I have a child, the priest said, if that's what you mean.
You know what I mean. You understand about God, don't you? The hot hand clung. Perhaps you've got him there-in a pocket. You carry him around, don't you, in case there's anybody sick. … Well, I'm sick. Why don't you give him to me? Or do you think he wouldn't have anything to do with me ... if he knew?
You're feverish.
But the man wouldn't stop. The priest was reminded of an oil-gusher which some prospectors had once struck near Concepcion-it wasn't a good enough field apparently to justify further operations, but there it had stood for forty-eight hours against the sky, a black fountain spouting out of the marshy useless soil and flowing away to waste-fifty thousand gallons an hour. It was like the religious sense in man, cracking suddenly upwards, a black pillar of fumes and impurity, running to waste. Shall I tell you what I've done-it's your business to listen. I've taken money from women to do you know what, and I've given money to boys ...
I don't want to hear.
It's your business.
You're mistaken.
Oh, no, I'm not. You cant take me in. Listen. I've given money to boys-you know what I mean. And I've eaten meat on Fridays. The awful jumble of the gross, the trivial, and the grotesque shot up between the two yellow fangs, and the hand [91] on the priest's ankle shook and shook with the fever. I've told lies, I haven't fasted in Lent for I don't know how many years. Once I had two women-I'll tell you what I did ... He had an immense self-importance: he was unable to picture a world of which he was only a typical part-a world of treachery, violence, and lust in which his shame was altogether insignificant. How often the priest had heard the same confession-Man was so limited: he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization-it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt. He said: Why do you tell me all this?
The man lay exhausted, saying nothing: he was beginning to sweat, his hand loosed its hold on the priest's ankle. He pushed the door open and went outside-the darkness was complete. How to find the mule? He stood listening-something howled not very far away. He was frightened. Back in the hut the candle burned-there was an odd bubbling sound: the man was weeping. Again he was reminded of oil land, the little black pools and the bubbles blowing slowly up and breaking and beginning again.
The priest struck a match and walked straight forward-one, two, three paces into a tree. A match in that immense darkness was of no more value than a firefly. He whispered: Mula, mula, afraid to call out in case the half-caste heard him; besides, it was unlikely that the stupid beast would make any reply. He hated it-the lurching mandarin head, the munching greedy mouth, the smell of blood and ordure. He struck another match and set off again, and again after a few paces he met a tree. Inside the hut the gaseous sound of grief went on. He had got to get to Carmen and away before that man found a means of communicating with the police. He began again, quartering the clearing-one, two, three, four-and then a tree. Something moved under his foot, and he thought of scorpions. One, two, three-and suddenly the grotesque cry of the mule came out of the dark; it was hungry, or perhaps it smelt some animal.
It was tethered a few yards behind the hut-the candle-flame [92] swerved out of sight. His matches were running low, but after two more attempts he found the mule. The half-caste had stripped it and hidden the saddle: he couldn't waste time looking any more. He mounted, and only then realized how impossible it was to make it move without even a piece of rope round the neck-he tried twisting at its ears, but they had no more sensitivity than door-handles: it stood planted there like an equestrian status. He struck a match and held the flame against its side-it struck up suddenly with its back hoofs and he dropped the match: then it was still again, with drooping sullen head and great antediluvian haunches. A voice said accusingly: You are leaving me here-to die.
Nonsense, the priest said. I am in a hurry. You will be all right in the morning, but I can't wait.
There was a scuffle in the darkness and then a hand gripped his naked foot. Don't leave me alone, the voice said. I appeal to you-as a Christian.
You won't come to any harm here.
How do you know, with the gringo somewhere about?
I don't know anything about the gringo. I've met nobody who has seen him. Besides, he's only a man-like one of us.
I won't be left alone. I have an instinct ...
Very well, the priest said wearily, find the saddle. When they had saddled the mule they set off again, the mestizo holding the stirrup. They were silent-sometimes the half-caste stumbled, and the grey false dawn began; a small coal of cruel satisfaction glowed at the back of the priest's mind-this was Judas sick and unsteady and scared in the dark. He had only to beat the mule on to leave him stranded in the forest-once he dug in the point of his stick and forced it forward at a weary trot and he could feel the pull, pull of the half-caste's arm on the stirrup, holding him back. There was a groan-it sounded like Mother of God, and he let the mule slacken its pace. He prayed silently: God forgive me : Christ had died for this man too: how could he pretend with his pride and lust and cowardice to be any more worthy of that death than this half-caste? This man intended to betray him for money which he needed, and he had betrayed God not even for real lust. He said: Are you sick? and there was no reply. He dismounted and said: Get up. I'll walk for a while.
[93] I'm all right, the man said in a tone of hatred.
Better get up.
You think you're very fine, the man said. Helping your enemies. That's Christian, isn't it?
Are you my enemy?
That's what you think. You think I want seven hundred pesos-that's the reward. You think a poor man like me can't afford not to tell the police. …
You're feverish.
The man said in a sick voice of cunning: You're right, of course.
Better mount. The man nearly felclass="underline" he had to shoulder him up. He leant hopelessly down from the mule with his mouth almost on a level with the priest's, breathing bad air into the other's face. He said: A poor man has no choice, father. Now if I was a rich man-only a little rich-I should be good.
The priest suddenly-for no reason-thought of the Children of Mary eating pastries. He giggled and said: I doubt it- If that were goodness ...
What was that you said, father? You don't trust me, he went rambling on, because I'm poor, and because you don't trust me- He collapsed over the pommel of the saddle, breathing heavily and shivering. The priest held him on with one hand and they proceeded slowly towards Carmen. It was no good: he couldn't stay there now: it would be unwise even to enter the village; for if it became known, somebody would lose his life-they would take a hostage. Somewhere a long way off a cock crew: the mist came up knee-high out of the spongy ground, and he thought of the flashlight going off in the bare church among the trestle tables. What hour did the cocks crow? One of the oddest things about the world these days was that there were no clocks-you could go a year without hearing one strike. They went with the churches, and you were left with the grey slow dawns and the precipitate nights as the only measurements of time.
Slowly, slumped over the pommel, the half-caste became visible, the yellow canines jutting out of the open mouth; really, the priest thought, he deserved his reward-seven hundred pesos wasn't so much, but he could probably live on it in that [94] dusty hopeless village-for a whole year. He giggled again: he could never take the complications of destiny quite seriously; and it was quite possible, he thought, that a year without anxiety might save this man's soul. You only had to turn up the underside of any situation and out came scuttling these small absurd contradictory situations. He had given way to despair-and out of that had emerged a human soul and love-not the best love, but love all the same. The mestizo said suddenly: It's fate. I was told once by a fortune-teller ... a reward ...