The Crime of Father Amaro Read online

  ‘I hope you’re studying, you good-for-nothing.’

  And sitting there rubbing his knees together, feeling utterly wretched, his head dropping with sleep as he sat hunched over Titus Livius, Amaro would grind away at the dictionary.

  It was around that time that he began to feel a certain dislike for the life of a priest, because he would not be able to marry. The friends he had made at school had already introduced certain curiosities and corruptions to his feminized nature. He smoked cigarettes on the sly and grew still thinner and paler.

  He entered the seminary. During the first few days, the long, rather damp stone corridors, the dim oil-lamps, the narrow rooms with their barred windows, the black cassocks, the regimented silence, the tolling of the bells, all filled him with a gloomy, terrified sadness. But he soon made friends; his pretty face found favour. The other boys began to address him as tu, to include him, during break times and on Sunday walks, in their conversations full of tales about the teachers, calumnies about the rector and endless complaints about the melancholy nature of the cloistered life; for almost everyone spoke with longing of the freedom they had left behind: the boys from villages could not forget the bright, sunlit threshing floor, the maize harvests when people sang and embraced, the lines of oxen heading homewards as the fields filled up with mist; those who came from small towns missed the quiet, winding streets where you could flirt with girls, the bustling market days, the great adventures they had instead of studying Latin. The paved courtyard set aside for recreation, with its spindly trees, high, somnolent walls and monotonous ball games, was simply not enough: they felt oppressed by the narrowness of the corridors, by the room dedicated to St Ignatius where they had their morning meditations and where they studied at night; and they envied all those whose future, however humble, at least belonged to them – the muleteer whom they saw leading his animals down the street, the carter singing tunelessly to the shrill squeaking of wheels, and even the wandering beggars, leaning on a stick, a dark saddlebag slung over one shoulder.

  From the window in one corridor, one could see a bend in the road: at dusk, amidst much cracking of whips, a luggage-laden carriage drawn by three mares used to pass by, throwing up a cloud of dust; the happy passengers, with rugs over their knees, would blow out smoke from their cigars. How many eyes followed them! How many desires journeyed with them to lively towns and cities, through cool dawns and beneath bright stars!

  And in the refectory, sitting before the meagre bowl of vegetable broth, while the gruff-voiced regent of studies would launch into a dreary reading of letters from some missionary in China or the bishop’s pastorals, how they longed for suppers at home with their families! A good slice of fish! The freshly slaughtered pig! Hot crackling sizzling on the plate! The delicious smell of stewed pork!

  Amaro had nothing very dear to miss; he had left behind him only his brutal uncle and his aunt’s bored, powdered face, and yet, gradually, he began to long for his Sunday walks, for the bright light from the gas lamps and the return from school, with his books bound together with a leather strap, when he would press his nose to the windows of shops in order to study the nakedness of mannequins. Slowly, though, like an indolent sheep, his dull nature fell in with the rules of the seminary. He dutifully learned what was in the textbooks; he was prudent and exact in his ecclesiastical duties; and, as a silent, hunched, figure, bowing low to the teachers, he even managed to get good marks.

  He never understood those who seemed blissfully happy with life in the seminary and who bruised their knees as they meditated, with bowed heads, upon extracts from the Imitation of Christ or from St Ignatius; in the chapel, they would grow pale and their eyes would roll back in ecstasy; even at break time or on walks, they could be found reading some slender volume entitled In Praise of Our Lady; and they took delight in obeying the slightest of rules – even going up stairs only one step at a time as St Bonaventura recommends. For these boys, the seminary was a foretaste of Heaven; for him, it merely combined the humiliations of prison with the tedium of school.

  He could not understand the ambitious students either: those who wanted to be the bishop’s trainbearers, or, in the high-ceilinged rooms of a bishop’s palace, to be the ones to draw aside the old damask portières; or those who wanted to live in a great city once they were ordained, to serve in some aristocratic church and sing in a sonorous voice before the wealthy devotees who, with a rustle of silk, would gather on the carpet before the high altar. Others even dreamed of careers outside the Church: they hoped to become soldiers and to walk the paved streets with sword clinking, or else take up the good life of the farmer, out and about by dawn, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and mounted on a good horse, trotting along the roads, giving orders to those working on threshing-floors piled high with grain, or dismounting at the door of wine cellars. And apart from a few very devout students, every one of them, whether aspiring to the priesthood or to some secular career, wanted to escape the narrowness of the seminary in order to eat well, earn some money and meet women.

  Amaro did not want anything.

  ‘I’m not sure really . . .’ he would say dully.

  Meanwhile, he would listen politely to those for whom studying at the seminary was the equivalent of being a galley slave, and was much troubled by their conversations which were full of an impatient longing to live life freely. Sometimes boys would talk about running away. They would make plans, calculate the height of windows, the adventures that might befall them in the black night on the black roads; they anticipated the bars of inns where one could drink, the billiard halls, the warm bedrooms of women. Amaro would become very agitated; in his bed, late at night, he would toss and turn, unable to sleep, and in his deepest imaginings and dreams, he would burn with desire for Woman, like a silent, red-hot coal.

