“It’s not about me,” Rigoberto explained, “it’s Fonchito. Lucrecia and I don’t know what to do with the boy, Pepín. He’s turning our hair gray, honestly.”
They’d continued to see each other with some frequency. Father O’Donovan married Rigoberto and Eloísa, his first wife, Fonchito’s late mother, and after he was widowed, Father O’Donovan also married him and Lucrecia in a small ceremony with only a handful of friends attending. He’d baptized Fonchito and occasionally visited the Barranco apartment, where he was received with great affection, to have lunch and listen to music. Rigoberto had helped him a few times with donations (his own and from the insurance company) for charitable work in the parish. When they saw each other, they tended to speak for the most part about music, which Pepín O’Donovan had always liked a great deal. From time to time Rigoberto and Lucrecia invited him to the concerts sponsored by the Philharmonic Society of Lima in the Santa Úrsula auditorium.
“Don’t worry, man, it’s probably nothing,” said Father O’Donovan. “At the age of fifteen, all the young people in the world have and make problems. And if they don’t, they’re fools. It’s normal.”
“The normal thing would be for him to get drunk, go out with easy girls, smoke some marijuana, do all the stupid things you and I did when we were teenagers,” said Rigoberto, in distress. “No, old man, that isn’t the route Fonchito’s taken. Instead, well, I know you’re going to laugh, but for some time now he’s gotten it into his head that he sees the devil.”
Father O’Donovan tried to control himself but couldn’t and burst into resounding laughter.
“I’m not laughing at Fonchito but at you,” he explained between gales of laughter. “At you, Ears, talking about the devil. That word sounds very strange in your mouth. It sounds dissonant.”
“I don’t know if he’s the devil, I never told you he is, I never used that word, I don’t know why you do, Papa,” Fonchito protested in a voice so faint that his father, in order not to miss a word he was saying, had to bend forward and bring his head close to the boy’s.
“All right, forgive me, son,” he apologized. “Just tell me one thing. I’m speaking to you very seriously, Fonchito. Do you feel cold each time Edilberto Torres appears? As if he’d brought an icy gust?”
“What silly things you’re saying, Papa.” Fonchito opened his eyes very wide, not sure whether to laugh or remain serious. “Are you kidding me or what?”
“Does he appear to him as the devil appeared to the famous Father Urraca, in the shape of a naked woman?” Father O’Donovan started to laugh again. “I suppose you’ve read that story by Ricardo Palma, Ears, it’s one of his most amusing.”
“Okay, it’s okay,” Rigoberto apologized again. “You’re right, you never told me this Edilberto Torres was the devil. I beg your pardon, I know I shouldn’t joke about this. The thing about the cold comes from a novel by Thomas Mann, where the devil appears to the main character, a composer. Forget my question. It’s just that I don’t know what to call this person, son. Someone who appears to you and disappears, who materializes in the most unexpected places, can’t be flesh and blood like you and me. Isn’t that so? I swear I’m not making fun of you. I’m speaking to you from the bottom of my heart. If he isn’t the devil, then he must be an angel.”
“Of course you’re making fun of me, Papa, don’t you see?” Fonchito protested. “I didn’t say he’s the devil or an angel either. I think he’s a person like you and me, flesh and blood, of course, and very normal. If you like, we can end this conversation now and never talk again about Señor Edilberto Torres.”
“It’s not a game, it doesn’t seem to be one,” said Rigoberto very seriously. Father O’Donovan had stopped laughing and now was listening attentively. “The boy, though he doesn’t say so, is completely changed by this. He’s another person, Pepín. He always had a healthy appetite, he was never a fussy eater, and now he barely takes a mouthful. He’s stopped playing sports, his friends come by for him and he invents excuses. Lucrecia and I have to push him to go outside. He’s become taciturn, introverted, reticent, and he was always so sociable and talkative. He’s constantly withdrawn, as if a great worry were eating him up inside. I no longer recognize my son. We took him to a psychologist who did all kinds of tests. And the diagnosis was that nothing’s wrong, that he’s the most normal child in the world. I swear to you we don’t know what else to do, Pepín.”
“If I were to tell you the number of people who believe they see visions, Rigoberto, you’d be flabbergasted,” said Father O’Donovan, attempting to reassure him. “Generally they’re old women. It’s more unusual among children. They have bad thoughts more than anything else.”
“Couldn’t you talk to him, old man?” Rigoberto was in no mood for jokes. “Counsel him? I mean, I don’t know. It was Lucrecia’s idea, not mine. She thinks maybe with you he could be more open than he is with us.”
“The last time was at the Larcomar Cineplex, Papa.” Fonchito had lowered his eyes and hesitated when he spoke. “Friday night, when Chato Pezzuolo and I went to see the new James Bond. I was caught up in the movie, having a terrific time, and suddenly, suddenly…”
“Suddenly what?” urged Don Rigoberto.
“Suddenly I saw him, sitting next to me,” said Fonchito, his head lowered and breathing deeply. “It was him, no doubt about it. I swear, Papa, there he was. Señor Edilberto Torres. His eyes were shining, and then I saw tears running down his cheeks. It couldn’t have been the movie, Papa, nothing sad was on the screen, everything was fighting, kissing, adventures. I mean, he was crying over something else. And then, I don’t know how to tell you this, but it occurred to me that he was so sad because of me. I mean, that he was crying because of me.”
“Because of you?” Rigoberto spoke with difficulty. “Why would that man cry for you, Fonchito? What in you could he feel sorry about?”
“I don’t know, Papa, I’m just guessing. But otherwise, why do you think he’d cry, sitting there beside me?”
“And when the movie was over and the lights went on, was Edilberto Torres still in the seat next to yours?” Rigoberto asked, knowing perfectly well what the answer would be.
“No, Papa. He was gone. I don’t know exactly when he got up and left. I didn’t see.”