Monsignor Quixote by Graham Greene

accuracy. Father Quixote felt glad that he was again wearing his clerical collar. He even pushed out a foot to show the purple socks which he hated.
    â€˜We have conquered the windmills,’ the Mayor said.
    â€˜What windmills?’
    â€˜The Guardia revolve with every wind. They were there with the Generalissimo. They are there now. If my party came to power they would still be there, turning with the wind from the East.’
    â€˜Shall we take the road again now they are gone?’
    â€˜Not yet. I want to see if they come back.’
    â€˜If you don’t want them to follow us to Avila, what way shall we take?’
    â€˜I’m sorry to deprive you of St Teresa’s ring finger, but I think Segovia would be better. Tomorrow we will visit in Salamanca a holier shrine than the one you prayed at today.’
    The first chill of the evening had touched them. The Mayor moved restlessly to the road and back again: no sign of the Guardia. He said, ‘Were you never in love with a woman, father?’
    â€˜Never. Not in the way you mean.’
    â€˜Were you never tempted . . .?’
    â€˜Never.’
    â€˜Strange and inhuman.’
    â€˜It’s not so strange or inhuman,’ Father Quixote replied. ‘I have been protected like many others. It is a little like the taboo of incest. Not many are tempted to break that.’
    â€˜No, but there are always so many alternatives to incest. Like a friend’s sister.’
    â€˜I had my alternative too.’
    â€˜Who was she?’
    â€˜A girl called Martin.’
    â€˜She was your Dulcinea?’
    â€˜Yes, if you like, but she lived a very long way from El Toboso. All the same her letters reached me there. They were a great comfort to me when things were difficult with the bishop. There was one thing she wrote – I think of it nearly every day: “Before we die by the sword, let us die by pin stabs.”’
    â€˜Your ancestor would have preferred the sword.’
    â€˜All the same, perhaps, in the end it was by pin stabs that he died.’
    â€˜Martin – from the way you pronounce it she was not a Spanish girl?’
    â€˜No, she was a Norman. You mustn’t misunderstand me. She was dead many years before I knew her and grew to love her. You have heard of her perhaps under another name. She lived at Lisieux. The Carmelites there had a special vocation – to pray for priests. I hope – I think – she prays for me.’
    â€˜Oh, you are talking about that St Thérèse – the name Martin confused me.’
    â€˜I’m glad there’s a Communist who has heard of her.’
    â€˜You know I was not always a Communist.’
    â€˜Well, anyway, perhaps a true Communist is a sort of priest, and in that case she prays undoubtedly for you.’
    â€˜It’s cold waiting around here. Let’s be off.’
    They drove for a while in silence back along the road they had come. There was no sign of the jeep. They passed the turning to Avila and followed the sign towards Segovia. The Mayor said at last, ‘So that is your love story, father. Mine is rather different, except that the woman is dead too, like yours.’
    â€˜God rest her soul,’ Father Quixote said. It was an automatic reflex when he spoke, but in the silence that descended on both of them he prayed to the souls in Purgatory: ‘You are nearer God than I am. Pray for us both.’
    The great Roman aqueduct of Segovia loomed ahead of them, casting a long shadow in the evening light.
    They found a lodging in a small albergue not far from the Church of St Martin – that name again – the name by which he always thought of her. She seemed closer to him then than in her trappings as a saint or under her sentimental nickname of the Little Flower. He would even sometimes address her in his prayers as Señorita Martin as though the family name might catch her ear through all the thousands