  In his cell there was an image of the Virgin crowned with stars and standing on a sphere, gazing up at the immortal light, while trampling a serpent underfoot. Amaro would turn to her, as if to a refuge, and would say a Hail Mary; but when he lay looking at the lithograph, he would forget all about the holiness of the Virgin and would see before him merely a pretty blonde girl; he would sigh adoringly; he would cast lubricious glances at her as he undressed; in his curiosity he would even imagine himself lifting the chaste folds of the image’s blue tunic to reveal shapely forms, white flesh . . . Then it seemed to him that he could see the eyes of the Tempter glinting in the darkness of the room, and he would carefully sprinkle his bed with holy water, but he never dared reveal these ecstasies in the confessional on Sundays.

  How often had he heard the teacher of Moral Theology preaching in his nasal voice on the subject of Sin, comparing it to the serpent, and exhorting the seminarians, with unctuous words and large gestures, and with the slow, mellifluous pomp of his sentences, to follow the Virgin’s example and trample the ‘vile serpent’ under foot! And then there was the teacher of Mystical Theology who, after taking a pinch of snuff, would speak to them of their duty to ‘conquer Nature’! And quoting from St John Chrysostom and St Chrysologus, St Cyprian and St Jerome, he would explain the saints’ curses against Woman, whom he called, in the language of the Church, Serpent, Sting, Daughter of Lies, Gateway to Hell, Fount of Crime, Scorpion . . .

  ‘And as our father St Jerome called her,’ and at this point, he would always loudly blow his nose, ‘the Path to Iniquity, iniquitas via!’

  Even his textbooks were obsessed with Woman! What kind of creature was this, then, who, in theology, was either placed on the altar as the Queen of Grace or had barbarous curses heaped upon her? What power did she have, that this legion of saints should one minute rush to meet her, passionate and ecstatic, unanimously handing over to her the Kingdom of Heaven, and at the next, uttering terrified sobs and cries of loathing, flee from her as if she were the Universal Enemy, hiding themselves in wildernesses and in cloisters so as not to see her and to die there from the disease of having loved her? Unable precisely to define these troubling feelings, he ne
vertheless experienced them. They would constantly resurface, demoralizing him, so that before he had even made his vows, he was already longing to break them.

  And he felt similar rebellions of nature all around him: the studying, the fasting, the penances might cow the body, give it mechanical habits, but, inside, desire stirred silently, like a nest of impassive snakes. Those of sanguine temperament suffered most, as painfully constrained by the Rule as their thick, plebeian wrists were by their shirt cuffs. As soon as they were alone, their true temperament would erupt: they would fight, squabble, provoke arguments. Amongst the more phlegmatic, nature, constrained, produced great sadnesses and languid silences; they would find an outlet then in minor vices: gambling with an old pack of cards, reading a novel, or, after much intrigue, getting hold of a packet of cigarettes – ah, the charms of sin!

  In the end, Amaro almost envied the studious ones; at least they were happy, perpetually studying, scribbling notes in the silence of the high-ceilinged library, they were respected, they wore glasses, they took snuff. He himself even had sudden ambitions in that direction, but confronted by those vast tomes, he would be overcome by unbearable tedium. He was, however, devout: he would pray, he had limitless faith in certain saints and a terrible fear of God. But he hated the cloistered life of the seminary. The chapel, the weeping willows in the courtyard, the monotonous meals in the long, flagstoned refectory, the smells in the corridors, all this made him feel sad and irritable: it seemed to him that he could only be a good, pure believer if he were allowed to enjoy the freedom of the street or the peace of a garden, away from those black walls. He lost weight, he broke out in sweats, and in his last year, after the prolonged Holy Week services, when the weather began to grow hot, he was admitted to the infirmary with a nervous fever.

  He was finally ordained around the Ember Days prior to St Matthew’s feast day, and shortly afterwards, while he was still at the seminary, he received this letter from Father Liset:

