The Good Conscience by Carlos Fuentes Page A

occupied by five or six of the city’s gentry. The pews behind were crowded: old women wrapped in black shawls, blue-clad peasants with dark eyes and crossed arms and bare feet smeared with burned clay. Doña Asunción counted her rosary as if the beads were pearls; the old women in the rear pews counted theirs as if weighing grains of corn, as if these prayers were the richest part of their overwhelming poverty.
    Now the family are gathered in the shadowy dining room beneath the green lamp. A servant has placed, in the middle of the velvet cloth, a fountain of papayas, lemons, cold bananas and sweet-smelling quinces. Jaime holds a quince near his nose. Uncle Balcárcel arches his eyebrows and compresses his thin lips and squeezes lemon juice over a rose slice of papaya. Rodolfo, napkin tucked into his collar, has just covered his mouth with his hand to spit out seeds. Asunción gestures to Jaime that he should wipe something from his right eye. There are smells of fried sausage and bacon.
    â€œPut down that quince and eat,” Uncle Balcárcel growls. “I observe that this boy is decidedly skinny.”
    â€œHe’s growing so fast,” the aunt says.
    â€œHe ought to exercise. What do you do, sir, in your free time?”
    â€œI read a lot, uncle.”
    â€œDon’t talk with your mouth full.” Balcárcel’s posture at the table is erect and dignified, as if to contrast with Rodolfo’s slumped indolence. The closed fist of his left hand reposes on the tablecloth and now and then he takes his watch from his vest and arches his brows. “Rodolfo, I have no wish to encroach upon your authority. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that the time has come to speak plainly to Jaime. He is no longer a child, but a young man of sixteen.”
    The fat merchant becomes all attention. He stops eating.
    To speak plainly, Jaime thinks. That is exactly what he wants, to be able to speak and understand plainly.
    â€œLife nowadays,” intones Balcárcel, “is replete with dangers. In our youth, Rodolfo, the social atmosphere helped us toward virtue. But today, I am informed, instead of learning discipline, our young people run as free as goats. Nowadays it is held that discipline is wrong, that it is better to give in to one’s instincts. No, sir! I say no, sir! Instincts are for brute animals. Men must learn control.”
    Balcárcel passes his rigid triumphant gaze around the table. Jaime lowers his head.
    â€œI see that my words affect you strongly, young man,” the uncle smiles. “All the better. Pray tell me, what is the book you are now reading?”
    â€œA novel, sir.”
    â€œA novel. Very good. And what is its title?”
    â€œThe Red and the Black.”
    â€œAsunción, will you be so kind as to confirm with Father Lanzagorta that this so-called novel is on the Index? You will then have Jaime hand his copy over to you. Let us proceed. Who is your closest friend?”
    â€œA friend from … from school.”
    â€œHis name?”
    â€œJuan Manuel.”
    â€œJuan Manuel what?”
    â€œJuan Manuel Lorenzo.”
    â€œAsunción, do you call to mind any of our friends whose family name is Lorenzo? Neither do I, neither do I. And I shall tell you why: because these Lorenzos are peasants whose son studies here thanks to a scholarship provided by the government.”
    â€œChild, you must be more careful in your associations,” says Doña Asunción, resting her hand on Jaime’s shoulder. The boy is red faced. He looks for words with which to reply to his uncle. He implores the protective intervention of his father. But Rodolfo sits with his hands on his lap and an expression of respectful attention.
    â€œI have not yet concluded,” the uncle pronounces with a stiff finger. “And now I enter, decidedly, into the area of your responsibility, Rodolfo. Does it seem to you fitting that a youth whose