Graham Greene Read online

  Maria plucked at him. Get in. Quick. Onto the bed. Pre­sumably she had an idea-women were appallingly practical: they built new plans at once out of the ruins of the old. But what was the good? She said: Let me smell your breath. Oh, God, anyone can tell ... wine ... what would we be doing with [68] wine? She was gone again, inside, making a lot of bother in the peace and quiet of the dawn. Suddenly, out of the forest, a hundred yards away, an officer rode. In the absolute stillness you could hear the creaking of his revolver-holster as he turned and waved.

  All round the little clearing the police appeared-they must have marched very quickly, for only the officer had a horse. Rifles at the trail, they approached the small group of huts-­an exaggerated and rather absurd show of force. One man had a puttee trailing behind him-it had probably caught on some­thing in the forest. He tripped on it and fell with a great clat­ter of cartridge-belt on gunstock: the lieutenant on the horse looked round and then turned his bitter and angry face upon the silent huts.

  The woman was pulling at him from inside the hut. She said: Bite this. Quick. There's no time ... He turned his back on the advancing police and came into the dusk of the room. She had a small raw onion in her hand. Bite it, she said. He bit it and began to weep. Is that better? she said. He could hear the pad, pad of the cautious horse hoofs ad­vancing between the huts.

  It's horrible, he said with a giggle.

  Give it to me. She made it disappear somewhere into her clothes: it was a trick all women seemed to know. He said: Where's my case?

  Never mind your case. Get onto the bed.

  But before he could move, a horse blocked the doorway: they could see a leg in riding-boots piped with scarlet: brass fittings gleamed: a hand in a glove rested on the high pommel. Maria put a hand upon his arm-it was as near as she had ever come to a movement of affection: affection was taboo between them. A voice cried: Come on out, all of you. The horse stamped and a little pillar of dust went up. Come on out, I said. -somewhere a shot was fired. The priest left the hut.

  The dawn had really broken: light feathers of colour were blown up the sky: a man still held his gun pointed upwards: a little balloon of grey smoke hung at the muzzle. Was this how the agony was to start?

  Out of all the huts the villagers were reluctantly emerging­-the children first: they were curious and not frightened. The [69] men and women had the air already of people condemned by authority-authority was never wrong. None of them looked at the priest. They stared at the ground and waited: only the chil­dren watched the horse as if it was the most important thing there.

  The lieutenant said: Search the huts. Time passed very slowly: even the smoke of the shot seemed to remain in the air for an unnatural period. Some pigs came grunting out of a hut, and a turkey-cock paced with evil dignity into the centre of the circle, puffing out its dusty feathers and tossing the long pink membrane from its beak. A soldier came up to the lieutenant and saluted sketchily. He said: They're all here.

  You've found nothing suspicious?

  No.

  Then look again.

  Once more time stopped like a broken dock. The lieutenant drew out a cigarette-case, hesitated and put it back again. Again the policeman approached and reported: Nothing.

  The lieutenant barked out: Attention. All of you. Listen to me. The outer ring of police closed in, pushing the villagers together into a small group in front of the lieutenant: only the children were left free. The priest saw his own child standing close to the lieutenant's horse: she could just reach above his boot: she put up her hand and touched the leather. The lieu­tenant said: I am looking for two men-one is a gringo, a Yankee, a murderer. I can see very well he is not here. There is a reward of five hundred pesos for his capture. Keep your eyes open. He paused and ran his eye over them: the priest felt his gaze come to rest; he looked down like the others at the ground.

  The other, the lieutenant said, is a priest. He raised his voice: you know what this means-traitor to the republic. Anyone who shelters him is a traitor too. Their immobility seemed to anger him. He said: You're fools if you still believe what the priests tell you. All they want is your money. What has God ever done for you? Have you got enough to eat? Have your children got enough to eat? Instead of food they talk to you about heaven. Oh, everything will be fine after you are dead, they say. I tell you-everything will be fine when they are dead, and you must help. The child had her hand on his boot. He looked down at her with dark affection. He said with [70] conviction: This child is worth more than the Pope in Rome. The police leant on their guns: one of them yawned-the turkey­-cock went hissing back towards the huts. The lieutenant said: If you've seen this priest, speak up. There's a reward of seven hundred pesos. …

  Nobody spoke.

