The banker nodded, his predatory eyes alert. In fact Corvo was almost twenty years younger than Machuca, but the archbishop liked to affect the bearing of a venerable old man, as if it went with his office.
"Pencho's a winner," said Machuca. "He's not afraid his candle will be snuffed out."
The old man's eyes glinted mockingly between half-closed lids. He had one hand in the pocket of his old-fashioned double-breasted jacket; the other hung by his side, almost as skeletal as the hand of
Death in the painting. The archbishop smiled conspiratorially. "We're all subject to God's will," he said, with a professional air.
Gavira agreed vaguely, but gave the banker a pointed look. Machuca understood his intention. "We were talking about your church, Pencho," he said.
Gavira took it to be a good sign that Aquilino Corvo, his smile unwavering, ignored Machuca's use of the possessive. After all, the archbishopric would be receiving substantial compensation, as well as the Cartujano's promise to build another church in a different location. Not to mention the foundation for community work among the Gypsies that the archbishop had cleverly slipped into the package.
"It's still Your Grace's church," Gavira observed dutifully.
Monsignor Corvo gratefully acknowledged the remark. Since they were talking about churches, he felt obliged to comment in an official capacity. "A painful conflict," he said, after searching for the right phrase.
"But unavoidable," added Gavira, looking regretful.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Machuca's grin. He remembered that the old man knew, alongside the offers made by the Cartujano to His Grace, about an unpublished report concerning half a dozen clerics in the diocese who had broken the rules on celibacy. The priests were all popular with their parishioners, and the publication of such information, with photographs and sworn statements, would cause quite a stir. Corvo had neither the resources nor the authority to deal with the problem, and a scandal would force him to make decisions that he, more than anyone, was unwilling to make. The priests were good men; and in times of change and with few candidates for the priesthood, a hasty decision would be regrettable. So Monsignor Corvo had accepted with relief Gavira's compromise solution of buying the report to prevent its publication. In the Catholic Church, a problem postponed was a problem solved.
Gavira wondered uneasily how Machuca had found out about the stratagem. Gavira himself had masterminded the operation, paying the private investigators to do the research and then using his influence with the press to hush up, for the archbishop, what was in effect a classic example of blackmail.
"His Grace guarantees his neutrality," said Machuca, closely watching Gavira. "But he was telling me a moment ago that disciplinary proceedings against Father Ferro are going rather slowly. Apparently" – he narrowed his eyes – "the priest from Rome hasn't been able to gather sufficient evidence against him."
Corvo raised a hand. Beneath his pastoral calm he looked uncomfortable. It wasn't exactly a question of that, he said in a grave voice made for the pulpit. Father Quart hadn't come to Seville to act against the parish priest of Our Lady of the Tears but, rather, to provide Rome with detailed information. The prelate reminded the two men that an ecclesiastical formality prevented the See of Seville from taking direct action. He went on to describe the sad situation: a priest getting on in years, a question of discipline, and so on. He agreed with Rome on the general principles, but he had reservations. As he said this, Corvo avoided Gavira's eyes and glanced at Machuca, checking to see whether it was appropriate to continue. The old man remained inscrutable, so His Grace went on to say that Father Quart's investigation wasn't proceeding with the desired diligence. The archbishop had alerted his superiors, but in a matter such as this he could do no more.
"Do you mean," Gavira said with a frown of irritation, "that you don't expect Father Ferro's imminent removal from his post?"
The archbishop raised both hands, as if to say Ite, missa est. "More or less. It will happen eventually, of course. But not in two or three days. A couple of weeks maybe." He cleared his throat. "A month at the most. As I've said, the matter's out of my hands. You have all my sympathy, of course."
Gavira, regarding the Valdes Leal, suppressed the urge to say something rude. He felt like punching the archbishop. He counted to ten, staring at Death's empty eyes, and then managed a smile.
Machuca had his eyes fixed on him. "That's too long, isn't it?" the old banker asked.
Corvo, thinking that the remark was addressed to him – though, in fact, Machuca's narrowed eyes hadn't left Gavira's face – pointed out that he could do nothing without an order from Rome, nothing while Father Ferro continued to celebrate Mass every Thursday.
Gavira couldn't keep in his anger. "Your Grace shouldn't have referred the matter to Rome," he said sharply. "It should have been taken care of under your jurisdiction, while there was still time."
The archbishop went white. He straightened. "Maybe," he said. "But we prelates also have a conscience, Mr Gavira. Now if you'll excuse me." He nodded and walked away, tight-lipped.
"You've offended him," said Machuca, wrinkling his nose.
Gavira had made another mistake. He shrugged, impatiently. "Monsignor's dignity has a price, like everything else. A price that I can pay." He hesitated for a moment, gauging the old banker's reaction. "That the Cartujano can pay."
"But for the time being there's still that priest," Machuca said malevolently. "The old priest, I mean." He watched Gavira closely. The younger man, well aware of the scrutiny, touched his tie and cuffs and looked round. A beautiful woman passed, and he smiled at her. Machuca went on, watching the woman walk away, "And that means that Macarena and your mother-in-law will go on fighting for the church. For the time being."
It didn't work. Gavira had recovered his composure. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll sort it out."
"I hope so, because you're running out of time. How many days do you have until the meeting? A week?"
"You know how long," said Gavira. "Eight days."
Machuca nodded slowly. "You know something, Pencho? I'm curious to see how you handle this. On the board they really want your head." He smiled slyly. "But if you pull it off, congratulations."
Machuca went to greet some acquaintances, and Gavira was left alone beside the Valdes Leal. A flabby little man, with lacquered hair and a double chin that looked like a continuation of his cheeks, stood nearby. As soon as he met Gavira's eye, he came up and said, "My name's Honorato Bonafe, from Q amp;S magazine." He held out his hand. "Could we talk for a moment?"
Gavira ignored the outstretched hand, frowning, wondering who'd let the man in.
"I'll only take a minute of your time."
"Ring my secretary," the banker said coldly, turning his back. He moved away, but to his surprise Bonafe followed. Both obsequious and smug, the man was pursing his lips and peering at Gavira out of the corner of his eye. An odious character, thought Gavira, stopping at last.
"I'm doing a story," Bonafe said, "on that church you're so interested in." "What do you mean?"
Bonafe raised a podgy hand. "Well," he said with an ingratiating grin, "if we consider that the Cartujano Bank is the main party that wants to have Our Lady of the Tears demolished, I think that a conversation, or a statement, would be… You understand."
Gavira remained impassive. "I don't."
Unctuously, patiently, Bonafe put the banker in the picture: the Cartujano, the church and the reclassifying of the land. The parish priest, a somewhat dubious individual, clashing with the archbishop of Seville and subject to disciplinary action or something similar. Two accidental deaths, or who knows what. A special envoy from Rome. And, well, a beautiful wife, or ex-wife, daughter of the duchess of El Nuevo Extreme And she and that priest from Rome…