hope."
"Of what?"
"A forlorn hope you would say."
"Go on. Tell me. What hope?"
"I can't tell you. You would laugh at me. One day perhaps I will tell you of my hope. If God grant me the time. And you the time too, of course."
"We should see more of each other, father. Perhaps I will convert you to Marx."
"You have a Marx on your shelves?"
"Of course."
"Das Kapital?"
"Yes. Among others. There it is. I haven't read any of it for a long time. To tell you the truth, I've always found parts. . . Well, remote. . . All the statistics about the English industrial revolution. I imagine you find parts of the Bible dull too."
"Thank God, we are not expected to study Numbers or Deuteronomy, but the Gospels are not dull. My goodness, look at the time. Is it vodka that makes time go so fast?"
"You know, father, you remind me of your ancestor. He believed in all those books of chivalry, quite out of date even in his day. . ."
"I've never read a book of chivalry in my life."
"But you continue to read those old books of theology. They are your books of chivalry. You believe in them just as much as he did in his books."
"But the voice of the Church doesn't date, Sancho."
"Oh yes, father, it does. Your second Vatican Council put even St John out of date."
"What nonsense you talk."
"No longer at the end of Mass do you read those words of St John -- 'He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not.'"
"How strange you should know that."
"Oh, I've sometimes come in at the end of Mass -- to make sure none of my people are there."
"I still say those words."
"But you don't say them aloud. Your bishop wouldn't allow it. You are like your ancestor who read his book of chivalry secretly so that only his niece and his doctor knew until. . ."
"What a lot of nonsense you talk, Sancho."
"Until he broke away on Rocinante to do his deeds of chivalry in a world that didn't believe in those old stories."
"Accompanied by an ignorant man called Sancho," Father Quixote replied with a touch of anger which he immediately regretted.
"Accompanied by Sancho," the Mayor repeated. "Why not?"
"The bishop could hardly deny me a short holiday."
"You must go to Madrid to buy your uniform."
"Uniform? What uniform?"
"Purple socks, monsignor, and a purple -- what do you call that thing they wear below the collar?"
"A pechera. That's rubbish. Nobody will make me wear purple socks and a purple. . ."
"You're in the army of the Church, father. You can't refuse the badges of rank."
"I never asked to be a monsignor."
"Of course you could retire from the army altogether."
"Could you retire from the Party?"
Each took another glass of vodka and fell into a comradely silence, a silence in which their dreams had room to grow.
"Do you think your car could get us as far as Moscow?"
"Rocinante is too old for that. She'd break down on the way. Anyway, the bishop would hardly consider Moscow a suitable place for me to take a holiday."
"You are no longer the bishop's servant, monsignor."
"But the Holy Father. . . You know, Rocinante might perhaps get us as far as Rome."
"I don't fancy Rome at all. Nothing to be seen in the streets but purple socks."
"Rome has a Communist mayor, Sancho."
"I don't fancy a Euro-Communist any more than you fancy a Protestant. What's the matter, father? You are upset about something."
"The vodka gave me a dream, and another vodka has taken it away."
"Don't worry. You aren't used to vodka and it has gone to your head."
"Why such a happy dream. . . and afterwards despair?"
"I know what you mean. Vodka sometimes has that effect on me, if I take a little too much. I'll see you home, father."
At Father Quixote's door they parted.
"Go and lie down for a while."
"Teresa would find it rather odd at this hour. And I haven't yet read my breviary."
"That's no longer compulsory, surely?"
"I find it hard to break a habit. Habits can be comforting, even rather boring habits."
"Yes, I think I understand. There are even times when I dip into The Communist Manifesto."
"Does it comfort you?"
"Sometimes -- a little, not very much. But a little."
"You must lend it to me. One day."
"Perhaps on our travels."
"You still believe in our travels? I doubt very much whether we are the right companions, you and I. A big gulf separates us, Sancho."
"A big gulf separated your ancestor from the one you call mine, father, and yet. . ."
"Yes. And yet. . ." Father Quixote turned hurriedly away. He went into his study and took his breviary from the shelf, but before reading more than a few sentences he fell asleep, and all that he could remember after he had woken was that he had been climbing a high tree and he had dislodged a nest, empty and dry and brittle, the relic of a year gone by.
2
It needed a great deal of courage for Father Quixote to write to the bishop and an even greater courage to open the letter which in due course he received in reply. The letter began abruptly "Monsignor" -- and the sound of the title was like acid on the tongue. "El Toboso," the bishop wrote, "is one of the smallest parishes in my diocese, and I cannot believe that the burden of your duties has been a very heavy one. However, I am ready to grant your request for a period of repose and I am despatching a young priest, Father Herrera, to look after El Toboso in your absence. I trust that at least you will delay your holiday until you are fully satisfied that Father Herrera is aware of all the problems which may exist in your parish, so you can leave your people with complete confidence in his care. The defeat of the Mayor of El Toboso in the recent election seems to indicate that the tide is turning at last in the proper direction and perhaps a young priest with the shrewdness and discretion of Father Herrera (he won golden opinions as well as a doctorate in Moral Theology at Salamanca) will be better able to take advantage of the current than an older man. As you will guess I have written to the Archbishop with regard to your future, and I have small doubt that by the time you return from your holiday we will have found you a sphere of action more suitable than El Toboso and carrying a lesser burden of duties for a priest of your age and rank."
It was an even worse letter than Father Quixote had expected, and he waited with growing anxiety for the arrival of Father Herrera. He told Teresa that Father Herrera should take immediate possession of his bedroom and asked her to find, if it were possible, a folding camp bed for the living-room. "If you cannot find one," he said, "the armchair is quite comfortable enough for me. I have slept in it often enough in the afternoon."