He walked very slowly among the tombs because of his bulk: he could be alone here, there were no children about, and he could waken a faint sense of homesickness which was better than no feeling at all. He had buried some of these people. His small inflamed eyes turned here and there. Coming round the huge grey bulk of the Lopez tomb-a merchant family which fifty years ago had owned the only hotel in the capital-he found he was not alone. A grave was being dug at the edge of the cemetery next the walclass="underline" two men were working rapidly: a woman stood by and an old man. A child's coffin lay at their feet-it took no time at all in the spongy soil to get down far enough: a little water collected; that was why those who could afford it lay above ground.
They all paused a moment and looked at Padre José, and he sidled back towards the Lopez tomb as if he were an intruder. There was no sign of grief anywhere in the bright hot day: a buzzard sat on a roof outside the cemetery. Somebody said: Father.
Padre José put up his hand deprecatingly as if he were trying to indicate that he was not there, that he was gone, away, out of sight.
The old man said: Padre José. They all watched him hungrily: they had been quite resigned until he had appeared, but now they were anxious, eager. ... He ducked and dodged away from them. Padre José, the old man repeated. A prayer? They smiled at him, waiting. They were quite accustomed to people dying, but an unforeseen hope of happiness had bobbed up among the tombs: they could boast after this that one at least of their family had gone into the ground with an official prayer.
It's impossible, Padre José said.
Yesterday was her saint's day, the woman said, as if that made a difference. She was five. She was one of those garrulous women who show to strangers the photographs of their children: but all she had to show was a coffin.
I am sorry.
The old man pushed the coffin aside with his foot the better [43] to approach Padre José: it was small and light and might have contained nothing but bones. Not a whole service, you understand-just a prayer. She was-innocent, he said. The word sounded odd and archaic and local in the little stony town, outdated like the Lopez tomb, belonging only here.
It is against the law.
Her name, the woman went on, was Anita. I was sick when I had her, she explained, as if to excuse the child's delicacy which had led to all this inconvenience.
The law ...
The old man put his finger to his nose. You can trust us. It is just the case of a short prayer. I am her grandfather. This is her mother, her father, her uncle. You can trust us.
But that was the trouble-he could trust no one. As soon as they got back home one or other of them would certainly begin to boast. He walked backwards all the time, weaving his plump fingers, shaking his head, nearly bumping into the Lopez tomb. He was scared, and yet a curious pride bubbled in his throat, because he was being treated as a priest again, with respect. If I could, he said, my children ...
Suddenly and unexpectedly there was agony in the cemetery. They had been used to losing children, but they hadn't been used to what the rest of the world knows best of all-the hope which peters out. The woman began to cry-dryly, without tears, the trapped noise of something wanting to be released; the old man fell on his knees with his hands held out. Padre José, he said, there is no one else ... He looked as if he were asking for a miracle. An enormous temptation came to Padre José to take the risk and say a prayer over the grave: he felt the wild attraction of doing one's duty and stretched a sign of the cross in the air; then fear came back, like a drug. Contempt and safety waited for him down by the quay: he wanted to get away. He sank hopelessly down on his knees and entreated them: Leave me alone. He said: I am unworthy. Can't you see? I am a coward. The two old men faced each other on their knees among the tombs, the small coffin shoved aside like a pretext an absurd spectacle. He knew it was absurd: a lifetime of self-analysis enabled him to see himself as he was, fat and ugly and old and humiliated. It was as if a whole seducing choir of angels had silently [44] with-drawn and left the voices of the children in the patio- Come to bed, José, come to bed, sharp and shrill and worse than they had ever been. He knew he was in the grip of the unforgivable sin, despair.
'At last the blessed day arrived,' the mother read aloud, 'when the days of Juan's novitiate were over. Oh, what a joyful day was that for his mother and sister! And a little sad too, for the flesh cannot always be strong and how could they help mourning awhile in their hearts for the loss of a small son and an elder brother? Ah, if they had known that they were gaining that day a saint in heaven to pray for them.'
The younger girl on the bed said: Have we got a saint?
Of course.
Why did they want another saint?
The mother went on reading: 'Next day the whole family received communion from the hands of a son and brother. Then they said a fond good-bye-they little knew that it was the last-to the new soldier of Christ and returned to their home in Morelos. Already clouds were darkening the heavens, and President Calles was discussing the anti-Catholic laws in the Palace at Chapultepec. The devil was ready to assail poor Mexico.'
Is the shooting going to begin soon? the boy asked, moving restlessly against the wall. His mother went relentlessly on: 'Juan, unknown to all but his Confessor, was preparing himself for the evil days ahead with the most rigorous mortifications. His companions suspected nothing, for he was always the heart and soul of every merry conversation, and on the feast-day of the founder of the Order it was he ...'
I know, I know, the boy said. He acted a play. The little girls opened astounded eyes.
And why not, Luis? the mother said, pausing with her finger on the prohibited book. He stared sullenly back at her. And why not, Luis? she repeated. She waited awhile, and then read on: the little girls watched their brother with horror and admiration. 'It was he,' she said, 'who obtained permission to perform a little one-act play founded on ...'
I know, I know, the boy said. The catacombs.
The mother, compressing her lips, continued: '... the [45] persecution of the Early Christians. Perhaps he remembered that occasion in his boyhood when he acted Nero before the good old Bishop, but this time he insisted on taking the comic part of a Roman fishmonger ...'
I don't believe a word of it, the boy said, with sullen fury, not a word of it.
How dare you!
Nobody could be such a fool.
The little girls sat motionless, their eyes large and brown and pious, enjoying themselves like Hell.
Go to your father.
Anything to get away from this-this- the boy said.
Tell him what you've told me.
This...
Leave the room.
He slammed the door behind him: his father stood at the barred window of the sala, looking out: the beetles detonated against the oil-lamp and crawled with broken wings across the stone floor. The boy said: My mother told me to tell you that I told her that I didn't believe that the book she's reading ...
What book?
The Holy Book
He said sadly: Oh, that. Nobody passed in the street, nothing happened: it was after nine-thirty and all the lights were out. He said: You must make allowances. For us, you know, everything seems over. That book-it is like our own childhood.