  The lieutenant yanked his horse's head round towards them; he said: We know he's in this district. Perhaps you don't know what happened to a man in Conception. One of the women began to weep. He said: Come up-one after the other-and let me have your names. No, not the women, the men.

  They filed sullenly up and he questioned them: What's your name? What do you do? Married? Which is your wife? Have you heard of this priest? Only one man now stood between the priest and the horse's head. He recited an act of contrition silently with only half a mind- ... my sins, be­cause they have crucified my loving Saviour ... but above all because they have offended ... He was alone in front of the lieutenant I hereby resolve never more to offend Thee ... It was a formal act, because a man had to be prepared: it was like making your will-and might be as valueless.

  Your name?

  The name of the man in Conception came back to him. He said: Montez.

  Have you ever seen the priest?

  No.

  What do you do?

  I have a little land.

  Are you married?

  Yes.

  Which is your wife?

  Maria suddenly broke out: It's me. Why do you want to ask so many questions. Do you think he looks like a priest? The lieutenant was examining something on the pommel of his saddle: it seemed to be an old photograph. Let me see your hands, he said.

  The priest held them up: they were as hard as a labourer's. Suddenly the lieutenant leant down from the saddle and sniffed at his breath There was complete silence among the villagers-­a dangerous silence, because it seemed to convey to the [71] lieuten­ant a fear. ... He stared back at the hollow stubbled face, looked back at the photograph. All right, he said, next, and then as the priest stepped aside: Wait. He put his hand down to Brigida's head and gently tugged at her black stiff hair. He said: Look up. You know everyone in this village, don't you?

  Yes, she said.

  Who is that man, then? What's his name?

  I don't know, the child said. The lieutenant caught his breath. You don't know his name? he said. Is he a stranger? Maria cried: Why, the child doesn't know her own name! Ask her who her father is.

  Who's your father?

  The child stared up at the lieutenant and then turned her knowing eyes upon the priest. … Sorry and beg pardon for all my sins, he was repeating to himself with his fingers crossed for luck. The child said: That's him. There.

  All right, the lieutenant said. Next. The interrogations went on-name? work? married?-while the sun came up above the forest. The priest stood with his hands clasped in front of him: again death had been postponed: he felt an enormous temptation to throw himself in front of the lieutenant and declare himself- I am the one you want. Would they shoot him out of hand? A delusive promise of peace tempted him. Far up in the sky a buzzard watched: they must appear from that height as two groups of carnivorous animals who might at any time break into conflict, and it waited there, a tiny black spot, for carrion. Death was not the end of pain-to be­lieve in peace was a kind of heresy.

  The last man gave his evidence.

  The lieutenant said: Is no one willing to help?

  They stood silent beside the decayed bandstand. He said: You heard what happened at Conception. I took a hosta
ge there ... and when I found that this priest had been in the neighbourhood I put the man against the nearest tree. I found out because there's always someone who changes his mind­-perhaps because somebody at Conception loved the man's wife and wanted him out of the way. It's not my business to look into reasons. I only know we found wine later in Conception. ... Perhaps there's somebody in this village who wants your piece [72] of land-or your cow. It's much safer to speak now. Because I'm going to take a hostage from here too. He paused. Then he said: There's no need even to speak, if he's here among you. Just look at him. No one will know then that it was you who gave him away. He won't know himself if you're afraid of his curses. Now ... this is your last chance.

  The priest looked at the ground-he wasn't going to make it difficult for the man who gave him away.

  Right, the lieutenant said, then I shall choose my man. You've brought it on yourselves.

