The Crime of Father Amaro Read online

  Old Patrício, who had a shop in the square, was an arch liberal and would growl like a guard dog whenever he walked past a priest, and sometimes, when he saw the plump Canon crossing the square after lunch, leaning his weight on his umbrella, he would snarl:

  ‘The old rogue’s the image of João VI!’

  The Canon lived alone with his older sister, Senhora Josefa Dias, and a maid, who was an equally familiar sight in the streets of Leiria, shuffling along in her carpet slippers, with her dyed black shawl drawn tight around her. Canon Dias was said to be rich; he owned rented properties near Leiria, gave turkey suppers and had some fine wine in his cellar. However, the main fact about him – much commented on and gossiped over – was his longstanding friendship with Senhora Augusta Caminha, whom everyone called São Joaneira, because she came from São João da Foz. São Joaneira lived in Rua da Misericórdia and took in lodgers. She had a daughter, Amélia, a girl of twenty-three, pretty, healthy and much sought-after.

  Canon Dias had shown himself to be extremely pleased with the appointment of Amaro Vieira. In the apothecary’s shop, in the square and in the cathedral sacristy, he praised Amaro’s application as a seminarian, as well as his prudence, his obedience and even his voice: ‘It’s a joy to listen to! Exactly what one needs for putting a bit of feeling into Holy Week sermons.’

  He confidently predicted a golden future, doubtless a canonry, possibly even the glory of a bishopric!

  And one day, with great satisfaction, he showed the coadjutor of the cathedral – a silent, servile creature – a letter he had received from Amaro Vieira in Lisbon.

  It was on an evening in August, and they were strolling together over the bridge. The new road to Figueira was under construction at the time; the old wooden bridge over the Lis had been destroyed and now everyone crossed by the much-vaunted new bridge, Ponte Nova, with its two broad stone arches, strong and stout. Work, however, had been suspended – something to do with the illegal expropriation of land. One could still see the muddy parish road which the new road was supposed to improve upon and incorporate; the ground was covered in layers of ballast, and the heavy stone rollers used to compact and smooth the macadam surface lay half-buried in the black, rain-drenched earth.

  The new bridge was surrounded by tranquil open countryside. The river rose amongst low, rounded hills clothed in the dark green of new pine trees; further off, amongst the thick woods, were the small farms that lend these melancholy places a touch of lively humanity, with their bright whitewashed walls shining in the sun, with the smoke from their chimneys growing blue in the clear, clean air. Downstream, where the river flowed through low-lying fields and between banks lined with pale willows, the broad, fertile plain of Leiria, sunlit and well-watered, extended as far as the sandy beaches of the coast. From the bridge, one could see little of the city – part of the cathedral with its heavy, Jesuitical stonework, a corner of the cemetery wall overgrown with nettles, and the sharp, black tips of the cypress trees; the rest was concealed by the rugged hill bristling with rough vegetation on which stood the crumbling castle ruins, redolent of the past and surrounded at evening by the circling flight of owls.

  At the foot of the bridge, the ground slopes down to an avenue that runs alongside the river for a short way. It is a secluded place, full of ancient trees. It is called the Alameda Velha. There, strolling slowly along, talking quietly, the Canon was discussing Amaro Vieira’s letter with the coadjutor and telling him about an idea that the letter had given him, an idea which struck him as ‘brilliant, absolutely brilliant’. Amaro had asked him, with some urgency, to arrange a rented house for him to live in, cheap, well-situated and, if possible, furnished; he spoke, more to the point, of renting rooms in a respectable guesthouse. ‘As you can see, dear teacher,’ Amaro wrote, ‘that is what would suit me best; I do not, of course, require anything luxurious, a bedroom and a small sitting room would be perfectly adequate. What matters is that the house should be respectable, quiet and central, with a kind landlady who does not charge the earth; I leave all this to your discretion and good sense, and I assure you that these favours will not fall on barren ground. The landlady must, above all, be quiet and well-bred.’

  ‘Now my idea, friend Mendes, is this: to put him up at São Joaneira’s house!’ said the Canon gleefully. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful idea?’

  ‘Splendid!’ said the coadjutor in his servile tones.

