The priest lingered on the threshold trying to see; the lumpy blackness seemed to shift and stir. He said: I am so dry. Could I have water? The stench poured up his nostrils and he retched.
In the morning, the sergeant said, you're drunk enough now, and laying a large considerate hand upon the priest's back, he pushed him in, then slammed the door to. He trod on a hand, an arm, and pressing his face against the grille, protested in feeble horror: There's no room. I can't see. Who are these people? Outside among the hammocks the sergeant began to laugh. Hombre, he said, hombre, have you never been in jail before?
Chapter Three
A VOICE near his foot said: Got a cigarette? He drew quickly back and trod on an arm. A voice said imperatively: Water, quick, as if whoever it was thought he could take a stranger unawares, and make him fork out.
Got a cigarette?
No. He said weakly: I have nothing at all, and imagined he could feel enmity fuming up all round him like smoke. He moved again. Somebody said: Look out for the bucket. That was where the stench came from. He stood perfectly still and waited for his sight to return. Outside the rain began to stop: it dropped haphazardly and the thunder moved away. You could count forty now between the lightning flash and the roll. Forty miles, superstition said. Half-way to the sea, or half-way to the mountains. He felt around with his foot, trying to find [115] enough space to sit down-but there seemed to be no room at all. When the lightning went on he could see the hammocks at the edge of the courtyard.
Got something to eat? a voice said, and when he didn't answer, Got something to eat?
No.
Got any money? another voice said.
No.
Suddenly, from about five feet away, there came a tiny scream-a woman's. A tired voice said: Can't you be quiet? Among the furtive movements came again the muffled painless cries. He realized with horror that pleasure was going on even in this crowded darkness. Again he put out his foot and began to edge his way inch by inch away from the grille. Behind the human voices another noise went permanently on: it was like a small machine, an electric belt set at a certain tempo. It filled any silences that there were, louder than human breath. It was the mosquitoes.
He had moved perhaps six feet from the grille, and his eyes began to distinguish heads-perhaps the sky was clearing: they hung around him like gourds. A voice said: Who are you? He made no reply, feeling panic, edging in: suddenly he found himself against the back walclass="underline" the stone was wet against his hand-the cell could not have been more than twelve feet deep. He found he could just sit down if he kept his feet drawn up under him. An old man lay slumped against his shoulder: he told his age from the feather-weight lightness of the bones, the feeble uneven flutter of the breath. He was either somebody close to birth or death-and he could hardly be a child in this place. He said suddenly: Is that you, Catarina? and his breath went out in a long patient sigh, as if he had been waiting for a long while and could afford to wait a lot longer.
The priest said: No. Not Catarina. When he spoke everybody became suddenly silent, listening, as if what he said had importance: then the voices and movements began again. But the sound of his own voice, the sense of communication with a neighbour, calmed him.
You wouldn't be, the old man said. I didn't really think you were. She'll never come.
Is she your wife?
[116] What's that you're saying? I haven't got a wife.
Catarina.
She's my daughter. Everybody was listening again: except the two invisible people who were concerned only in their hooded and cramped pleasure.
Perhaps they won't allow her here.
She'll never try, the old hopeless voice pronounced with absolute conviction. The priest's feet began to ache, drawn up under his haunches. He said: If she loves you ... Somewhere across the huddle of dark shapes the woman cried again-that finished cry of protest and abandonment and pleasure.
It's the priests who've done it, the old man said.
The priests?
The priests.
Why the priests?
The priests.
A low voice near his knees said: The old man's crazy. What's the use of asking him questions?
Is that you, Catarina? He added: I don't really believe it, you know. It's just a question.
Now I've got something to complain about, the voice went on. A mans got to defend his honour. You'll admit that, won't you?
I don't know anything about honour.
I was in the cantina and the man I'm telling you about came up to me and said: 'Your mother's a whore.' Well, I couldn't do anything about it: he'd got his gun on him. All I could do was wait. He drank too much beer-I knew he would-and when he was staggering I followed him out. I had a bottle and I smashed it against a wall. You see, I hadn't got my gun. His family's got influence with the jefe or I'd never be here.
It's a terrible thing to kill a man.
You talk like a priest.
It was the priests who did it, the old man said. You're right, there.
What does he mean?
What does it matter what an old man like that means? I'd like to tell you about something else. …
A woman's voice said: They took the child away from him.
[117] Why?
It was a bastard. They acted quite correctly.
At the word bastard his heart moved painfully: it was as when a man in love hears a stranger name a flower which is also the name of a woman. Bastard: the word filled him with miserable happiness. It brought his own child nearer: he could see her under the tree by the rubbish-dump, unguarded. He repeated Bastard? as he might have repeated her name-with tenderness disguised as indifference.
They said he was no fit father. But, of course, when the priests fled, she had to go to him. Where else could she go? It was like a happy ending until she said: Of course she hated him. They'd taught her about things. He could imagine the small set mouth of an educated woman. What was she doing here?
Why is he in prison?
He had a crucifix.
The stench from the pail got worse all the time: the night stood round them like a wall, without ventilation, and he could hear somebody making water, drumming on the tin sides. He said: They had no business ...
They were doing what was right, of course. It was a mortal sin.
No right to make her hate him.
They know what's right.
He said: They were bad priests to do a thing like that. The sin was over. It was their duty to teach-well, love.
You don't know what's right. The priests know.
He said after a moment's hesitation, very distinctly: I am a priest.
It was like the end: there was no need to hope any longer. The ten years' hunt was over at last. There was silence all round him. This place was very like the world: overcrowded with lust and crime and unhappy love: it stank to heaven; but he realized that after all it was possible to find peace there, when you knew for certain that the time was short.
A priest? the woman said at last.
Yes.
Do they know?
Not yet.
[118] He could feel a hand fumbling at his sleeve. A voice said: You shouldn't have told us. Father, there are all sorts here. Murderers ...
The voice which had described the crime to him said: You've no cause to abuse me. Because I kill a man it doesn't mean ... Whispering started everywhere. The voice said bitterly: I'm not an informer just because when a man says: 'Your mother's a whore ...'
The priest said: There's no need for anyone to inform on me. That would be a sin. When it's daylight they'll discover for themselves.
They'll shoot you, father, the woman's voice said.
Yes.
Are you afraid?
Yes. Of course.
A new voice spoke, in the corner from which the sounds of pleasure had come. It said roughly and obstinately: A man isn't afraid of a thing like that.