Rigoberto and Lucrecia looked at each other and then at Father O’Donovan in silence. The priest now seemed as confused as they were. He’d become sad and clearly wasn’t happy with his answer either. But it was evident he had no other and couldn’t give a better explanation. He didn’t know how.
“I understand, of course I do, but what you’re telling me doesn’t mean anything, Pepín,” Rigoberto complained. “That Fonchito isn’t trying to deceive us was one of the hypotheses, naturally. That he might be deceiving himself through autosuggestion: Is that what you believe?”
“I know that what I’m telling you is a disappointment, that you were both hoping for something more definitive, more categorical,” Father O’Donovan continued. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be more concrete, Ears. I can’t. This is all I could make of it. That the boy isn’t lying. He believes he sees the man and perhaps … perhaps it’s possible he does. That he’s the only one who sees him and nobody else does is something I can’t get past. It’s simple conjecture. I repeat: I don’t exclude the possibility that your son is stringing me along. In other words, that he’s more astute and skilled than I am. Maybe he takes after you, Ears. Do you remember at La Recoleta when Father Lagnier called you a mythomaniac?”
“But, then, what you’ve learned is not at all clear but very obscure, Pepín,” Rigoberto murmured.
“Is it a question of visions? Or hallucinations?” Lucrecia attempted to make things more explicit.
“You can call it that, but not if you associate those words with mental unbalance or disease,” the priest declared. “My impression is that Fonchito has total control of his mind and emotions. He’s a well-balanced boy and distinguishes clearly between the real and the imaginary. I can definitely assure you of that, I’d bet my life on his sanity. In other words, this isn’t something that can be resolved by a psychiatrist.”
“I assume you’re not talking about miracles,” said Rigoberto, irritated and mocking. “Because if Fonchito is the only person who sees Edilberto Torres and speaks to him, you’re talking about miraculous powers. Have we fallen so low, Pepín?”
“Of course I’m not talking about miracles, Ears, and neither is Fonchito,” said the priest, now irritated as well. “I’m simply talking about something I don’t know what to call. The child is having a very special experience. I won’t say a religious experience because you don’t know and don’t want to know what that is, but let’s compromise and use the word ‘spiritual.’ Something to do with sensitivity, with extreme emotion. Something that only very indirectly has to do with the material, rational world we move through. For him, Edilberto Torres symbolizes all human suffering. I know you don’t understand me. That’s why I was so afraid to come and tell you about my talk with Fonchito.”
“A spiritual experience?” Doña Lucrecia repeated. “What does that mean exactly? Can you explain, Pepín?”
“It means that the devil appears to him, that his name is Edilberto Torres, and that as it turns out, he’s Peruvian,” summarized a sarcastic and angry Rigoberto. “Basically that’s what you’re telling us, Pepín, in the inane prattle of a miracle-faking priest.”
“Lunch is served,” said Justiniana, just in time, from the doorway. “You can come to the table whenever you like.”
“At first it didn’t bother me, it only surprised me,” said Fonchito. “But now it does. Though ‘bother’ isn’t the right word, Father. It disturbs me, rather, makes me feel bad, makes me sad. Ever since I saw him cry, you know? The first few times he didn’t cry, he only wanted to talk. And though he doesn’t tell me why he’s crying, I think he’s crying for all the bad things that happen. And for me, too. That’s what hurts me the most.”
There was a long silence, and finally Father O’Donovan said the prawns were delicious and he could tell they came from the Majes River. Should he congratulate Lucrecia or Justiniana for this delicacy?
“Neither one, but the cook,” replied Lucrecia. “Her name’s Navidad and she’s from Arequipa, of course.”
“When was the last time you saw this gentleman?” asked the priest, who’d lost the confident, secure air he’d had until now and seemed somewhat nervous. He asked the question with great diffidence.
“Yesterday, crossing the Puente de los Suspiros, in Barranco, Father,” Fonchito answered immediately. “I was walking across the bridge and there were maybe three other people. And suddenly there he was, sitting on the railing.”
“Crying, as usual?” asked Father O’Donovan.
“I don’t know, I saw him for just a moment as I walked past. I didn’t stop, I kept walking, walking faster,” the boy explained, and now he seemed frightened. “I don’t know if he was crying. But his face looked really sad. I don’t know how to say it, Father. I swear to you I’ve never seen anyone as sad as Señor Torres. It’s contagious, I’m upset for a long time afterward, full of sorrow, and I don’t know what to do. I’d like to know why he’s crying. I’d like to know what he wants me to do. Sometimes I tell myself he’s crying for all the people who suffer. For the sick, the blind, for those who beg in the streets. Well, I don’t know, lots of things go through my head when I see him. But I don’t know how to explain them, Father.”
“You explain them very well, Fonchito,” Father O’Donovan said. “Don’t worry about that.”
“But then, what should we do?” asked Lucrecia.
“Advise us, Pepín,” Rigoberto added. “I’m completely paralyzed. If it’s as you say, then the boy has a kind of gift, a hypersensibility, and sees what no one else sees. It’s that, isn’t it? Should I talk to him about it? Should I say nothing? It worries me, it frightens me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Love him and leave him in peace,” said Father O’Donovan. “What’s certain is that this individual, whether or not he exists, is no pervert and doesn’t wish to hurt your son in the slightest. Whether or not he exists, he has more to do with Fonchito’s soul, well, with his spirit, if you prefer, than with his body.”
“Something mystical?” Lucrecia interjected. “Could that be it? But Fonchito was never very religious. Just the opposite, I’d say.”
“I’d like to be more precise, but I can’t,” Father O’Donovan confessed again; he looked defeated. “Something’s happening to the boy that has no rational explanation. We don’t know everything that’s in us, Ears. Human beings, each of us, are chasms filled with shadows. Some men, some women, are more intensely sensitive than others, they feel and perceive things that the rest of us don’t. Could this be purely a product of his imagination? Yes, perhaps. But it could also be something else I don’t dare give a name to, Rigoberto. Your son is experiencing this so powerfully, so authentically, that I resist thinking it’s purely imaginary. And I don’t want to and won’t say more than that.”
He fell silent and sat looking at the plate of corvina and rice with a kind of hybrid feeling that was both stupefaction and tenderness. Lucrecia and Rigoberto had not tasted a mouthful.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been much help to you,” the priest added sadly. “Instead of helping you out of this tangled situation, I’ve become entangled in it too.”
He was silent for a long time and looked at them both with concern.
“I’m not exaggerating if I tell you that this is the first time in my life I’ve confronted something I wasn’t prepared for,” he murmured very seriously. “Something that, for me, has no rational explanation. I already told you I don’t discount the possibility that the boy is exceptionally good at deception and has made me swallow a huge fabrication. It’s not impossible. I’ve thought about that a great deal. But no, I don’t believe it. I think he’s very sincere.”