“In other words, the conversation was worthwhile?” Rigoberto explored the terrain.
“It was very good, Papa. That was a great idea. I learned a lot of things talking to Father O’Donovan. He doesn’t seem like a priest, he doesn’t give advice, he listens. You were right.”
But he refused to say any more either to him or to his stepmother in spite of their requests. He limited himself to generalities, like the smell of cat urine that filled the church (“Didn’t you notice, Papa?”) even though the priest assured him he didn’t have and had never had a cat and, in fact, saw mice in the sacristy from time to time.
Rigoberto soon deduced that something strange, perhaps something serious, had occurred during the couple of hours that Pepín and Fonchito talked. Otherwise, why had Father O’Donovan been avoiding him for the past four days, making up all kinds of excuses, as if he were afraid to meet with him and tell him about his conversation with the boy?
“Are you looking for reasons not to tell me how your conversation with Fonchito went?” He confronted him on the fifth day, when the priest deigned to answer the telephone.
There was a silence of several seconds on the phone, and finally Rigoberto heard the priest say something that left him stupefied.
“Yes, Rigoberto. The truth is, I am. I’ve been avoiding you. What I have to tell you is something you’re not expecting,” Father O’Donovan said mysteriously. “But since it can’t be helped, let’s talk about it. I’ll come to your house for lunch on Saturday or Sunday. Which day is better for you?”
“Saturday, Fonchito usually has lunch that day at his friend Pezzuolo’s house,” said Rigoberto. “What you’ve said will keep me awake until Saturday, Pepín. And it’ll be even worse for Lucrecia.”
“That’s how I’ve been since you had the bright idea of having me talk to your son,” the priest said drily. “Until Saturday then, Ears.”
Father O’Donovan must have been the only cleric who traveled through greater Lima not by bus or jitney but on a bicycle. He said it was his only exercise, but he did it so regularly that it kept him in excellent physical condition. Besides, he liked to pedal. He would think as he rode, preparing his sermons, composing letters, scheduling the day’s tasks. True, he had to be constantly on the alert, especially at intersections and at the traffic lights that no one in this city respected, and where motorists drove as if trying to knock down pedestrians and cyclists instead of bringing their vehicle safely home. Even so, he’d been lucky: In the more than twenty years that he’d been traveling all over the city on two wheels, he’d been hit only once, with no serious consequences, and only one bicycle had been stolen. An excellent record!
On Saturday, at about midday, Rigoberto and Lucrecia, who were watching the street from the terrace of the penthouse where they lived, saw Father O’Donovan pedaling furiously along the Paul Harris Seawalk in Barranco. They felt great relief. It had seemed so strange that the cleric put off telling them about his conversation with Fonchito for so long that they had even worried he’d invent a last-minute excuse to avoid coming. What could have been said in the conversation to make him so reluctant to tell them about it?
Justiniana went downstairs to tell the porter to allow Father O’Donovan to bring his bicycle into the building to keep it safe from thieves, and rode up with him in the elevator. Pepín embraced Rigoberto, kissed Lucrecia on the cheek, and asked permission to go to the bathroom to wash his hands and face because he was sweaty.
“How long did it take you to cycle from Bajo el Puente?” asked Lucrecia.
“Just under half an hour,” he said. “With the traffic jams we have now in Lima, it’s faster to go on a bicycle than in a car.”
He asked for fruit juice as an aperitif and looked at both of them slowly, smiling.
“I know you must have been saying terrible things about me for not telling you what happened,” he said.
“Yes, Pepín, exactly, terrible, awful, dreadful things. You know how upset we are about this. You’re a sadist.”
“How was it?” Doña Lucrecia asked anxiously. “Did he talk to you honestly? Did he tell you everything? What’s your opinion?”
Father O’Donovan, very serious now, took a deep breath. He murmured that the half hour of pedaling had tired him more than he cared to admit. And he was silent for a long time.
“Shall I tell you something?” He looked at them with an expression that was partly distressed, partly defiant. “The truth is I’m not at all comfortable about the conversation we’re about to have.”
“Neither am I, Father,” said Fonchito. “There’s no reason to have it. I know very well that my papa’s nerves are on edge because of me. If you like, you do whatever you have to do and give me a magazine to read, even if it’s a religious one. Then we’ll tell my papa and stepmother that we talked and you can make up something to reassure them. And that’ll be that.”
“Well, well,” said Father O’Donovan. “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, Fonchito. Do you know that at your age, in La Recoleta, your father was a great bamboozler?”
“Did you get to talk to him about that man?” asked Rigoberto, not hiding his anxiety. “Did he open up to you?”
“The truth is, I don’t know,” said Father O’Donovan. “This boy is like quicksilver, he always seemed to be slipping away from me. But don’t worry. I’m sure of one thing at least. He’s not crazy, he’s not delirious, and he’s not kidding you. I thought he was the healthiest, most centered child in the world. The psychologist who saw him told you the absolute truth: He has no mental problems at all, as far as I can judge. Of course, I’m not a psychiatrist or a psychologist—”
“But then this man’s appearances,” Lucrecia interrupted. “Did you find out anything certain? Does Edilberto Torres exist or not?”
“Though it might not be entirely accurate to say he’s normal.” Father O’Donovan corrected himself, avoiding the question. “Because the boy has something exceptional, something that differentiates him from the rest. I’m not referring only to his being intelligent. He’s that, certainly. I’m not exaggerating one bit, Rigoberto, and I’m not saying this just to please you. But besides that, the boy has in his mind, his spirit, something that draws one’s attention. A very special, very personal kind of sensibility we ordinary mortals don’t possess. Literally. As for the rest, I don’t know if this is a reason to be glad or frightened. And I don’t discount the possibility that he wanted to give me that impression and succeeded, as a consummate actor would. I really wasn’t sure whether I should come and tell you this. But I thought it was better if I did.”
“Can we get to the point, Pepín?” Don Rigoberto had become impatient. “Stop beating around the damn bush. I’ll speak frankly: Cut the bullshit, and let’s get to the meat of the problem. Speak clearly and please stop trying to save your own ass.”
“What awful language, Rigoberto,” said Lucrecia in reproof. “It’s just that we’re so terribly worried, Pepín. Forgive him. I think this is the first time I’ve heard your friend Ears swearing like a truck driver.”
“All right, I’m sorry, Pepín, but tell me once and for all, old man,” Rigoberto insisted. “Does the ubiquitous Edilberto Torres exist? Does he appear to him in movie theaters, in discotheque bathrooms, on school bleachers? Can all this nonsense be true?”
Father O’Donovan had begun to perspire again, copiously, and now it was not due to the bicycle, thought Rigoberto, but the stress of having to render a verdict on this subject. What in hell was it? What was going on?
“Let’s put it this way, Rigoberto,” said the priest, handling his words with extreme caution, as if they had thorns. “Fonchito believes he sees and talks to him. I think that’s incontrovertible. Well, I believe he believes it absolutely, so that he believes he isn’t lying to you when he says he’s seen and talked to him. Even though these appearances and disappearances seem, and are, absurd. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?”