Eduardo started to say, when he saw the assistant coming over. He had to be quick, beforehe and Paulo were separated. ‘Have you taken your first communion?’
Paulo didn’t understand.
‘First communion, catechism, religious studies? Do you know Father Basilio, the one from that little church near your house?’
Lined up with the smallest pupils, Paulo had to keep his eyes to the front, as all the boys in the line were doing. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Eduardo whisper something more about that ridiculous question concerning catechism classes.
The nun took two glasses from the tray with the liqueur bottles, filled them with the golden, sticky liquid, and brought them over to the armchair where the white-haired man was seated.
‘Rose liqueur,’ she explained, holding out one of the glasses. ‘Prepared by our sisters here in the orphanage.’
He hesitated. Do priests drink? Could he accept it?
‘You’ll like it,’ she insisted, without being sure exactly which direction his eyes were pointing in. ‘It’s very smooth.’
The cassock was uncomfortable. The coarse material was itchy, and made him sweat. There was not much furniture in the director of the Santa Rita de Cássia orphanage’s windowless office. Faded paint was flaking off the walls. There were four battered metal filing cabinets with patches of rust on them.
‘We depend on donations,’ said the nun, noticing him gazing erratically around the room. ‘As you can see, there haven’t been that many.’
‘I wasn’t …’
‘Everything has become very expensive since they built Brasilia. The inflation in recent years has hit us badly. In hard times, charity is the first thing people cut back on.’
She brought the glass closer to him.
‘It has a very delicate flavour, Father …’
‘Basilio!’ he quickly added, using the name of the priest whose cassock Paulo and Eduardo had stolen.
He took the glass, sipped the liquid.
‘Father Basilio da Gama. As I was saying, I was her confessor. Dona Anita’s, that is.’
The bloom of youth and health on her black skin was emphasized by the starched white bandeau round her face. She was still standing next to him.
‘I never knew the lady. Anita. Or Aparecida. That’s her name in our files. As you perhaps were aware. Were you? I imagine so. I never saw her. I don’t know many people in the city. Not yet. I’ve only been director here for five months. I came from Andrelândia: do you know it? It’s about three hundred kilometres from here, in the state of Minas Gerais. I know few people here. I go out very little. We go out very little. Our work is inside the orphanage.’
‘So you don’t know anything about her?’
The liqueur was sweet, cloying. He drank it down in one gulp: it was easier that way.
‘On the contrary. I think I know a lot. Would you like a little more?’
Without waiting for a reply, she took his glass and walked over to the drinks tray. She filled it, and brought it to him. She had not touched her own.
‘As her confessor, you must have heard of the … In confession that lady must have told you the … hmm … let’s say the … most physical part of the life she led. The carnal aspect. I’m not judging, Father Basilio. Let’s be clear. I’m not doing that. That’s not for me to do. And I wouldn’t do so. No, absolutely not. Besides, I never even saw her.’
‘But you said that …’ he suggested, after downing his second glass of liqueur.
‘That I know a lot about her. Yes. Apart from all the inevitable gossip that has reached me since the murder. Yes. I think I do. Some more liqueur?’
She served him without waiting for his agreement. She had still not touched her own glass.
‘Have you ever had to deal with orphans?’
‘With orphans? Really, I …’
‘The girl inmates learn to sew, embroider, darn, wash, iron, clean, cook … They also study, of course. But the aim of a girl’s education in an orphanage is to make her
Paulo didn’t understand.
‘First communion, catechism, religious studies? Do you know Father Basilio, the one from that little church near your house?’
Lined up with the smallest pupils, Paulo had to keep his eyes to the front, as all the boys in the line were doing. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Eduardo whisper something more about that ridiculous question concerning catechism classes.
The nun took two glasses from the tray with the liqueur bottles, filled them with the golden, sticky liquid, and brought them over to the armchair where the white-haired man was seated.
‘Rose liqueur,’ she explained, holding out one of the glasses. ‘Prepared by our sisters here in the orphanage.’
He hesitated. Do priests drink? Could he accept it?
‘You’ll like it,’ she insisted, without being sure exactly which direction his eyes were pointing in. ‘It’s very smooth.’
The cassock was uncomfortable. The coarse material was itchy, and made him sweat. There was not much furniture in the director of the Santa Rita de Cássia orphanage’s windowless office. Faded paint was flaking off the walls. There were four battered metal filing cabinets with patches of rust on them.
‘We depend on donations,’ said the nun, noticing him gazing erratically around the room. ‘As you can see, there haven’t been that many.’
‘I wasn’t …’
‘Everything has become very expensive since they built Brasilia. The inflation in recent years has hit us badly. In hard times, charity is the first thing people cut back on.’
She brought the glass closer to him.
‘It has a very delicate flavour, Father …’
‘Basilio!’ he quickly added, using the name of the priest whose cassock Paulo and Eduardo had stolen.
He took the glass, sipped the liquid.
‘Father Basilio da Gama. As I was saying, I was her confessor. Dona Anita’s, that is.’
The bloom of youth and health on her black skin was emphasized by the starched white bandeau round her face. She was still standing next to him.
‘I never knew the lady. Anita. Or Aparecida. That’s her name in our files. As you perhaps were aware. Were you? I imagine so. I never saw her. I don’t know many people in the city. Not yet. I’ve only been director here for five months. I came from Andrelândia: do you know it? It’s about three hundred kilometres from here, in the state of Minas Gerais. I know few people here. I go out very little. We go out very little. Our work is inside the orphanage.’
‘So you don’t know anything about her?’
The liqueur was sweet, cloying. He drank it down in one gulp: it was easier that way.
‘On the contrary. I think I know a lot. Would you like a little more?’
Without waiting for a reply, she took his glass and walked over to the drinks tray. She filled it, and brought it to him. She had not touched her own.
‘As her confessor, you must have heard of the … In confession that lady must have told you the … hmm … let’s say the … most physical part of the life she led. The carnal aspect. I’m not judging, Father Basilio. Let’s be clear. I’m not doing that. That’s not for me to do. And I wouldn’t do so. No, absolutely not. Besides, I never even saw her.’
‘But you said that …’ he suggested, after downing his second glass of liqueur.
‘That I know a lot about her. Yes. Apart from all the inevitable gossip that has reached me since the murder. Yes. I think I do. Some more liqueur?’
She served him without waiting for his agreement. She had still not touched her own glass.
‘Have you ever had to deal with orphans?’
‘With orphans? Really, I …’
‘The girl inmates learn to sew, embroider, darn, wash, iron, clean, cook … They also study, of course. But the aim of a girl’s education in an orphanage is to make her
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