Yes, she said.
Who is that man, then? What's his name?
I don't know, the child said. The lieutenant caught his breath. You don't know his name? he said. Is he a stranger? Maria cried: Why, the child doesn't know her own name! Ask her who her father is.
Who's your father?
The child stared up at the lieutenant and then turned her knowing eyes upon the priest. … Sorry and beg pardon for all my sins, he was repeating to himself with his fingers crossed for luck. The child said: That's him. There.
All right, the lieutenant said. Next. The interrogations went on-name? work? married?-while the sun came up above the forest. The priest stood with his hands clasped in front of him: again death had been postponed: he felt an enormous temptation to throw himself in front of the lieutenant and declare himself- I am the one you want. Would they shoot him out of hand? A delusive promise of peace tempted him. Far up in the sky a buzzard watched: they must appear from that height as two groups of carnivorous animals who might at any time break into conflict, and it waited there, a tiny black spot, for carrion. Death was not the end of pain-to believe in peace was a kind of heresy.
The last man gave his evidence.
The lieutenant said: Is no one willing to help?
They stood silent beside the decayed bandstand. He said: You heard what happened at Conception. I took a hostage there ... and when I found that this priest had been in the neighbourhood I put the man against the nearest tree. I found out because there's always someone who changes his mind-perhaps because somebody at Conception loved the man's wife and wanted him out of the way. It's not my business to look into reasons. I only know we found wine later in Conception. ... Perhaps there's somebody in this village who wants your piece [72] of land-or your cow. It's much safer to speak now. Because I'm going to take a hostage from here too. He paused. Then he said: There's no need even to speak, if he's here among you. Just look at him. No one will know then that it was you who gave him away. He won't know himself if you're afraid of his curses. Now ... this is your last chance.
The priest looked at the ground-he wasn't going to make it difficult for the man who gave him away.
Right, the lieutenant said, then I shall choose my man. You've brought it on yourselves.
He sat on his horse watching them-one of the policemen had leant his gun against the bandstand and was doing up a puttee. The villagers still stared at the ground: everyone was afraid to catch his eye. He broke out suddenly: Why won't you trust me? I don't want any of you to die. In my eyes-can't you understand?-you are worth far more than he is. I want to give you -he made a gesture with his hands which was valueless, because no one saw him- everything. He said in a dull voice: You. You there. I'll take you.
A woman screamed: That's my boy. That's Miguel. You can't take my boy.
He said dully: Every man here is somebody's husband or somebody's son. I know that.
The priest stood silently with his hands clasped: his knuckles whitened as he gripped ... he could feel all round him the beginning of hate. Because he was no one's husband or son. He said: Lieutenant ...
What do you want?
I'm getting too old to be much good in the fields. Take me. A rout of pigs came rushing round the corner of a hut, taking no notice of anybody. The soldier finished his puttee and stood up. The sunlight coming up above the forest winked on the bottles of the gaseosa stall.
The lieutenant said: I'm choosing a hostage, not offering free board and lodging to the lazy. If you are no good in the fields, you are no good as a hostage. He gave an order. Tie the man's hands and bring him along.
It took no time at all for the police to be gone-they took with them two or three chickens, a turkey, and the man called [73] Miguel. The priest said aloud: I did my best. He went on: It's your job-to give me up. What do you expect me to do? It's my job not to be caught.
One of the men said: That's all right, father. Only will you be careful ... to see that you don't leave any wine behind ... like you did at Conception?
Another said: It's no good staying, father. They'll get you in the end. They won't forget your face again. Better go north, to the mountains. Over the border.
It's a fine state over the border, a woman said. They've still got churches there. Nobody can go in them, of course-but they are there. Why, I've heard that there are priests too in the towns. A cousin of mine went over the mountains to Las Casas once and heard Mass-in a house, with a proper altar, and the priest all dressed up like in the old days. You'd be happy there, father.
The priest followed Maria to the hut. The bottle of brandy lay on the table: he touched it with his fingers-there wasn't much left. He said: My case, Maria? Where's my case?
It's too dangerous to carry that around any more, Maria said.
How else can I take the wine? There isn't any wine.
What do you mean?
She said: I'm not going to bring trouble on you and everyone else. I've broken the bottle. Even if it brings a curse ... He said gently and sadly: You mustn't be superstitious. That was simply-wine. There's nothing sacred in wine. Only it's hard to get hold of here. That's why I kept a store of it in Concepcion. But they've found that.
Now perhaps you'll go-go away altogether. You're no good any more to anyone, she said fiercely. Don't you understand, father? We don't want you any more.
Oh, yes, he said. I understand. But it's not what you want-or I want ...
She said savagely: I know about things. I went to school. I'm not like these others-ignorant. I know you're a bad priest. That time we were together-I bet that wasn't all you've done. I've heard things, I can tell you. Do you think God wants you [74] to stay and die-a whisky priest like you? He stood patiently in front of her, as he had stood in front of the lieutenant, listening. He hadn't known she was capable of all this thought. She said: Suppose you die. You'll be a martyr, won't you? What kind of a martyr do you think you'll make? It's enough to make people mock.
That had never occurred to him-that anybody would consider him a martyr. He said: It's difficult. Very difficult. I'll think about it. I wouldn't want the Church to be mocked. …
Think about it over the border then ...
Well ...
She said: When you-know-what happened, I was proud. I thought the good days would come back. It's not everyone who's a priest's woman. And the child ... I thought you could do a lot for her. But you might as well be a thief for all the good ...
He said vaguely: There've been a lot of good thieves.
For God's sake take this brandy and go.
There was one thing, he said. In my case ... there was something …
Go and find it yourself on the rubbish-tip then. I won't touch it again.
And the child, he said, you're a good woman, Maria. I mean-you'll try and bring her up well ... as a Christian.
She'll never be good for anything, you can see that.
She can't be very bad-at her age, he implored her.
She'll go on the way she's begun.
He said: The next Mass I say will be for her.
She wasn't even listening. She said: She's bad through and through. He was aware of faith dying out between the bed and the door-the Mass would soon mean no more to anyone than a black cat crossing the path. He was risking all their lives for the sake of spilt salt, or a crossed finger. He began: My mule ...
They are giving it maize now.
She added: You'd better go north. There's no chance to the south any more.
I thought perhaps Carmen ...
They'll be watching there.
[75] Oh, well ... He said sadly: Perhaps one day ... when things are better ... He sketched a cross and blessed her, but she stood impatiently before him, willing him to be gone for ever.