  ‘My dear child and new colleague,

  Now that you have been ordained, I feel it is my duty to give you a full account of the state of your financial affairs, for I wish to carry out to the end the responsibility placed upon my weak shoulders by our much-lamented Marchioness, who bestowed on me the honour of administering the legacy she left to you. For, although worldly goods should matter little to a soul devoted to the priesthood, good accounts always make for good friends. I must tell you, my dear child, that the legacy left to you by our dear Marchioness – to whom you should lift up your soul in eternal gratitude – has now been entirely used up. I also take this opportunity to tell you that, after your uncle’s death, your aunt, having sold the shop, plunged into a life on which I would prefer not to venture an opinion: she fell victim to the passions and, having formed an illegitimate union, lost her money along with her virtue and now runs a boarding house in 53 Rua dos Calafates. The only reason I mention this sordid business, a matter from which a tender young priest like yourself should be shielded, is in order to give you a true account of your respected family. Your sister, as you doubtless know, married a wealthy man in Coimbra, and although money should not be a primary consideration in a marriage, it is nevertheless important for your future circumstances that you should be in possession of this fact. Regarding our dear rector’s plans to send you to the parish of Feirão in Gralheira, I will speak with a few important people who are kind enough to heed a poor priest who asks only for God’s mercy. I hope I will prove successful. My dear child, persevere in the paths of virtue, of which I am sure your good soul is full, and be assured that you will find happiness in this our holy ministry when you come to understand the many balms and consolations that are poured upon your heart merely by serving God! Farewell, my dear child and colleague. You can be sure that my thoughts will be with you, the ward of our late, lamented Marchioness, who is doubtless in Heaven, to which her many virtues will have taken her, praying all the while to the Virgin, whom she so loved and served, for the happiness of her dear ward.

  Liset.

  PS The name of your sister’s husband is Trigoso.

  Two months later, Amaro was appointed parish priest to Feirão, in Gralheira, in the mountain region of Beira Alta. He remained there from October until the snows melted.

  Feirão is a poor parish of shepherds and, at that time of year, almost entirely uninhabited. Amaro spent most of his time in idleness, pondering his own boredom by the fireside, listening to the winter howling in the mountains. In spring, several well-populated parishes fell vacant in the districts of Santarém and Leiria, parishes with good livings. Amaro wrote at once to his sister, telling her of his wretched life in Feirão. Urging him to be frugal, she sent him twelve moedas so that he could travel to Lisbon and find another parish. Amaro left at once. The clean, sharp mountain air had strengthened his blood, and he was now a strong, upright, pleasant young man, with a healthy glow to his dark skin.

  As soon as he arrived in Lisbon, he went straight to his aunt’s house in Rua dos Calafates: he found her greatly aged, overly powdered and wearing a large false chignon adorned with bright red ribbons. She had grown very devout, and it was with pious joy that she opened her skinny arms to Amaro.

  ‘But you’re so handsome! Just look at you! Who would have thought it! Goodness, what a change!’

  She admired his cassock and his tonsure, and, pouring out to him her many misfortunes, exclaiming all the while about the salvation of her soul and the various food shortages, she led him up to a room on the third floor overlooking a narrow courtyard.

  ‘You can live as well as an abbot here, and it’s very cheap,’ she said. ‘I would love to let you stay for free, but . . . Oh, I’ve been so unhappy, Joãozinho . . . I mean, Amaro. I just can’t seem to get Joãozinho out of my head . . .’

  The next day, Amaro went to São Luís in search of Father Liset. He had gone to France. Then he remembered the Marchioness’ youngest daughter, Dona Joana, who was married to the Conde de Ribamar, a Councillor of State, a man of influence and a loyal member of the Regeneration party since 1851, who had twice been a minister.

  As soon as he had put in his request for a new parish, Amaro, acting on his aunt’s advice, went one morning to the house of the Condessa de Ribamar, in Rua Buenos Aires. A coupé was waiting at the door.

  ‘The Countess is just about to go out,’ said a servant in a white tie and light alpaca jacket, who was lolling, cigarette in mouth, in the doorway that led into the courtyard.

  At that moment, a lady in a pale dress emerged from a baize-lined door and came down the stone steps at the far end of the paved courtyard. She was tall, thin and blonde, with a mass of tiny curls over her forehead, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her long, sharp nose, and, on her chin, a small mole from which sprouted a few fair hairs.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Countess?’ said Amaro, stepping forward and bowing, his hat in his hand. ‘It’s me, Amaro.’

  ‘Amaro?’ she said, as if she did not know the name. ‘Good heavens, it’s you! It can’t be! Why, you’re a grown man! Who’d have thought it!’

  Amaro smiled.

  ‘Well, I would certainly never have expected it!’ she went on, still astonished. ‘And are you living in Lisbon now?’

  Amaro explained about his appointment to the parish of Feirão and how poor the parish was . . .

  ‘So I’ve come to ask for your help in finding another appointment, Countess.’

  She listened to him with her hands resting on a tall, pale silk parasol, and Amaro was aware of the smell of face powder and fresh cotton chambray emanating from her.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about it. My husband will have a word. I’ll make sure of that. Look, come and visit.’ And with one finger on her lips, she said: ‘Now wait, tomorrow I’m going to Sintra. Sunday’s impossible. The best thing would be if you came back in a fortnight. In a fortnight’s time, in the morning, I’ll be here.’ And laughing, showing her long, healthy teeth. ‘I
can just see you now translating Chateaubriand with my sister Luísa! How time passes!’

  ‘And how is your sister?’ asked Amaro.

  ‘Very well. She lives on an estate in Santarém.’

  She offered him a suede-gloved hand, and when he shook it, her gold bracelets tinkled; then, slim and lithe, she jumped into the coupé, with a movement that revealed a flash of white petticoat.