woman in a cemetery, but, as a man who’d lived a relatively safe life, experienced only the most commonplace adventures, risked nothing except on the stock market, there was something in Martins’s steadily intensifying investigation of the mysterious Harry Lime that was not unlike my own.
But I could also feel Martins’s confidence that no matter what he discovered about Harry Lime, it would do nothing to undermine his love or admiration for him. Anna Schmidt had assured him of exactly that in one of the movie’s most quoted lines: “A person doesn’t change just because you find out more.” I felt no doubt that it would be the same with Julian, for it seemed to me at the time that the goodness of a man was like a vein of gold that only widens as it deepens, then dazzles at the core.
My walk through Oradour had only increased my confidence in his essential goodness because it was here that Julian had made innocents the focus of his art by giving them voice, while at the same time, in a single, extraordinary artistic choice, he had denied any voice to their tormenters, so that while the villagers had emerged as individuals, the Germans had all but disappeared.
Disappeared.
Strange how that word brought Marisol back into my mind, she whose disappearance had so disturbed Julian, his search for her one of his life’s distinct failures, a dark end to his Argentine adventure that could not have been predicted by its bright beginning.
And it had been very bright, indeed, that beginning. We were often together, the three of us a faintly Jules and Jim trio of young people, though it was never a love triangle.
But though Julian was not in love with Marisol in that fiercely romantic way, he had certainly searched for her as if she’d been a lost lover, journeying all the way to the Chaco to see the priest who’d raised her.
He was in his midsixties, this priest, but he looked much older. His hair was gray, his face deeply lined, so that upon first impression he seemed to be as weathered as the destitute parish in which he’d labored all his life.
“He was already old when my aunt brought me to him,” Marisol said as we made our way to meet him that afternoon. “But he took in this little girl he did not know.”
She was dressed less stylishly than usual and had added a small white flower to her hair, a touch of the indigene that you never saw in worldly Buenos Aires. A nod to the priest, I supposed, proof that her heart—or at least part of it—remained with him in the Chaco.
The old priest was sitting alone on a bench as we approached him. He did not see us but continued to stare straight ahead while he fingered a wooden rosary.
“It is Father Rodrigo who sent me to Buenos Aires,” Marisol said, her gaze more intently on Julian than on me. “He is the saint of the Chaco.”
He was now only a few feet away, and it seemed to me that he was older than the color of his hair or the texture of his skin suggested. There was a spiritual quality to his agedness, a sense that he was as old as his faith, a witness to that first crucifixion.
We were almost upon him before he caught Marisol in his eye and struggled to his feet.
“Ah, my sweet daughter,” he said as he drew her into his arms.
She kissed him on both cheeks, then turned and introduced us.
The priest shook Julian’s hand first, then turned to me.
“I have heard of your father,” he said. He stretched his hand toward me and I took it. “He is said to be a good American. A friend. Hermano en la lucha .”
“I don’t know what that means,” I confessed.
“A brother in the struggle,” Marisol informed me.
Brother in the struggle?
I couldn’t imagine what Father Rodrigo was talking about.
“He is a man of the people, your father,” Rodrigo added. “This is what I have heard. He is known as our friend in your capital. The poor do not have many friends there.”
He had been gently pumping my hand during all this, and only now released
But I could also feel Martins’s confidence that no matter what he discovered about Harry Lime, it would do nothing to undermine his love or admiration for him. Anna Schmidt had assured him of exactly that in one of the movie’s most quoted lines: “A person doesn’t change just because you find out more.” I felt no doubt that it would be the same with Julian, for it seemed to me at the time that the goodness of a man was like a vein of gold that only widens as it deepens, then dazzles at the core.
My walk through Oradour had only increased my confidence in his essential goodness because it was here that Julian had made innocents the focus of his art by giving them voice, while at the same time, in a single, extraordinary artistic choice, he had denied any voice to their tormenters, so that while the villagers had emerged as individuals, the Germans had all but disappeared.
Disappeared.
Strange how that word brought Marisol back into my mind, she whose disappearance had so disturbed Julian, his search for her one of his life’s distinct failures, a dark end to his Argentine adventure that could not have been predicted by its bright beginning.
And it had been very bright, indeed, that beginning. We were often together, the three of us a faintly Jules and Jim trio of young people, though it was never a love triangle.
But though Julian was not in love with Marisol in that fiercely romantic way, he had certainly searched for her as if she’d been a lost lover, journeying all the way to the Chaco to see the priest who’d raised her.
He was in his midsixties, this priest, but he looked much older. His hair was gray, his face deeply lined, so that upon first impression he seemed to be as weathered as the destitute parish in which he’d labored all his life.
“He was already old when my aunt brought me to him,” Marisol said as we made our way to meet him that afternoon. “But he took in this little girl he did not know.”
She was dressed less stylishly than usual and had added a small white flower to her hair, a touch of the indigene that you never saw in worldly Buenos Aires. A nod to the priest, I supposed, proof that her heart—or at least part of it—remained with him in the Chaco.
The old priest was sitting alone on a bench as we approached him. He did not see us but continued to stare straight ahead while he fingered a wooden rosary.
“It is Father Rodrigo who sent me to Buenos Aires,” Marisol said, her gaze more intently on Julian than on me. “He is the saint of the Chaco.”
He was now only a few feet away, and it seemed to me that he was older than the color of his hair or the texture of his skin suggested. There was a spiritual quality to his agedness, a sense that he was as old as his faith, a witness to that first crucifixion.
We were almost upon him before he caught Marisol in his eye and struggled to his feet.
“Ah, my sweet daughter,” he said as he drew her into his arms.
She kissed him on both cheeks, then turned and introduced us.
The priest shook Julian’s hand first, then turned to me.
“I have heard of your father,” he said. He stretched his hand toward me and I took it. “He is said to be a good American. A friend. Hermano en la lucha .”
“I don’t know what that means,” I confessed.
“A brother in the struggle,” Marisol informed me.
Brother in the struggle?
I couldn’t imagine what Father Rodrigo was talking about.
“He is a man of the people, your father,” Rodrigo added. “This is what I have heard. He is known as our friend in your capital. The poor do not have many friends there.”
He had been gently pumping my hand during all this, and only now released
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