What were the police doing here? the priest asked, and a cloud of flies came down, settling on the mules neck: he poked [79] at them with a stick and they rose heavily, leaving a small trickle of blood, and dropped again on the tough grey skin. The mule seemed to feel nothing, standing in the sun with its head drooping.
Looking for someone, the man said.
I've heard, the priest said, that there's a reward out-for a gringo.
The man swung his hammock back and forth. He said: It's better to be alive and poor than rich and dead.
Can I overtake them if I go towards Carmen?
They aren't going to Carmen.
No?
They are making for the city.
The priest rode on: twenty yards farther he stopped again beside a gaseosa stall and asked the boy in charge: Can I get a boat across the river?
There isn't a boat.
No boat?
Somebody stole it.
Give me a sidral. He drank down the yellow, bubbly chemical liquid: it left him thirstier than before. He said: How do I get across?
Why do you want to get across?
I'm making for Carmen. How did the police get over?
They swam.
Mula. Mula, the priest said, urging the mule on, past the inevitable bandstand and a statue in florid taste of a woman in a toga waving a wreath: part of the pedestal had been broken off and lay in the middle of the road-the mule went round it. The priest looked back: far down the street the mestizo was sitting upright in the hammock watching him. The mule turned off down a steep path to the river, and again the priest looked back-the half-caste was still in the hammock, but he had both feet upon the ground. An habitual uneasiness made the priest beat at the mule- Mula. Mula -but the mule took its time, sliding down the bank towards the river.
By the riverside it refused to enter the water: the priest split the end of his stick with his teeth and jabbed a sharp point into the mule's flank. It waded reluctantly in, and the water rose-to the stirrups and then to the knees: the mule began to swim, [80] splayed out flat with only the eyes and nostrils visible, like an alligator. Somebody shouted from the bank.
The priest looked round: at the river's edge the mestizo stood and called, not very loudly: his voice didn't carry. It was as if he had a secret purpose which nobody but the priest must hear. He waved his arm, summoning the priest back, but the mule lurched out of the water and up the bank beyond and the priest paid no attention-uneasiness was lodged in his brain. He urged the mule forward through the green half-light of a banana grove, not looking behind. All these years there had been two places to which he could always return and rest safely in hiding-one had been Conception, his old parish, and that was closed to him now: the other was Carmen, where he had been born and where his parents were buried. He had imagined there might be a third, but he would never go back now. ... He turned the mule's head toward Carmen, and the forest took them again. At this rate they would arrive in the dark, which was what he wanted. The mule, unbeaten, went with extreme languor, head drooping, smelling a little of blood. The priest, leaning forward on the high pommel, fell asleep. He dreamed that a small girl in stiff white muslin was reciting her Catechism-somewhere in the background there was a bishop and a group of Children of Mary, elderly women with grey hard pious faces wearing pale blue ribbons. The bishop said: Excellent ... excellent, and clapped his hands, plop, plop. A man in a morning coat said: There's a deficit of five hundred pesos on the new organ. We propose to hold a special musical performance, when it is hoped ... He remembered with appalling suddenness that he oughtn't to be there at all ... he was in the wrong parish ... he should be holding a retreat at Conception. The man Montez appeared behind the child in white muslin, gesticulating, reminding him. ... Something had happened to Montez, he had a dry wound on his forehead. He felt with dreadful certainty a threat to the child. He said: My dear, my dear, and woke to the slow rolling stride of the mule and the sound of footsteps.
He turned: it was the mestizo, padding behind him, dripping water: he must have swum the river. His two teeth stuck out over his lower lip, and he grinned ingratiatingly.
What do you want? the priest said sharply.
[81] You didn't tell me you were going to Carmen.
Why should I?
You see, I want to go to Carmen, too. It's better to travel in company. He was wearing a shirt, a pair of white trousers, and gym shoes through which one big toe showed-plump and yellow like something which lives underground. He scratched himself under the armpits and came chummily up to the priest's stirrup. He said: You are not offended, Señor?
Why do you call me Señor?
Anyone can tell you're a man of education.
The forest is free to all, the priest said.
Do you know Carmen well? the man said.
Not well. I have a few friends.
You're going on business, I suppose?
The priest said nothing. He could feel the man's hand on his foot, a light and deprecating touch. The man said: There's a finca off the road two leagues from here. It would be as well to stay the night.
I am in a hurry, the priest said.
But what good would it be reaching Carmen at one, two in the morning? We could sleep at the finca and be there before the sun was high.
I do what suits me.
Of course, Señor, of course. The man was silent for a little while, and then said: It isn't wise travelling at night if the Señor hasn't got a gun. It's different for a man like me ...
I am a poor man, the priest said. You can see for yourself. I am not worth robbing.
And then there's the gringo-they say he's a wild kind of a man, a real pistolero. He comes up to you and says in his own language-Stop: what is the way to-well, some place, and you do not understand what he is saying and perhaps you make a movement and he shoots you dead. But perhaps you know Americano, Señor?
Of course I don't. How should I ? I am a poor man. But I don't listen to every fairy-tale.
Do you come from far?
The priest thought a moment: Conception. He could do no more harm there.
The man for the time being seemed satisfied. He walked [82] along by the mule, a hand on the stirrup: every now and then he spat: when the priest looked down he could see the big toe moving like a grab along the ground-he was probably harmless. It was the general condition of life that made for suspicion. The dusk fell and then almost at once the dark. The mule moved yet more slowly. Noise broke out all round them: it was like a theatre when the curtain falls and behind in the wings and passages hubbub begins. Things you couldn't put a name to-jaguars perhaps-cried in the undergrowth, monkeys moved in the upper boughs, and the mosquitoes hummed all round like sewing machines. It's thirsty walking, the man said. Have you by any chance, Señor, got a little drink ...?
No.
If you want to reach Carmen before three, you will have to beat the mule. Shall I take the stick ...?
No, no, let the poor brute take its time. It doesn't matter to me ... he said drowsily.
You talk like a priest.
He came quickly awake, but under the tall dark trees he could see nothing. He said: What nonsense you talk
I am a very good Christian, the man said, stroking the priest's foot.
I dare say. I wish I were.
Ah, you ought to be able to tell the people you can trust. He spat in a comradely way.
I have nothing to trust anyone with, the priest said. Except these trousers-they are very torn. And this mule-it isn't a good mule; you can see for yourself.
There was silence for a while, and then as if he had been considering the last statement the half-caste went on: It wouldn't be a bad mule if you treated it right. Nobody can teach me anything about mules. I can see for myself it's tired out.
The priest looked down at the grey swinging stupid head. Do you think so?