  ‘She’s got the bedroom downstairs, with a sitting room right next door and another bedroom which he could use as a study. It’s nicely furnished, with good bedlinen . . .’

  ‘Oh, excellent linen,’ said the coadjutor respectfully.

  The Canon went on:

  ‘It would be a good opportunity for São Joaneira; she could easily charge six tostões a day for rooms, bedlinen, meals and a maid. And she will have the honour of having the parish priest right there in her house.’

  ‘It’s Amélia I’m not sure about,’ remarked the coadjutor timidly. ‘People might talk. She’s still a very young woman . . . and they say the new priest is also very young. You know how tongues around here wag . . .’

  The Canon stopped walking.

  ‘Nonsense! Father Joaquim lives under the same roof as his mother’s goddaughter, doesn’t he? And Canon Pedroso lives with his sister-in-law and one of his sister-in-law’s sisters, a girl of nineteen. Now really . . .’

  ‘All I meant was . . .’ began the coadjutor.

  ‘No, I see no problem whatsoever. São Joaneira occasionally rents out rooms anyway, so it’s almost like a guesthouse already. Even the secretary-general stayed there for a few months!’

  ‘But a clergyman . . .’ suggested the coadjutor.

  ‘What further guarantee could one need, Senhor Mendes!’ exclaimed the Canon. Then, stopping again and speaking in a confidential tone: ‘And you see it suits me very well, Mendes. It suits me down to the ground, my friend.’

  There was a brief silence. Lowering his voice, the coadjutor said:

  ‘Yes, you are very good to São Joaneira.’

  ‘I do what I can, my dear friend, I do what I can,’ said the Canon. And in a tender, warmly paternal voice, he added: ‘And she deserves it too. She’s kindness itself, my friend.’ He stopped and rolled his eyes. ‘You know, if I’m not at her house at nine o’clock in the morning sharp, she starts to get quite agitated. “My dear child,” I say to her, “there’s no reason to get so upset.” But that’s the way she is. When I was ill with the colic last year, she actually lost weight, Senhor Mendes! And she’s so considerate. When it’s time to kill the pig, the best cuts are always for the “holy father”, that’s what she calls me.’

  His eyes shone and he spoke with almost drooling contentment.

  ‘Ah, Mendes,’ he added, ‘she’s a wonderful woman!’

  ‘And very pretty too,’ said the coadjutor respectfully.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed the Canon, stopping again. ‘She’s certainly well-preserved, because she’s no spring chicken, you know, but she hasn’t got a single grey hair on her head, not a one! And her complexion . . .’ Then more quietly and with a greedy smile: ‘And this part here, Mendes,’ indicating the area of the throat beneath the chin by slowly stroking it with his plump hand: ‘Perfection itself! And she keeps everything in the house spotless! And so thoughtful! Not a day passes without her sending me some present, a little jar of jam, a bowl of creamed rice or some delicious black pudding from Arouca! Yesterday she sent me an apple tart. You should have seen it! The apples were so smooth and creamy! Even my sister Josefa said: “It’s so delicious you would think she’d cooked the apples in holy water!”’ Then placing one hand on his heart: ‘It’s that kind of thing that touches you right here, Mendes. I know I shouldn’t talk like that, but it’s true.’

  The coadjutor listened in envious silence.

  ‘I’m perfectly well aware,’ said the Canon, stopping again and weighing each word. ‘I’m perfectly well aware of the rumours flying around . . . But
it’s a complete and utter calumny! I just happen to be very fond of the family. I was when her husband was alive. You know that, Mendes.’

  The coadjutor nodded.

  ‘São Joaneira is a respectable woman, Mendes!’ exclaimed the Canon, striking the ground with the point of his umbrella. ‘A respectable woman!’

  ‘The work of poisonous tongues, sir,’ said the coadjutor mournfully. And after a silence, he added softly: ‘But it must all work out very expensive for you.’

  ‘Exactly, my friend. Since the secretary-general left, the poor woman has had her house empty, and I’ve had to help her out.’

  ‘She has got that small farm,’ commented the coadjutor.

  ‘A mere strip of land, my dear fellow, a mere strip. And then there are taxes to be paid and labourers’ wages. That’s why the new priest is such a godsend. With the six tostões that he gives her, plus a little bit of help from me and with what she gets selling vegetables from the farm, she can get by quite nicely. And that would be a great relief to me, Mendes.’

