it. “So, how do you know my Marisol?”
Though the question had been addressed to me, it was Julian who answered it.
“By way of the American consulate,” he said.
Father Rodrigo’s expression soured as he turned toward Julian. “They are working with the bad men of this country,” he said firmly, then looked at Marisol. “Be careful what you say, my child. It is known that they are spies.”
Spies. The word clearly caught Julian’s attention.
“Really?” he asked. “Spies for whom?”
“For Casa Rosada,” Rodrigo answered. “They give them names. Then these people disappear.” He looked at Marisol and placed a single, jagged finger at his lips. “Careful,” he said, then glanced toward a nearby bench. “Come, let us sit down.”
Once seated, Father Rodrigo took a moment to observe his surroundings. “Ah, how beautiful is San Martín. I have not seen it since I was a boy.”
He meant Plaza San Martín, a lovely park in the heart of the city, where Marisol had earlier instructed us to meet her. It was close to Retiro Station, she said, and Father Rodrigo was scheduled to leave the city that evening. I’d had little interest in coming, but Julian had insisted. Clearly he had indicated to Marisol that he considered it important to meet this old priest.
At rest, Father Rodrigo seemed even older, but also he looked neglected. His clerical collar was slightly frayed and there were a few small tears in his cassock. This suggested that no help was being provided to him, no Gran Chaco equivalent to those formidable ladies of my boyhood parish, women who kept their priests tidy down to the neatly folded underwear.
My father had explained that South American clergy who subscribed to revolution theology were being punished by what he called “the powers that be,” but on Father Rodrigo such imposed deprivations had created an aura of saintliness. Here was the Church as it should be, I thought, not a thing clothed in robes and adorned by jewels and housed in splendid cathedrals, but a country priest in a worn cassock.
“So,” Father Rodrigo said, glancing first to Julian, then back to me, “has Marisol told you of the place where she grew up?”
She had, as a matter of fact, but for the next few minutes, we listened politely as Father Rodrigo detailed the sad life of the Chaco, the poverty and poor education, young lives doomed to nothing else. It was this doom that he’d wanted Marisol to escape. He’d seen her intelligence, her will, the fact that she would grasp whatever opportunity came her way.
“Which she has done,” he said proudly, then drew Marisol beneath his arm. “She is no longer a girl from the Chaco.”
Marisol plucked the small white flower from her hair and gave it to Rodrigo. “I will always be a girl from the Chaco,” she said.
By then, night had begun to fall over Plaza San Martín. Father Rodrigo struggled to his feet.
“I must go now,” he said. “The bus home leaves soon.”
Marisol tucked her hand beneath the old man’s arm. “I will go with you to the station,” she said.
“I’ll come, too,” Julian volunteered immediately.
“No,” Marisol said softly. “It is for me to do this.”
And I thought, here is the soul of goodness: love, duty, sacrifice, and atonement, all combined to form something for which no word exists in English, save perhaps grace .
“No, I want to go with you,” Julian said insistently, like one who wished to share this service with Marisol.
Marisol appeared uncertain of accepting Julian’s offer and surprised by his adamance.
“Let these good boys come with us,” Father Rodrigo said to Marisol. He pressed his sunbaked hand against her immaculate skin. “We must learn the many roads into each other.”
Had it not been for the utter sincerity in the old man’s eyes, I would have thought that final line scripted, a homily only a Barry Fitzgerald could have delivered without provoking laughter. As a statement, it was at once
Though the question had been addressed to me, it was Julian who answered it.
“By way of the American consulate,” he said.
Father Rodrigo’s expression soured as he turned toward Julian. “They are working with the bad men of this country,” he said firmly, then looked at Marisol. “Be careful what you say, my child. It is known that they are spies.”
Spies. The word clearly caught Julian’s attention.
“Really?” he asked. “Spies for whom?”
“For Casa Rosada,” Rodrigo answered. “They give them names. Then these people disappear.” He looked at Marisol and placed a single, jagged finger at his lips. “Careful,” he said, then glanced toward a nearby bench. “Come, let us sit down.”
Once seated, Father Rodrigo took a moment to observe his surroundings. “Ah, how beautiful is San Martín. I have not seen it since I was a boy.”
He meant Plaza San Martín, a lovely park in the heart of the city, where Marisol had earlier instructed us to meet her. It was close to Retiro Station, she said, and Father Rodrigo was scheduled to leave the city that evening. I’d had little interest in coming, but Julian had insisted. Clearly he had indicated to Marisol that he considered it important to meet this old priest.
At rest, Father Rodrigo seemed even older, but also he looked neglected. His clerical collar was slightly frayed and there were a few small tears in his cassock. This suggested that no help was being provided to him, no Gran Chaco equivalent to those formidable ladies of my boyhood parish, women who kept their priests tidy down to the neatly folded underwear.
My father had explained that South American clergy who subscribed to revolution theology were being punished by what he called “the powers that be,” but on Father Rodrigo such imposed deprivations had created an aura of saintliness. Here was the Church as it should be, I thought, not a thing clothed in robes and adorned by jewels and housed in splendid cathedrals, but a country priest in a worn cassock.
“So,” Father Rodrigo said, glancing first to Julian, then back to me, “has Marisol told you of the place where she grew up?”
She had, as a matter of fact, but for the next few minutes, we listened politely as Father Rodrigo detailed the sad life of the Chaco, the poverty and poor education, young lives doomed to nothing else. It was this doom that he’d wanted Marisol to escape. He’d seen her intelligence, her will, the fact that she would grasp whatever opportunity came her way.
“Which she has done,” he said proudly, then drew Marisol beneath his arm. “She is no longer a girl from the Chaco.”
Marisol plucked the small white flower from her hair and gave it to Rodrigo. “I will always be a girl from the Chaco,” she said.
By then, night had begun to fall over Plaza San Martín. Father Rodrigo struggled to his feet.
“I must go now,” he said. “The bus home leaves soon.”
Marisol tucked her hand beneath the old man’s arm. “I will go with you to the station,” she said.
“I’ll come, too,” Julian volunteered immediately.
“No,” Marisol said softly. “It is for me to do this.”
And I thought, here is the soul of goodness: love, duty, sacrifice, and atonement, all combined to form something for which no word exists in English, save perhaps grace .
“No, I want to go with you,” Julian said insistently, like one who wished to share this service with Marisol.
Marisol appeared uncertain of accepting Julian’s offer and surprised by his adamance.
“Let these good boys come with us,” Father Rodrigo said to Marisol. He pressed his sunbaked hand against her immaculate skin. “We must learn the many roads into each other.”
Had it not been for the utter sincerity in the old man’s eyes, I would have thought that final line scripted, a homily only a Barry Fitzgerald could have delivered without provoking laughter. As a statement, it was at once
Similar Books
