Can you let me have a hammock for the night?
Ah, father, for a hammock you must go to a town. Here you must take only the luck of the road.
Never mind. Anywhere to lie down. Can you give me-a little spirit?
[38] Coffee, father. We have nothing else.
Some food.
We have no food.
Never mind.
The boy came out of the hut and watched them: everybody watched: it was like a bull-fight: the animal was tired and they awaited the next move. They were not hard-hearted: they were watching the rare spectacle of something worse off than themselves. He limped on towards the hut. Inside it was dark from the knees upwards: there was no flame on the floor, just a slow burning away. The place was half-filled by a stack of maize: rats rustled among the dry outer leaves. There was a bed made of earth with a straw mat on it, and two packing-cases made a table. The stranger lay down, and the old man closed the door on them both.
Is it safe?
The boy will watch. He knows.
Were you expecting me?
No, father. But it is five years since we have seen a priest … it was bound to happen one day.
The priest fell uneasily asleep, and the old man crouched on the floor, fanning the fire with his breath. Somebody tapped on the door and the priest jerked upright. It is all right, the old man said. Just your coffee, father. He brought it to him-grey maize coffee smoking in a tin mug, but the priest was too tired to drink. He lay on his side perfectly stilclass="underline" a rat watched him from the maize.
The soldiers were here yesterday, the old man said. He blew on the fire: smoke poured up and filled the hut. The priest began to cough, and the rat moved quickly like the shadow of a hand into the stack.
The boy, father, has not been baptized. The last priest who was here wanted two pesos. I had only one peso. Now I have only fifty centavos.
Tomorrow, the priest said wearily. Will you say Mass, father, in the morning?
Yes, yes.
And Confession, father, will you hear our confessions?
Yes, but let me sleep first. He turned on his back and closed his eyes to keep out the smoke.
[39] We have no money, father, to give you. The other priest, Padre José ...
Give me some clothes instead, he said impatiently.
But we have only what we wear.
Take mine in exchange.
The old man hummed dubiously to himself, glancing sideways at what the fire showed of the black torn cloth. If I must, father, he said. He blew quietly at the fire for a few minutes. The priest's eyes closed again.
After five years there is so much to confess.
The priest sat up quickly. What was that? he said.
You were dreaming, father. The boy will warn us if the soldiers come. I was only saying-
Can't you let me sleep for five minutes? He lay down again: somewhere, in one of the women's huts, someone was singing- I went down to my field and there I found a rose.
The old man said softly: It would be a pity if the soldiers came before we had time ... such a burden on poor souls, father … The priest shouldered himself upright against the wall and said furiously: Very well. Begin. I will hear your confession. The rats scuffled in the maize. Go on then, he said. Don't waste time. Hurry. When did you last ... The old man knelt beside the fire, and across the clearing the woman sang: I went down to my field and the rose was withered.
Five years ago. He paused and blew at the fire. It's hard to remember, father.
Have you sinned against purity?
The priest leant against the wall with his legs drawn up beneath him, and the rats accustomed to the voices moved again in the maize. The old man picked out his sins with difficulty, blowing at the fire. Make a good act of contrition, the priest said, and say-say-have you a rosary?-then say the Joyful Mysteries. His eyes closed, his lips and tongue stumbled over the Absolution, failed to finish ... he sprang awake again.
Can I bring the women? the old man was saying. It is five years ...
Oh, let them come. Let them all come! the priest cried angrily. I am your servant. He put his hand over his eyes and began to weep. The old man opened the door: it was [40] not completely dark outside under the enormous arc of starry ill-lit sky. He went across to the women's huts and knocked. Come, he said. You must say your confessions. It is only polite to the father. They wailed at him that they were tired ... the morning would do. Would you insult him? he said. What do you think he has come here for? He is a very holy father. There he is in my hut now weeping for our sins. He hustled them out: one by one they picked their way across the clearing towards the hut: and the old man set off down the path towards the river to take the place of the boy who watched the ford for soldiers.
Chapter Four
IT WAS years since Mr. Tench had written a letter. He sat before the work-table sucking at a steel nib-an old impulse had come to him to project this stray letter towards the last address he had-in Southend. Who knew who was alive still? He tried to begin: it was like breaking the ice at a party where you knew nobody. He began to write the envelope-Mrs. Henry Tench, care of Mrs. Marsdyke, 3, The Avenue, Westcliffe. It was her mother's house: the dominating, interfering creature who had induced him to set up his plate in Southend for a fatal while. Please forward, he wrote. She wouldn't do it if she knew, but she had probably forgotten-by this time-his handwriting.
He sucked the inky nib-how to go on? It would have been easier if there had been some purpose behind it other than the vague desire to put on record-to somebody-that he was still alive. It might prove awkward, if she had married again, but in that case she wouldn't t hesitate to tear the letter up. He wrote: Dear Sylvia, in a big clear immature script, listening to the furnace purring on the bench. He was making a gold alloy-there were no depots here where he could buy his material ready-made. Besides, the depots didn't favour 14-carat gold for dental work, and he couldn't afford finer material.
[41] The trouble was-nothing ever happened here. His life was as sober, respectable, regular as even Mrs. Marsdyke could require.
He took a look at the crucible: the gold was on the point of fusion with the alloy, so he flung in a spoonful of vegetable charcoal to protect the mixture from the air, took up his pen again and sat mooning over the paper. He couldn't remember his wife clearly-only the hats she wore. How surprised she would be at hearing from him after this long while: there had been one letter written by each of them since the little boy died. The years really meant nothing to him-they drifted fairly rapidly by without changing a habit. He had meant to leave six years ago, but the peso dropped with a revolution, and so he had come south. Now he had more money saved, but a month ago the peso had dropped again-another revolution somewhere. There was nothing to do but wait ... the nib went back between his teeth and memory melted in the little hot room. Why write at all? He couldn't remember now what had given him the odd idea. Somebody knocked on the outer door and he left the letter on the bench- Dear Sylvia, staring up, big and bold and hopeless. A boat's bell, rang by the riverside: it was the General Obregon back from Vera Cruz. A memory stirred: it was as if something alive and in pain moved in the little front room among the rocking-chairs- an interesting afternoon: what happened to him, I wonder, when -then died, or got away: Mr. Tench was used to pain, it was his profession. He waited cautiously till a hand beat on the door again and a voice said: Con amistad -there was no trust anywhere-before he drew the bolts and opened up, to admit a patient.
Padre José went in, under the big classical gateway marked in black letters Silencio, to what people used to call the Garden of God. It was like a building estate where nobody had paid attention to the architecture of the next house. The big stone tombs of above-ground burial were any height and any shape: sometimes an angel stood on the roof with lichenous wings: sometimes through a glass window you could see some rusting metal flowers upon a shelf-it was like looking into the kitchen of a house whose owners have moved on, [42] forgetting to clean out the vases. There was a sense of intimacy-you could go anywhere and see anything. Life here had withdrawn altogether.