Coral put down the chicken legs and tortillas on the ground and unlocked the door. She carried a bottle of Cerveza Moctezuma under her arm. There was the same scuffle in the dark: the noise of a frightened man. She said: It's me, to quieten him, but she didn't turn on the torch. She said: There's a bottle of beer here, and some food.
Thank you. Thank you.
The police have gone from the village-south. You had better go north.
He said nothing.
She asked, with the cold curiosity of a child: What would they do to you if they found you?
Shoot me.
You must be very frightened, she said with interest.
He felt his way across the barn towards the door and the pale starlight. He said: I am frightened, and stumbled on a bunch of bananas.
Can't you escape from here?
I tried. A month ago. The boat was leaving and then-I was summoned.
Somebody needed you?
She didn't need me, he said bitterly. Coral could just see his face now, as the world swung among the stars: what her father would call an untrustworthy face. He said: You see how unworthy I am. Talking like this.
Unworthy of what?
He clasped his little attaché case closely and said: Could you tell me what month it is? Is it still February?
No. It's the seventh of March.
I don't often meet people who know. That means another month-six weeks-before the rains. He went on: When the rains come I am nearly safe. You see, the police can't get about.
[35] The rains are best for you? she asked: she had a keen desire to learn. The Reform Bill and Senlac and a little French Jay like treasure-trove in her brain. She expected answers to every question, and she absorbed them hungrily.
Oh, no, no. They mean another six months living like this. He tore at a chicken leg. She could smell his breath: it was disagreeable, like something which has lain about too long in the heat. He said: I'd rather be caught.
But can't you, she said logically, just give yourself up?
He had answers as plain and understandable as her questions. He said: There's the pain. To choose pain like that-it's not possible. And it's my duty not to be caught. You see, my bishop is no longer here. Curious pedantries moved him. This is my parish. He found a tortilla and began to eat ravenously.
She said solemnly: It's a problem. She could hear a gurgle as he drank out of the bottle. He said: I try to remember how happy I was once. A firefly lit his face like a torch and then went out-a tramp's face: what could ever have made it happy? He said: In Mexico City now they are saying Benediction. The bishop's there ... Do you imagine he ever thinks …? They don't even know I'm alive.
She said: Of course you could-renounce.
I don't understand.
Renounce your faith, she said, using the words of her European History.
He said: It's impossible. There's no way. I'm a priest. It's out of my power.
The child listened intently. She said: Like a birthmark She could hear him sucking desperately at the bottle. She said: I think I could find my father's brandy.
Oh, no, you mustn't steal. He drained the beer: a long whistle in the darkness: the last drop must have gone. He said: I must go. At once.
You can always come back here.
Your father would not like it.
He needn't know, she said. I could look after you. My room is just opposite this door. You would just tap at my window. Perhaps, she went seriously on, it would be better to have a code. You see, somebody else might tap.
[36] He said in a horrified voice: Not a man?
Yes. You never know. Another fugitive from justice.
Surely, he asked in bewilderment, that is not likely?
She said airily: These things do happen.
Before today?
No, but I expect they will again. I want to be prepared. You must tap three times. Two long taps and a short one. He giggled suddenly like a child. How do you tap a long tap?
Like this.
Oh, you mean a loud one?
I call them long taps-because of Morse. He was hopelessly out of his depth. He said: You are very good. Will you pray for me?
Oh, she said, I don't believe in that.
Not in praying?
You see, I don't believe in God. I lost my faith when I was ten.
Dear, dear, he said. Then I will pray for you.
You can, she said patronizingly, if you like. If you come again I shall teach you the Morse code. It would be useful to you.
How?
If you were hiding in the plantation I could flash to you with my mirror news of the enemy's movements.
He listened seriously. But wouldn't they see you?
Oh, she said, I would invent an explanation. She moved logically forward a step at a time, eliminating all objections. Good-bye, my child, he said.
He lingered by the door. Perhaps-you do not care for prayers. Perhaps you would like ... I know a good conjuring trick.
I like tricks.
You do it with cards. Have you any cards?
No.
He sighed. Then that's no good, and giggled-she could smell the beer on his breath- I shall just have to pray for you.
She said: You don't sound afraid.
A little drink, he said, will work wonders in a cowardly [37] man. With a little brandy, why, I'd defy-the devil. He stumbled in the doorway.
Good-bye, she said. I hope you'll escape. A faint sigh came out of the darkness: she said gently: If they kill you I shan't forgive them-ever. She was ready to accept any responsibility, even that of vengeance, without a second thought. It was her life.
Half a dozen huts of mud and wattle stood in a clearing; two were in ruins. A few pigs rooted round, and an old woman carried a burning ember from hut to hut, lighting a little fire on the centre of each floor to fill the hut with smoke and keep mosquitoes away. Women lived in two of the huts, the pigs in another, in the last unruined hut, where maize was stored, an old man and a boy and a tribe of rats. The old man stood in the clearing watching the fire being carried round: it flickered through the darkness like a ritual repeated at the same hour for a lifetime. White hair, a white stubbly beard, and hands brown and fragile as last year's leaves, he gave an effect of immense permanence. Nothing much could ever change him, living on the edge of subsistence. He had been old for years.
The stranger came into the clearing. He wore what used to be town shoes, black and pointed: only the uppers were left, so that he walked to all intents barefoot. The shoes were symbolic, like the cobwebbed flags in churches. He wore a shirt and a pair of black torn trousers and he carried his attaché case-as if he were a season-ticket holder. He had nearly reached the state of permanency too, but he carried about with him still the scars of time-the damaged shoes implied a different past, the lines on his face suggested hopes and fears of the future. The old woman with the ember stopped between two huts and watched him. He came on into the clearing with his eyes on the ground and his shoulders hunched, as if he felt exposed. The old man advanced to meet him: he took the stranger's hand and kissed it.