But was it this emasculating sadness that Langhof felt as he stood among his fellows and watched the vermin disappear behind the great oak door of the amphitheater?
No. Not sadness. Not pity. Only the terror that comes with the first, awesome comprehension of our infinite capacity for contradictions: the hard, irreducible fact that a man could humiliate another man with a wooden pointer and yet retain the sense of high civility that decrees a polite bow and a crisp “Thank you” at the end of the display. It seemed to Langhof that a creature capable of such ideological gymnastics was truly fearful. For if the Special Section doctor was capable of such ambidexterousness, who else might be capable of it? Schoen? Of course. Trottman? Yes. But what about Goethe? Beethoven? The scientist in our hero affirmed the undeniable, that it is a universal capacity. Nor was it only a question of ignorance. Schoen might be overwhelmed by the imbecilic biology of the regime, but no one, it seemed to Langhof, could claim immunity from this greater lunacy.
Given this new recognition, what was our frightened philosopher to do? Perhaps he could announce his discovery — run about in the streets, grab astonished pedestrians by their shirt collars, shake them, shout in their faces, “Can’t you see? It’s not safe to be in this world! It’s not safe to live among us! Men are not only stupid, they are inconsistent!” How trite an observation, how comic. How horrible its implications.
What, then, did our hero of the intellect do with this frightening new intelligence?
Nothing. Except to pursue the science of hygiene and carefully brush the twin lightning bolts on his uniform lapel.
FATHER MARTÍNEZ lightly brushes the shoulder of his cassock as he creaks up the stairs of my verandah. At the top he leans on a briar cane that he hopes will someday be an archbishop’s crosier. He smiles. “These stairs are becoming more difficult for me, it seems.”
I point to the chair opposite me. “Rest yourself, Father.”
Father Martínez struggles over to the chair and eases himself into it. A rim of dust coats his upper lip like a faint, brown mustache. “I hope I find you well, Don Pedro,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Good, good,” Father Martínez says. He nods slowly, rhythmically, like the tolling of a bell. He watches me for a moment but says nothing. What he wishes to know he will never ask: How did you end up in the Camp? What did you see? Dear God, what did you do?
The silence grows awkward and he breaks it. “How is Dr. Ludtz? I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing him in quite some time.”
“He has a slight fever, I’m afraid.”
“Fever, yes,” Father Martínez says. “It’s going around the whole province.” He takes his shovel hat and places it on his lap. There is only a hint of gray in his hair, for he is not an old man, though he would like to be one. For him, the idea of the aging, kindly priest serves as the perfect symbol of holiness. He wishes to age into saintliness, to grow ancient in the jungle, so that his long years of selflessness and humility might be noticed by his papal superiors.
“You are well, Father?” I ask.
“Me? Yes, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Of course, the fever is rampant in the village. We’ve even had some problems with hallucinations. The fever causes them, I suppose.”
“Nothing that can’t be handled, I hope.”
Father Martínez shakes his head. “No, nothing we can’t handle. A few women claimed they saw curious visions. Devils, that sort of thing. But nothing serious, Don Pedro.”
“Would you like some refreshment, Father?”
“No, thank you, Don Pedro. I don’t have long to stay.” He watches me again, the silence lengthening. “Actually, I’ve come on a mission of sorts,” he says after a moment.
“A mission?”
“Yes,” Father Martínez says. “And a successful one, I hope.”
“What sort of mission, Father?”
He looks at me worriedly. “Well, it has to do with the orphanage, Don Pedro.”
“I see.”
“You know, the one in the village,” Father Martínez explains unnecessarily. He smiles. “You’ve seen it. Your generous gifts helped to build it, if you recall.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid so, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says sadly. “And, as always, it has to do with money. The fact is, we’ve run out of money to buy medicine.”
“I understand,” I tell him. He comes to me often with his requests, believing that I cannot turn him down because my life is steeped in crime. And so I must give in a spirit of atonement, must give money like a palmer’s withered leaves.
“The situation has become quite serious, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez adds.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I knew you would be.”
“How much do you need, Father?”
Father Martínez almost flinches at the directness of my question. For people to offer so readily diminishes the laboriousness of his labor, and therefore the glory of his martyrdom.
“Well …” he stammers, “the exact figure. I don’t know.”
“An approximation, then.”
He gives me a paltry estimate. He could ask for many times more, but that would make his periodic trips unnecessary. Although he wants the money I can give him, he wants my confession more, and he believes that ultimately, on one of his little sorties against the obstinacy of my soul, I will break down and give it to him.
I offer three times the figure he has named. “I hope this will keep you in medicine for quite some time, Father,” I tell him.
Father Martínez’s eyes widen. “So much, Don Pedro! So generous! Please, I could not accept such a large amount.”
“I am an old man, Father, what do I need it for?”
Father Martínez looks at me sorrowfully. If I should die, he would be denied the only really noteworthy conversion in El Caliz. “Really, it is too much, Don Pedro.”
“Take it with my blessing, Father.”
“With great thanks, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says finally, and with great disappointment.
“I hope it will be of help, Father.”
“Much help, thank you, Don Pedro.”
“Good.”
Father Martínez does not move. He looks as if something has been skillfully stolen from him.
“Is there something else you wanted, Father?”
Father Martínez looks at me. His hands move nervously in his lap, like fish flopping about. “Don Pedro,” he begins cautiously, “I wonder if you would ever consider coming to the parish church?”
I feel something unspeakably cold skating in my blood. “For what purpose, Father?”
Father Martínez blinks rapidly. “Purpose, Don Pedro?”
“For what purpose should I come?”
“Well, I … for your own …”
“What?”
“Betterment, Don Pedro.”
“It is a long trip for an old man, Father,” I tell him. For years they have swarmed over the bloated carcass of the Republic in their black soutanes and dusty hats. I have seen them come and go, come and go. And some have done much goodness while they watched the jungle roll in its immemorial butchery. But all have died within the immense, consuming fog of their faith’s mystification.