  He sat on his horse watching them-one of the policemen had leant his gun against the bandstand and was doing up a puttee. The villagers still stared at the ground: everyone was afraid to catch his eye. He broke out suddenly: Why won't you trust me? I don't want any of you to die. In my eyes-can't you understand?-you are worth far more than he is. I want to give you -he made a gesture with his hands which was value­less, because no one saw him- everything. He said in a dull voice: You. You there. I'll take you.

  A woman screamed: That's my boy. That's Miguel. You can't take my boy.

  He said dully: Every man here is somebody's husband or somebody's son. I know that.

  The priest stood silently with his hands clasped: his knuckles whitened as he gripped ... he could feel all round him the beginning of hate. Because he was no one's husband or son. He said: Lieutenant ...

  What do you want?

  I'm getting too old to be much good in the fields. Take me. A rout of pigs came rushing round the corner of a hut, tak­ing no notice of anybody. The soldier finished his puttee and stood up. The sunlight coming up above the forest winked on the bottles of the gaseosa stall.

  The lieutenant said: I'm choosing a hostage, not offering free board and lodging to the lazy. If you are no good in the fields, you are no good as a hostage. He gave an order. Tie the man's hands and bring him along.

  It took no time at all for the police to be gone-they took with them two or three chickens, a turkey, and the man called [73] Miguel. The priest said aloud: I did my best. He went on: It's your job-to give me up. What do you expect me to do? It's my job not to be caught.

  One of the men said: That's all right, father. Only will you be careful ... to see that you don't leave any wine behind ... like you did at Conception?

  Another said: It's no good staying, father. They'll get you in the end. They won't forget your face again. Better go north, to the mountains. Over the border.

  It's a fine state over the border, a woman said. They've still got churches there. Nobody can go in them, of course-but they are there. Why, I've heard that there are priests too in the towns. A cousin of mine went over the mountains to Las Casas once and heard Mass-in a house, with a proper altar, and the priest all dressed up like in the old days. You'd be happy there, father.

  The priest followed Maria to the hut. The bottle of brandy lay on the table: he touched it with his fingers-there wasn't much left. He said: My case, Maria? Where's my case?

  It's too dangerous to carry that around any more, Maria said.

  How else can I take the wine? There isn't any wine.

  What do you mean?

  She said: I'm not going to bring trouble on you and every­one else. I've broken the bottle. Even if it brings a curse ... He said gently and sadly: You mustn't be superstitious. That was simply-wine. There's nothing sacred in wine. Only it's hard to get hold of here. That's why I kept a store of it in Con­cepcion. But they've found that.

  Now perhaps you'll go-go away altogether. You're no good any more to anyone, she said fiercely. Don't you under­stand, father? We don't want you any more.

  Oh, yes, he said. I understand. But it's not what you want-or I want ...

  She said savagely: I know about things. I went to school. I'm not like these others-ignorant. I know you're a bad priest. That time we were together-I bet that wasn't all you've done. I've heard things, I can tell you. Do you think God wants you [74] to stay and die-a whisky priest like you? He stood patiently in front of her, as he had stood in front of the lieutenant, lis­tening. He hadn't known she was capable of all this thought. She said: Suppose you die. You'll be a martyr, won't you? What kind of a martyr do you think you'll make? It's enough to make people mock.

  That had never occurred to him-that anybody would con­sider him a martyr. He said: It's difficult. Very difficult. I'll think about it. I wouldn't want the Church to be mocked. …

  Think about it over the border then ...

  Well ...

  She said: When you-know-what happened, I was proud. I thought the good days would come back. It's not everyone who's a priest's woman. And the child ... I thought you could do a lot for her. But you might as well be a thief for all the good ...

  He said vaguely: There've been a lot of good thieves.

  For God's sake take this brandy and go.

  There was one thing, he said. In my case ... there was something …

  Go and find it yourself on the rubbish-tip then. I won't touch it again.

