on one condition... You must keep my identity anonymous. I want somebody to help these girls, but I also want to disassociate myself from this issue as soon as possible.”
“You can count on it.”
Whilst Sancho took down the doctor’s address in Zapotlanejo, along with his mobile number, he felt his legs shaking. It was a pleasant shaking of excitement, produced as a result of finding himself faced with a fantastic story. He was no longer in any doubt: this case was going to alter his destiny forever.
III. A small church in Coyoacán, Municipal District of Mexico City.
Padre Salas had just finished the afternoon Mass, and was tidying away the Holy Chalice, the stole, and the chasuble, and was folding them with utmost care, when he heard somebody come back into his small temple. He thought it must be some parishioner who wished to speak with him in private, once the rest of the parishioners had left the church. But when he turned around to greet his untimely guest, he discovered a familiar face. A sudden shudder made him drop all of the equipment he was holding in his hands, and the objects scattered around the floor by the altar.
“Padre Salas, after so long, anyone would think you’d just seen the very essence of evil , as opposed to an old friend,” said the man, a smile spreading across his face, whilst he approached Padre Salas, and tried to help him put away the chalice.
Padre Salas realised that this was not a wayward member of his congregation, and he recognised him instantly as the right-hand man to the Archbishop of the Prime Archdiocese of Mexico: a man whose visit to his small refuge in the forgotten ruins of a church in Coyoacán could not bode well for him.
“What do you want from me?” enquired Padre Salas directly, speaking plainly to the man.
The visitor left the chalice on the altar table, and then came even closer to the priest, so he could place both hands on his shoulders.
“You’ve always been an intelligent man. Possibly one of the most intelligent I’ve ever known.”
“And you, one of the most astute...”
“I’m not sure how to take that... But I should be humble, and show myself to be resigned, because you are right: we need you.”
“You know well, just as the Archbishop does, that I’m not interested in anything you could need me for. That’s why I moved away to this little church. Here, I am at peace with God. Here, I help humble people, and I am of use to Our Lord,” replied Padre Salas, whilst he raised his gaze in contemplation, seeking reassurance from the crucifix.
The visitor stepped back a few paces, and directed his attention towards the two rows of ramshackle benches, which could accommodate at most one hundred souls, and which were looking the worse for wear.
“Padre, I would never have come to see you out of personal interest, and least of all would the Archbishop have obliged me to do it. It’s very clear to us that you don’t want to have anything more to do with us, and we have respected your decision for long enough, even though we did not agree with it,” the right-hand man of the highest authority in the Catholic Church in Mexico declared, with a certain sadness, before turning back to face Padre Salas. “If I have considered myself obliged to come here, it’s because we truly need you. They truly need you...”
Padre Salas took a few awkward steps backwards. He felt faint and confused. Episodes of his life were springing back to mind that he had believed to have left behind for good. And, under no circumstances did he wish to relive them.
“Who could need me?”
“Don’t you watch the television? Don’t you listen to the radio, or read the papers? Don’t you even use the Internet, now that it’s so in style?”
“Hardly... I dedicate myself to praying; to reading the Bible; to the faithful; and trying to help those less fortunate...”
The visitor handed him a newspaper from that very day, Las Noticias ; one of the most read in
“You can count on it.”
Whilst Sancho took down the doctor’s address in Zapotlanejo, along with his mobile number, he felt his legs shaking. It was a pleasant shaking of excitement, produced as a result of finding himself faced with a fantastic story. He was no longer in any doubt: this case was going to alter his destiny forever.
III. A small church in Coyoacán, Municipal District of Mexico City.
Padre Salas had just finished the afternoon Mass, and was tidying away the Holy Chalice, the stole, and the chasuble, and was folding them with utmost care, when he heard somebody come back into his small temple. He thought it must be some parishioner who wished to speak with him in private, once the rest of the parishioners had left the church. But when he turned around to greet his untimely guest, he discovered a familiar face. A sudden shudder made him drop all of the equipment he was holding in his hands, and the objects scattered around the floor by the altar.
“Padre Salas, after so long, anyone would think you’d just seen the very essence of evil , as opposed to an old friend,” said the man, a smile spreading across his face, whilst he approached Padre Salas, and tried to help him put away the chalice.
Padre Salas realised that this was not a wayward member of his congregation, and he recognised him instantly as the right-hand man to the Archbishop of the Prime Archdiocese of Mexico: a man whose visit to his small refuge in the forgotten ruins of a church in Coyoacán could not bode well for him.
“What do you want from me?” enquired Padre Salas directly, speaking plainly to the man.
The visitor left the chalice on the altar table, and then came even closer to the priest, so he could place both hands on his shoulders.
“You’ve always been an intelligent man. Possibly one of the most intelligent I’ve ever known.”
“And you, one of the most astute...”
“I’m not sure how to take that... But I should be humble, and show myself to be resigned, because you are right: we need you.”
“You know well, just as the Archbishop does, that I’m not interested in anything you could need me for. That’s why I moved away to this little church. Here, I am at peace with God. Here, I help humble people, and I am of use to Our Lord,” replied Padre Salas, whilst he raised his gaze in contemplation, seeking reassurance from the crucifix.
The visitor stepped back a few paces, and directed his attention towards the two rows of ramshackle benches, which could accommodate at most one hundred souls, and which were looking the worse for wear.
“Padre, I would never have come to see you out of personal interest, and least of all would the Archbishop have obliged me to do it. It’s very clear to us that you don’t want to have anything more to do with us, and we have respected your decision for long enough, even though we did not agree with it,” the right-hand man of the highest authority in the Catholic Church in Mexico declared, with a certain sadness, before turning back to face Padre Salas. “If I have considered myself obliged to come here, it’s because we truly need you. They truly need you...”
Padre Salas took a few awkward steps backwards. He felt faint and confused. Episodes of his life were springing back to mind that he had believed to have left behind for good. And, under no circumstances did he wish to relive them.
“Who could need me?”
“Don’t you watch the television? Don’t you listen to the radio, or read the papers? Don’t you even use the Internet, now that it’s so in style?”
“Hardly... I dedicate myself to praying; to reading the Bible; to the faithful; and trying to help those less fortunate...”
The visitor handed him a newspaper from that very day, Las Noticias ; one of the most read in
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