And he wasn't strong enough either for this journey. By the time the priest had reached the bottom of the barranca he was fifty yards behind. The priest sat down on a boulder and mopped his forehead, and the half-caste began to complain long before he was down to his leveclass="underline" There isn't so much hurry as all that. It was almost as though the nearer he got to his treachery the greater the grievance against his victim became. Didn't you say he was dying? the priest asked.
Oh, yes, dying, of course. But that can take a long time.
The longer the better for all of us, the priest said, Perhaps you are right. I'll take a rest here.
But now, like a contrary child, the half-caste wanted to start again. He said: You do nothing in moderation. Either you run or you sit.
Can I do nothing right? the priest teased him, and then he put in sharply and shrewdly: They will let me see him, I suppose?
Of course, the half-caste said and immediately caught himself up. They, they. Who are you talking about now? First you complain that the place is empty, and then you talk of they. He said with tears in his voice: You may be a good man. You may be a saint for all I know, but why won't you talk plainly, so that a man can understand you? It's enough to make a man a bad Catholic.
The priest said: You see this sack here. We don't want to carry that any farther. It's heavy. I think a little drink will do both good. We both need courage, don't we?
Drink, father? the half-caste said with excitement, and watched the priest unpack a bottle. He never took his eyes away while the priest drank. His two fangs stuck greedily out, [176] quivering slightly on the lower lip. Then he too fastened on the mouth. It's illegal, I suppose, the priest said with a giggle, on this side of the border-if we are this side. He had another draw himself and handed it back: it was soon exhausted-he took the bottle and threw it at a rock and it exploded like shrapnel. The half-caste started. He said: Be careful. People might think you'd got a gun.
As for the rest, the priest said, we wont need that.
You mean there's more of it?
Two more bottles-but we can't drink any more in this heat. We'd better leave it here.
Why didn't you say it was heavy, father? I'll carry it for you. You've only to ask me to do a thing. I'm willing. Only you just won't ask.
They set off again, up-hill, the bottles clinking gently: the sun shone vertically down on the pair of them. It took them the best part of an hour to reach the top of the barranca. Then the watch tower gaped over their path like an upper jaw and the tops of the huts appeared over the rocks above them. Indians do not build their settlements on a mule path: they prefer to stand aside and see who comes. The priest wondered how soon the police would appear: they were keeping very carefully hidden.
This way, father. The half-caste took the lead, scrambling away from the path up the rocks to the little plateau. He looked anxious, almost as if he had expected something to happen before this. There were about a dozen huts: they stood quiet, like tombs against the heavy sky. A storm was coming up.
The priest felt a nervous impatience: he had walked into this trap, the least they could do was to close it quickly, finish everything off. He wondered whether they would suddenly shoot him down from one of the huts. He had come to the very edge of time: soon there would be no tomorrow and no yesterday, just existence going on for ever; he began to wish he had taken a little more brandy. His voice broke uncertainly when he said: Well, we are here. Where is this Yankee?
Oh, yes, the Yankee, the half-caste said, jumping a little. It was as if for a moment he had forgotten the pretext. He stood there, gaping at the huts, wondering too. He said: He was over there when I left him.
[177] Well, he couldn't have moved, could he?
If it hadn't been for that letter he would have doubted the very existence of the American-and if he hadn't seen the dead child too, of course. He began to walk across the little silent clearing towards the hut: would they shoot him before he got to the entrance? It was like walking a plank blindfold: you didn't know at what point you would step off into space for ever. He hiccupped once and knotted his hands behind his back to stop their trembling. He had been glad in a way to turn away from Miss Lehr's gate-he had never really believed that he would ever get back to parish work and the daily Mass and the careful appearance of piety; but all the same you needed to be a little drunk to die. He got to the door-not a sound anywhere; then a voice said: Father.
He looked round. The mestizo stood in the clearing with his face contorted: the two fangs jumped and jumped: he looked frightened.
Yes, what is it?
Nothing, father.
Why did you call me?
I said nothing, he lied. The priest turned and went in.
The American was there all right. Whether he was alive was another matter. He lay on a straw mat with his eyes closed and his mouth open and his hands on his belly, like a child with stomach-ache. Pain alters a face-or else successful crime has its own falsity like politics or piety. He was hardly recognizable from the news picture on the police-station walclass="underline" that was tougher, arrogant, a man who had made good. This was just a tramp's face. Pain had exposed the nerves and given the face a kind of spurious intelligence.
The priest knelt down and put his face near the man's mouth, trying to hear the breathing. A heavy smell came up to him-a mixture of vomit and cigar smoke and stale drink: it would take more than a few lilies to hide this corruption. A very faint voice close to his ear said in English: Beat it, father. Outside the door, in the heavy stormy sunlight, the mestizo stood, staring towards the hut, a little loose about the knees.
So you're alive, are you? the priest said briskly. Better hurry. You haven't got long.
[178] Beat it, father.
You wanted me, didn't you? You're a Catholic?
Beat it, the voice whispered again, as if those were the only words it could remember of a lesson it had learnt some while ago.
Come now, the priest said. How long is it since you went to confession?
The eyelids rolled up and astonished eyes looked up at him. The man said in a puzzled voice: Ten years, I guess. What are you doing here anyway?
You asked for a priest. Come now. Ten years is a long time.
You got to beat it, father, the man said. He was remembering the lesson now-lying there flat on the mat with his hands folded on his stomach, any vitality that was left accumulated in the brain: he was like a reptile crushed at one end. He said in a strange voice: That bastard ... The priest said furiously: What sort of a confession is this? I make a five hours' journey ... and all I get out of you is evil words. It seemed to him horribly unfair that his uselessness should return with his danger-he couldn't do anything for a man like this. Listen father ... the man said,
I am listening.
You beat it out of here quick. I didn't know ...
I haven't come all this way to talk about myself, the priest said. The sooner your confession's done, the sooner I will be gone.
You don't need to trouble about me. I'm through.
You mean damned? the priest said angrily.
Sure. Damned, the man said, licking blood away from his lips.
You listen to me, the priest said, leaning closer to the stale and nauseating smell, I have come here to listen to your confession. Do you want to confess?
No.
Did you when you wrote that note ...?
Maybe.
I know what you want to tell me. I know it, do you understand? Let that be. Remember you are dying. Don't depend too much on God's mercy. He has given you this chance: He may [179] not give you another. What sort of a life have you led all these years? Does it seem so grand now? You've killed a lot of people-that's about all. Anybody can do that for a while, and then he is killed too. Just as you are killed. Nothing left except pain.