  ‘A great relief!’ echoed the coadjutor.

  They fell silent. Evening was coming on; the cloudless sky was pale blue, and the limpid air utterly still. The river was very low at that time of year; small sandbanks glittered here and there and the shallow water murmured softly as it rippled over the pebbles.

  On the opposite bank, two cows, watched over by a young girl, came down the muddy path that ran alongside a bramble patch; they waded slowly into the river and, stretching out necks worn bare by the yoke, they drank delicately, noiselessly; now and then they would raise their kindly heads and look about them with the passive serenity of contented beings, and threads of water, glinting in the sun, hung down from the corners of their mouths. As the sun sank, the water lost its mirror-like clarity, and the shadows cast by the arches of the bridge grew longer. A crepuscular mist rose from the hills, and, adorning the horizon, towards the sea, were blood-red and orange-tinged clouds warning of more hot weather to come.

  ‘Lovely evening!’ said the coadjutor.

  The Canon yawned, made the sign of the cross over his gaping mouth, and said:

  ‘We’d better get back in time for the Angelus.’

  Shortly afterwards, as they were climbing the steps up to the cathedral, the Canon paused and, turning to the coadjutor, remarked:

  ‘So it’s decided then, friend Mendes, I’ll install Amaro at São Joaneira’s house! I’m sure it will prove to be a godsend to us all.’

  ‘A real godsend,’ agreed the coadjutor respectfully.

  And they went into the church, making the sign of the cross.

  II

  A week later, the new priest was due to arrive on the coach from Chão de Maçãs that brought the post in the evening, and so from six o’clock onwards, Canon Dias and the coadjutor were strolling up and down the Largo do Chafariz, waiting for Amaro.

  It was late August. Along the avenue by the river, between two lines of old poplars, one could see the ladies in their pale dresses as they walked to and fro. Beyond an archway, outside a row of lowly hovels, old women sat spinning at the door; grubby children played on the ground, revealing bare distended bellies; and chickens pecked ravenously amongst the filth and detritus. From around the bustling fountain came the scrape of water jugs on stone; bickering maidservants were ogled at by cane-wielding soldiers wearing dirty fatigues and huge misshapen boots; girls, each with a plump water jug balanced on her head, went about in pairs, swaying their hips; and two idle officers, their uniforms unbuttoned over their stomachs, stood chatting, waiting to see ‘who might turn up’. The mail coach was late. As evening fell, a small light could be seen shining in the niche of a saint above the arch and, immediately opposite, the dim lights in the hospital came on one by one.

  It was dark by the time the coach, lanterns glowing, appeared on the bridge, proceeding at the sedate pace dictated by the team of scrawny white horses drawing it, and coming to a halt by the fountain, outside the inn; the assistant from Patrício’s shop immediately set off back across the square carrying a bundle of newspapers; Baptista, the innkeeper, a black pipe clamped in his mouth, was unhitching the horses, swearing softly to himself; and a man in a tall hat and a long ecclesiastical cloak, who had been sitting next to the driver, climbed gingerly down, clutching the iron guards on the seat, then stamped his feet on the ground to get the blood flowing again and looked around him.

  ‘Amaro!’ cried the Canon, who had gone over to him. ‘How are you, you rascal!’

  ‘Master!’ said the other joyfully. And they embraced, while the coadjutor stood with head bowed and biretta in hand.

  Shortly afterwards, the people still in the shops saw a slightly stooped man, wearing a priest’s cape, walking across the square, flanked by the slow bulk of Canon Dias and the lanky form of the coadjutor. Everyone was aware that this was the new priest, and it was said in the pharmacy that he was ‘a fine figure of a man’. Ahead of them, carrying a trunk and a cloth bag, went João Bicha, who was drunk already and kept muttering the Benedictus to himself as he went.

  It was nearly nine o’clock, and night was closing in. Around the square the houses were already sleeping; the shops in the arcade glowed with the sad light of oil lamps, and one could make out indolent figures at the counters talking and arguing. The dark, twisting streets leading down into the square, lit by one moribund streetlamp, seemed uninhabited. And in the silence the cathedral bell was slowly tolling for the souls of the dead.