  And the child, he said, you're a good woman, Maria. I mean-you'll try and bring her up well ... as a Christian.

  She'll never be good for anything, you can see that.

  She can't be very bad-at her age, he implored her.

  She'll go on the way she's begun.

  He said: The next Mass I say will be for her.

  She wasn't even listening. She said: She's bad through and through. He was aware of faith dying out between the bed and the door-the Mass would soon mean no more to anyone than a black cat crossing the path. He was risking all their lives for the sake of spilt salt, or a crossed finger. He began: My mule ...

  They are giving it maize now.

  She added: You'd better go north. There's no chance to the south any more.

  I thought perhaps Carmen ...

  They'll be watching there.

  [75] Oh, well ... He said sadly: Perhaps one day ... when things are better ... He sketched a cross and blessed her, but she stood impatiently before him, willing him to be gone for ever.

  Well, good-bye, Maria.

  Good-bye.

  He walked across the plaza with his shoulders hunched: he felt that there wasn't a soul in the place who wasn't watching him with satisfaction-the trouble-maker whom for obscure and superstitious reasons they preferred not to betray to the police; he felt envious of the unknown gringo whom they wouldn't hesitate to trap-he at any rate had no burden of gratitude to carry round with him.

  Down a slope churned up with the hoofs of mules and rag­ged with tree-roots there was the river-not more than two feet deep, littered with empty cans and broken bottles. Under a no­tice which hung on a tree reading: It is forbidden to deposit rubbish ... all the refuse of the village was collected and slid gradually down into the river. When the rains came it would be washed away. He put his foot among the old tins and rotting vegetables and reached for his case. He sighed: it had been quite a good case: one more relic of the quiet past.... Soon it would be difficult to remember that life had ever been any dif­ferent. The lock had been torn off: he felt inside the silk lining. …

  The papers were there: reluctantly he let the case fall-a whole important and respected youth dropped among the cans-he had been given it by his parishioners in Concepcion on the fifth anniversary of his ordination. ... Somebody moved behind a tree. He lifted his feet out of the rubbish-flies buzzed around his ankles. With the papers hidden in his fist he came round the trunk to see who was spying. ... The child sat on a root, kicking her heels against the bark. Her eyes were shut tight fast. He said: My dear, what is the matter with you ...? They came quickly open-red-rimmed and
angry, with an expression of absurd pride. She said:

  You ... you ...

  Me?

  You are the matter.

  [76] He moved towards her with infinite caution, as if she were an animal who distrusted him. He felt weak with longing. He said: My dear, why me ... ?

  She said furiously: They laugh at me.''

  Because of me?

  She said: Everyone else has a father ... who works.

  I work too.

  You're a priest, aren't you?

  Yes.

  Pedro says you aren't a man. You aren't any good for women. She said: I don't know what he means.

  I don't suppose he knows himself.

  Oh, yes, he does, she said. He's ten. And I want to know. You're going away, aren't you?

  Yes.

  He was appalled again by her maturity, as she whipped up a smile from a large and varied stock. She said: Tell me- enticingly. She sat there on the trunk of the tree by the rubbish-­tip with an effect of abandonment. The world was in her heart already, like the small spot of decay in a fruit. She was without protection-she had no grace, no charm to plead for her; his heart was shaken by the conviction of loss. He said: My dear, be careful ...

  What of? Why are you going away?

  He came a little nearer: he thought-a man may kiss his own daughter; but she started away from him. Don't you touch me, she screeched at him in her ancient voice, and giggled. Every child was born with some kind of knowledge of love, he thought; they took it with the milk at the breast: but on parents and friends depended the kind of love they knew-the saving or the damning kind. Lust too was a kind of love. He saw her fixed in her life like a fly in amber-Maria's hand raised to strike: Pedro talking prematurely in the dusk; and the police beating the forest-violence everywhere. He prayed silently: O God, give me any kind of death-without contrition, in a state of sin-only save this child.