And I dare say the first time you saw a man raised from the dead you might think so too. He giggled unconvincingly behind the smiling mask. Oh, it's funny, isn't it? It isn't a case of miracles not happening-it's just a case of people calling them something else. Can't you see the doctors round the dead man? He isn't breathing any more, his pulse has stopped, his [191] heart's not beating: he's dead. Then somebody gives him back his life, and they all-what's the expression?-reserve their opinion. They won't say it's a miracle, because that's a word they don't like. Then it happens again and again perhaps-because God's about on earth-and they say: there aren't miracles, it is simply that we have enlarged our conception of what life is. Now we know you can be alive without pulse, breath, heart-beats. And they invent a new word to describe that state of life, and they say science has again disproved a miracle. He giggled again. You cant get round them.
They were out of the forest track onto a hard beaten road, and the lieutenant dug in his spur and the whole cavalcade broke into a canter. They were nearly home now. The lieutenant said grudgingly: You aren't a bad fellow. If there's anything I can do for you ...
If you would give permission for me to confess ...
The first houses came into sight: little hard-baked houses of earth falling into ruin, a few classical pillars-just plaster over mud, and a dirty child playing in the rubble.
The lieutenant said: But there's no priest.
Padre José.
Oh, Padre José, the lieutenant said, with contempt, he's no good for you.
He's good enough for me. It's not likely I'd find a saint here, is it?
The lieutenant rode for a little while in silence: they came to the cemetery, full of chipped angels, and passed the great portico with its black letters: Silencio. He said: All right. You can have him. He wouldn't look at the cemetery as they went by-there was the wall where the prisoners were shot. The road went steeply down-hill towards the river: on the right, where the cathedral had been, the iron swings stood empty in the hot afternoon. There was a sense of desolation everywhere, more of it than in the mountains because a lot of life had once existed here. The lieutenant thought: No pulse, no breath, no heart-beat, but it's still life-we've only got to find a name for it. A small boy watched them pass: he called out to the lieutenant: Lieutenant, have you got him? and the lieutenant dimly remembered the face-one day in the [192] plaza-a broken bottle, and he tried to smile back, an odd sour grimace, without triumph or hope. One had to begin again with that.
Chapter Four
THE lieutenant waited till after dark and then he went himself. It would be dangerous to send another man because the news would be around the city in no time that Padre José had been permitted to carry out a religious duty in the prison. It was wiser not to let even the jefe know: one didn't trust one's superiors when one was more successful than they were. He knew the jefe wasn't pleased that he had brought the priest in-an escape would have been better from his point of view.
In the patio he could feel himself watched by a dozen eyes: the children clustered there ready to shout at Padre José if he appeared. He wished he had promised the priest nothing, but he was going to keep his word-because it would be a triumph for that old corrupt God-ridden world if it could show itself superior on any point-whether of courage, truthfulness, justice ...
Nobody answered his knock: he stood darkly in the patio like a petitioner. Then he knocked again, and a voice called: A moment. A moment.
Padre José put his face against the bars of his window and said: Who's there? He seemed to be fumbling at something near the ground.
Lieutenant of police.
Oh, Padre José squeaked. Excuse me. It is my trousers. In the dark. He seemed to heave at something and there was a sharp crack, as if his belt or braces had given way. Across the patio the children began to squeak: Padre José. Padre José. When he came to the door he wouldn't look at them, muttering tenderly: The little devils.
The lieutenant said: I want you to come up to the police station.
[193] But I've done nothing. Nothing. I've been so careful.
Padre José, the children squeaked.
He said imploringly: If it's anything about a burial, you've been misinformed. I wouldn't even say a prayer.
Padre José. Padre José.
The lieutenant turned and strode across the patio. He said furiously to the faces at the grille: Be quiet. Go to bed. At once. Do you hear me? They dropped out of sight one by one, but immediately the lieutenant's back was turned, they were there again watching.
Padre José said: Nobody can do anything with those children.
A woman's voice said: Where are you, José?
Here, my dear. It is the police.
A huge woman in a white night-dress came billowing out at them: it wasn't much after seven: perhaps she lived, the lieutenant thought, in that dress-perhaps she lived in bed. He said: Your husband, dwelling on the term with satisfaction, your husband is wanted at the station.
Who says so?
I do.
He's done nothing.
I was just saying, my dear ...
Be quiet. Leave the talking to me.
You can both stop jabbering, the lieutenant said. You're wanted at the station to see a man-a priest. He wants to confess.
To me?
Yes. There's no one else.
Poor man, Padre José said. His little pink eyes swept the patio. Poor man. He shifted uneasily, and took a furtive look at the sky where the constellations wheeled.
You won't go, the woman said.
It's against the law, isn't it? Padre José asked.
You needn't trouble about that.
Oh, we needn't, eh? the woman said. I can see through you. You don't want my husband to be let alone. You want to trick him. I know your work. You get people to ask him to say prayers-he's a kind man. But I'd have you remember this-he's a pensioner of the government.
[194] The lieutenant said slowly: This priest-he has been working for years secretly-for your Church. We've caught him and, of course, he'll be shot tomorrow. He's not a bad man and I told him he could see you. He seems to think it will do him good.
I know him, the woman interrupted, he's a drunkard. That's all he is.
Poor man, Padre José said. He tried to hide here once.
I promise you, the lieutenant said, nobody shall know.
Nobody know? the woman cackled. Why, it will be all over town. Look at those children there. They never leave José alone. She went on: There'll be no end to it-everybody will be wanting to confess, and the Governor will hear of it, and the pension will be stopped.
Perhaps, my dear, José said, it's my duty ...
You aren't a priest any more, the woman said, you're my husband. She used a coarse word. That's your duty now. The lieutenant listened to them with acid satisfaction. It was like rediscovering an old belief. He said: I can't wait here while you argue. Are you going to come with me?
He can't make you the woman said.
My dear, it's only that ... well ... I am a priest.
A priest, the woman cackled you a priest! She went off into a peal of laughter, which was taken tentatively up by the children at the window. Padre José put his fingers up to his pink eyes as if they hurt. He said: My dear ... and the laughter went on.
Are you coming? ,
Padre José made a despairing gesture-as much as to say, what does one more failure matter in a life like this? He said: I don't think it's-possible.
Very well, the lieutenant said. He turned abruptly-he hadn't any more time to waste on mercy, and heard Padre José's voice speak imploringly: Tell him I shall pray. The children had gained confidence: one of them called sharply out: Come to bed, José, and the lieutenant laughed once-a poor unconvincing addition to the general laughter which now surrounded Padre José, ringing up all round to the disciplined constellations he had once known by name.