  Canon Dias was patiently explaining the ‘arrangements’ to the new priest. He had not looked for a house for him because that would have involved buying furniture, finding a maid and endless other expenses. He had thought it best to take rooms for him in a respectable, comfortable boarding house, and (as the coadjutor could confirm) São Joaneira’s house was without equal in that respect. It was clean and airy, with no unpleasant kitchen smells; the secretary-general had stayed there and the schools inspector; and São Joaneira (Mendes knew her well) was a thrifty, God-fearing woman, always ready to oblige.

  ‘It will be a home from home. You’ll have two courses at mealtimes and coffee . . .’

  ‘And what about the price, Master?’ said the priest.

  ‘Six tostões. Why, she’s almost giving it away! You’ll have a bedroom and a sitting room . . .’

  ‘A lovely sitting room,’ remarked the coadjutor respectfully.

  ‘And is it far from the cathedral?’ asked Amaro.

  ‘Two steps away. You could go and say mass in your slippers. Oh, and there is a young woman living there too,’ continued the Canon in his slow way. ‘She’s São Joaneira’s daughter. A very pretty girl of twenty-three. She has her moods, but she’s got a good heart . . . This is your street.’

  It was a narrow street of low, shabby houses cowering beneath the high walls of the old poorhouse, with one dim streetlamp at the far end.

  ‘And this is your palace!’ said the Canon, knocking on a narrow door.

  On the first floor, overhanging the street, were two old-fashioned wrought-iron balconies adorned with rosemary bushes in wooden tubs; the upper windows were tiny and the wall so uneven that it looked like a piece of battered tin.

  São Joaneira was waiting at the top of the stairs, accompanied by a skinny, freckled maidservant holding up an oil lamp to light the way. The figure of São Joaneira stood out sharply against the whitewashed wall. She was tall, stout and somewhat sluggish-looking, but with very white skin. She already had lines around her dark eyes, and her tangled hair, with a scarlet comb in it, was growing thin around the temples and near her parting; but she was also endowed with plump arms, an ample bosom and clean clothes.

  ‘Here’s your new lodger,’ said the Canon, as he climbed the stairs.

  ‘It’s a great honour to have you here, a great honour. But you must be worn out. Come this way, and mind the step.’

  She led him into a small room decorated in yellow, with a vast wickerwork sofa against one wall and, opposi
te, a table covered in green baize.

  ‘This is your sitting room, Father,’ said São Joaneira, ‘where you can receive visitors and relax . . . Here,’ she said opening a door, ‘is your bedroom. And there’s a chest of drawers and a wardrobe . . .’ She pulled out the drawers and praised the bed, prodding the mattress. ‘Oh and a bell you can ring should you need anything . . . The keys to the chest of drawers are here . . . And if you want a higher pillow . . . Now there’s only one blanket at the moment, but you just have to ask . . .’

  ‘That’s fine, Senhora, excellent,’ said the priest in his soft, low voice.

  ‘And if there’s anything else you require . . .’

  ‘Dear lady,’ cried the Canon cheerily, ‘what he wants now is some supper!’

  ‘Supper is ready too. The soup’s been on since six o’clock . . .’

  And she went off to chivvy the maid along, saying from the bottom of the stairs:

  ‘Come on, Ruça, get a move on!’

  The Canon sat down heavily on the sofa and took a pinch of snuff.

  ‘You’ll have to make do, my lad. This is the best we could get.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite happy anywhere, Master,’ said Amaro, putting on his slippers. ‘Remember what the seminary was like, and in Feirão, my bed used to get soaked every time it rained.’

  From the square came the sound of bugles.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Amaro, going over to the window.

  ‘It’s the half-past nine call to quarters.’

  Amaro opened the window. At the end of the street, the lamp was growing dim. The night was very dark, and the city was enclosed in a hollow silence, as if covered by a vault.

  After the bugles came the slow roll of drums moving away towards the barracks; a soldier, who had been tarrying in one of the alleyways near the castle, hurried past beneath the window; and from the walls of the poorhouse came the constant shriek of owls.

  ‘It’s a bit gloomy,’ said Amaro.