“That ought to be easy. She doesn’t strike me as a difficult woman.”
“No. But I suppose sooner or later a test always comes. Like those bloody examinations we used to have at school. I’m not exactly insured against failing.”
They might have been talking, Doctor Plarr thought, about two different women-one was the woman whom Charley Fortnum loved-the other was a prostitute from Mother Sanchez’ house who had waited in his bed the night before. She had asked him something. And then Colonel Perez had rung the bell. It was no use trying to remember now what it was she had asked him.
Toward the end of the morning Marta came back from the city with a copy of El Litoral-the Buenos Aires papers had not yet arrived. The editor had given headlines to Doctor Saavedra’s offer-larger headlines, Doctor Plarr considered, than the story was likely to receive elsewhere. He waited to see Leon’s reaction, but he made no comment when he passed the paper without a word to Aquino. Aquino said, “Who is this Saavedra?”
“A novelist.”
“Why should he think we want a novelist in place of a Consul? What good is a novelist? Anyway he is an Argentinian. Who cares if an Argentinian dies? Not the General. Not even our own President. Nor the world either. One less of the underdeveloped to spend money on.”
At one o’clock Father Rivas turned on the radio and got a news-bulletin from Buenos Aires. Doctor Saavedra’s offer was not even mentioned. Was he listening, Doctor Plarr wondered, in that little room near the prison, listening to a silence which must seem to him more humiliating than a rejection? The kidnapping had already ceased to interest the Argentinian public. There were other more exciting events which clamoured for attention. A man had killed the lover of his wife (in a fight with knives of course)—that was a story which never lost appeal to a Latin American; the usual flying saucers had been reported from the south, there had been an army coup in Bolivia, and there was a detailed account of the activities of the Argentina Toot-ball team in Europe (someone had cut up the referee). At the close of the broadcast the announcer said: “There is still no news of the kidnapped British Consul. The time to fulfil the conditions set by the kidnappers expires on Sunday at midnight.”
Someone tapped on the outer door. The Indian who was back on guard stood flattened against the wall with his gun held out of sight. There were all six of them in the room at the moment-Father Rivas, Diego, the driver of the car, the pockmarked Negro Pablo, Marta and Aquino. Two of them should have been on duty outside, but now in the broad daylight, when everything was quiet, Leon had allowed them to come in to listen to the news on the radio, a mistake which he was probably regretting. The knock came a second time, and Aquino turned off the radio.
“Pablo,” Father Rivas said.
Unwillingly Pablo approached the door. He pulled a revolver from his pocket, but the priest told him sharply, “Put it back.”
Doctor Plarr wondered with a sense of resignation, even of relief, whether this was going to be the climax of the whole absurd affair. Would there be a burst of firing when the door opened?
Father Rivas may have had the same thought, for he moved to the centre of the room as though, if this were indeed the end, he wanted to be the first one to die. Pablo pulled the door back.
An old man stood outside. He wavered in the speckled sunlight and stared silently at them with what seemed an unnatural curiosity, until Doctor Plarr realized he was blind from cataract. The old man felt the edge of the door with a hand paper-thin, veined like an old leaf.
“José, what are you doing here?” the Negro exclaimed.
“I came to find the Father.”
“There is no Father here, José.”
“Oh yes, there is, Pablo. I was sitting by the water tap yesterday and I heard someone say, ‘The Father who lives with Pablo is a good Father.’ “
“What do you want a Father for? Anyway, he has gone.”
The old man moved his head from one side to the other as though he were listening with each ear in turn, distinguishing the different breaths that sounded in the room, heavy breaths and muted breaths, one of them hurried, another-Diego’s-with an asthmatic whistle.
“My wife has died,” he told them. “When I woke this morning and put my hand out to wake her she was cold as a wet stone. She was all right last night. She made my soup, and it was very good soup. She never told me she was going to die.”
“You must get the priest of the barrio, José”
“He is not a good priest,” the old man said. “He is the Archbishop’s priest. You know that very well, Pablo.”
“The Father who came here was only a visitor. A relation of my cousin in Rosario. He has gone away again.”
“Who are all the people in the room, Pablo?”
“My friends. What do you suppose? We were listening to the radio when you came.”
“My goodness, have you a radio, Pablo? How rich you have become all of a sudden.”
“It is not mine. It belongs to a friend.”
“What a rich friend you have. I need a coffin for my wife, Pablo, and I have no money.”
“You know that will all be arranged, José”. We in the barrio will see to that.”
“Juan says you bought a coffin from him. You have no wife, Pablo. Let me have your coffin.”
“I need the coffin for myself, José. The doctor has told me I am a very sick man. Juan will make you a coffin and all of us in the barrio will pay him.”
“But there is the Mass. I want the Father to say the Mass. I do not want the Archbishop’s priest.” The old man took a step into the room, feeling toward them with his hands, palms up.
“There is no Father here. I told you. He has gone back to Rosario.”
Pablo stood between the old man and Father Rivas as though he feared that even in his blindness he could pick a priest out.
“How did you find your way here, José”?” Diego asked. “Your wife was the only eyes you had.”
“Is that Diego? I can see well enough with my hands.” He held them out, fingers pointed first at Diego, then at where the doctor stood, and afterward he turned them toward Father Rivas. They were like eyes on stalks, of some strange insect. He didn’t even look at Pablo. Pablo he took for granted. It was the others, the strangers, whom his hands and ears sought. He gave the impression that he was numbering them like a prison warder, while they stood in silence for his inspection. “There are four strangers here, Pablo.” He took a step toward Aquino and Aquino shuffled back.
“They are all friends of mine, José.”
“I never knew what a lot of friends you have, Pablo. They are not of this barrio.”
“No.”
“They will be welcome all the same to come and see my wife.”
“They will come later, but I must lead you home now, Jose.”
“Let me hear the radio speak, Pablo. I have never heard a radio speak.”
“Ted!” the voice of Charley Fortnum called from the next room, “Ted!”
“Who is that calling, Pablo?”
“A sick man.”
“Ted! Where are you, Ted?”
“A gringo!” The old man added with awe, “I have never known a gringo in the barrio before. And a radio. You have become a big man, Pablo.”
Aquino turned the sound of the radio full on to drown the voice of Charley Fortnum and a woman’s voice spoke loudly of the outstanding merits of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies. “Popping with life and vigour,” the voice said. “Golden and Honey Sweet.”