good thieves."
"For God's sake take this brandy and go."
"There was one thing," he said. "In my case... there was something …"
"Go and find it yourself on the rubbish-tip then. I won't touch it again."
"And the child," he said, "you're a good woman, Maria. I mean-you'll try and bring her up well... as a Christian."
"She'll never be good for anything, you can see that."
"She can't be very bad-at her age," he implored her.
"She'll go on the way she's begun."
He said: "The next Mass I say will be for her."
She wasn't even listening. She said: "She's bad through and through." He was aware of faith dying out between the bed and the door-the Mass would soon mean no more to anyone than a black cat crossing the path. He was risking all their lives for the sake of spilt salt, or a crossed finger. He began: "My mule...
"They are giving it maize now."
She added: "You'd better go north. There's no chance to the south any more."
"I thought perhaps Carmen..."
"They'll be watching there."
"Oh, well..." He said sadly: "Perhaps one day... when things are better..." He sketched a cross and blessed her, but she stood impatiently before him, willing him to be gone for ever.
"Well, good-bye, Maria."
"Good-bye."
He walked across the plaza with his shoulders hunched: he felt that there wasn't a soul in the place who wasn't watching him with satisfaction-the trouble-maker whom for obscure and superstitious reasons they preferred not to betray to the police; he felt envious of the unknown gringo whom they wouldn't hesitate to trap-he at any rate had no burden of gratitude to carry round with him.
Down a slope churned up with the hoofs of mules and ragged with tree-roots there was the river-not more than two feet deep, littered with empty cans and broken bottles. Under a notice which hung on a tree reading: "It is forbidden to deposit rubbish..." all the refuse of the village was collected and slid gradually down into the river. When the rains came it would be washed away. He put his foot among the old tins and rotting vegetables and reached for his case. He sighed: it had been quite a good case: one more relic of the quiet past.... Soon it would be difficult to remember that life had ever been any different. The lock had been torn off: he felt inside the silk lining. …
The papers were there: reluctantly he let the case fall-a whole important and respected youth dropped among the cans-he had been given it by his parishioners in Concepcion on the fifth anniversary of his ordination.... Somebody moved behind a tree. He lifted his feet out of the rubbish-flies buzzed around his ankles. With the papers hidden in his fist he came round the trunk to see who was spying.... The child sat on a root, kicking her heels against the bark. Her eyes were shut tight fast. He said: "My dear, what is the matter with you...?" They came quickly open-red-rimmed and angry, with an expression of absurd pride. She said:
"You... you..."
"Me?"
"You are the matter."
He moved towards her with infinite caution, as if she were an animal who distrusted him. He felt weak with longing. He said: "My dear, why me... ?"
She said furiously: "They laugh at me.''
"Because of me?"
She said: "Everyone else has a father... who works."
"I work too."
"You're a priest, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Pedro says you aren't a man. You aren't any good for women." She said: "I don't know what he means."
"I don't suppose he knows himself."
"Oh, yes, he does," she said. "He's ten. And I want to know. You're going away, aren't you?"
"Yes."
He was appalled again by her maturity, as she whipped up a smile from a large and varied stock. She said: "Tell me-" enticingly. She sat there on the trunk of the tree by the rubbish-tip with an effect of abandonment. The world was in her heart already, like the small spot of decay in a fruit. She was without protection-she had no grace, no charm to plead for her; his heart was shaken by the conviction of loss. He said: "My dear, be
"For God's sake take this brandy and go."
"There was one thing," he said. "In my case... there was something …"
"Go and find it yourself on the rubbish-tip then. I won't touch it again."
"And the child," he said, "you're a good woman, Maria. I mean-you'll try and bring her up well... as a Christian."
"She'll never be good for anything, you can see that."
"She can't be very bad-at her age," he implored her.
"She'll go on the way she's begun."
He said: "The next Mass I say will be for her."
She wasn't even listening. She said: "She's bad through and through." He was aware of faith dying out between the bed and the door-the Mass would soon mean no more to anyone than a black cat crossing the path. He was risking all their lives for the sake of spilt salt, or a crossed finger. He began: "My mule...
"They are giving it maize now."
She added: "You'd better go north. There's no chance to the south any more."
"I thought perhaps Carmen..."
"They'll be watching there."
"Oh, well..." He said sadly: "Perhaps one day... when things are better..." He sketched a cross and blessed her, but she stood impatiently before him, willing him to be gone for ever.
"Well, good-bye, Maria."
"Good-bye."
He walked across the plaza with his shoulders hunched: he felt that there wasn't a soul in the place who wasn't watching him with satisfaction-the trouble-maker whom for obscure and superstitious reasons they preferred not to betray to the police; he felt envious of the unknown gringo whom they wouldn't hesitate to trap-he at any rate had no burden of gratitude to carry round with him.
Down a slope churned up with the hoofs of mules and ragged with tree-roots there was the river-not more than two feet deep, littered with empty cans and broken bottles. Under a notice which hung on a tree reading: "It is forbidden to deposit rubbish..." all the refuse of the village was collected and slid gradually down into the river. When the rains came it would be washed away. He put his foot among the old tins and rotting vegetables and reached for his case. He sighed: it had been quite a good case: one more relic of the quiet past.... Soon it would be difficult to remember that life had ever been any different. The lock had been torn off: he felt inside the silk lining. …
The papers were there: reluctantly he let the case fall-a whole important and respected youth dropped among the cans-he had been given it by his parishioners in Concepcion on the fifth anniversary of his ordination.... Somebody moved behind a tree. He lifted his feet out of the rubbish-flies buzzed around his ankles. With the papers hidden in his fist he came round the trunk to see who was spying.... The child sat on a root, kicking her heels against the bark. Her eyes were shut tight fast. He said: "My dear, what is the matter with you...?" They came quickly open-red-rimmed and angry, with an expression of absurd pride. She said:
"You... you..."
"Me?"
"You are the matter."
He moved towards her with infinite caution, as if she were an animal who distrusted him. He felt weak with longing. He said: "My dear, why me... ?"
She said furiously: "They laugh at me.''
"Because of me?"
She said: "Everyone else has a father... who works."
"I work too."
"You're a priest, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Pedro says you aren't a man. You aren't any good for women." She said: "I don't know what he means."
"I don't suppose he knows himself."
"Oh, yes, he does," she said. "He's ten. And I want to know. You're going away, aren't you?"
"Yes."
He was appalled again by her maturity, as she whipped up a smile from a large and varied stock. She said: "Tell me-" enticingly. She sat there on the trunk of the tree by the rubbish-tip with an effect of abandonment. The world was in her heart already, like the small spot of decay in a fruit. She was without protection-she had no grace, no charm to plead for her; his heart was shaken by the conviction of loss. He said: "My dear, be
Similar Books
