Chapter Twenty-seven

‘She’s back all right; Margarita Mendez, a friend of mine, came round to tell me. Did I know what my cousin’s daughter was up to, she said. Did I know that she was walking arm in arm out in the street with a man old enough to be her father?’

‘She was sure it was Carmen?’

‘There could be no mistake. And she was wearing a red dress that Margarita said looked brand new and expensive.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘She didn’t know him but she said he looked a well-off sort.’

‘Not a young man though?’

‘No, but not so old as to be past taking an interest in what women like Carmen put on display.’

‘She said she was going to her village to see her daughter.’

‘Well she would hardly say that she was going away for a few days with another man: one who would buy her dresses and other finery. But suit yourself, I can only tell you what Margarita told me. Now, are you ready to eat?’

Maria’s news had taken away Father Enrique’s appetite. While Carmen had been away he had been doing some thinking. The night before she left he had locked his door. The murder of those two people had shocked him and turned his mind to sin and where it leads. How did any man grow up to be a bandit, to become someone who could kill two innocent people for the little they would have been carrying? Where and how did such evil begin to take hold? Such thoughts had brought home to him his own position. His relationship with Carmen was sinful. There was no point in deluding himself: he only wanted her body, the pleasure it gave him, he did not want her. He wanted to be a good priest but not the good priest Maria had described, not merely an efficient priest. He wanted more than that. During Carmen’s absence he had gone over the way his life had turned out. He thought of his childhood when his mother had taught him of Jesus’ love for all mankind, especially for the poor and the weak, and most importantly his compassion for the repentant sinner. ‘Never be afraid to turn to Jesus if you stray from the path and become lost. If you fall let Jesus pick you up just as I have picked you up. Let Jesus’ love and forgiveness fill your life, Enrique, just as my love has filled it.’ And he had promised her that he would. He remembered the proudest day of his life, his First Communion, how his mother had wept. He had asked her why she was crying. ‘With joy, my son, with joy, to see you now so close to Jesus.’ Then she had knelt beside him and held him close. He had felt the wetness of her tears on his own cheek. ‘Try and be close to him, my son. It will not always be easy, and sometimes it may be very hard, even seem impossible, but he is the Good Shepherd and he will always be waiting to welcome home the wandering sheep.’ And he had tried. Ever since that day, with his mother’s tears still wet on his cheek, he had promised God that he would give his life to following Jesus, that he would become a priest.

Now he was a lost sheep, now he needed the love and compassion of the Good Shepherd to welcome him back, a repentant sinner.

But then there was Carmen.

Maria interrupted his thoughts with his meal: chicken and rice.

‘I’m not really very hungry, Maria, I have a lot on my mind.’

‘Let your mind take care of itself for a while; your body needs food. No one can live on thinking.’

And she returned to the kitchen. He looked down at the plate, picked up his fork, and slowly tried to eat.

The kitchen door opened and Maria stood there.

‘Carmen is back. Do you want to see her?’

No, he didn’t want to see her. What he wanted, he now realised, was for her to be gone. He put his fork down, pushed the plate away, and stood up. It wasn’t going to be pleasant but it had to be done and now was as good a time as any.

‘Yes, I will speak to her.’

Maria looked into the kitchen.

‘Father Enrique wants you.’

She stood to one side as if unwilling to have any contact as Carmen came in.

The hat, the parasol, and most of all the dress came as an unpleasant shock to Father Enrique: its tight waist, its flared skirt, its redness. But in the dress she looked very beautiful and it unsettled him, made him unsure of himself. Perhaps if he thought things over a little more, perhaps if he waited before making a decision. Perhaps just a night or two.

If Carmen had simply stood, let him look at her, and kept quiet everything might have been all right. But she didn’t. She knew what she looked like and she was proud of it. She had just been sitting, having a meal with a real artist, a painter. They had drunk wine and he had told her how beautiful she was, that he wanted to paint her, he had said so. So when she spoke her voice was arrogant.

‘Well, Enrique, aren’t you glad to see me back and don’t I look beautiful in my new dress?’ She looked at Maria. ‘It will be nice to have something beautiful in the house: everything here is so dowdy and dull.’ She turned back to Father Enrique and gave him a coquettish smile. ‘Even a priest needs something beautiful to enjoy, to make his spirits rise.’

And she laughed.

It wasn’t a nice laugh and it snapped Father Enrique back to his senses. The truth was Carmen wasn’t used to wine and she was in that happy mood of those inexperienced with alcohol, that early intoxication where anything seems possible and self-confidence flows through the veins.

Father Enrique looked at Maria.

‘Leave us, please.’ Maria left and almost closed the door behind her. ‘Where did you get that dress?’ Carmen deflated at once. She wasn’t drunk. Her friend had been careful of that. He was a man of wide experience and was pleased with his progress, he could afford to be patient, confident that she would not take long to get into his bed. All he had to do was wait and walk, two days at the most, he thought, tomorrow or the next day she’d come back and he’d be there when she came looking for him. There was no need to hurry and he was inclined to think that the preliminaries with such a simple girl might prove to be even more amusing than the consummation.

Carmen’s eyes lowered. Too late she was suitably contrite and humble. Father Enrique waited a moment then repeated his question. ‘Well? Where have you been? Who gave you that dress?’

Unfortunately she didn’t wait and give a little more thought to her answer.

‘No one gave it to me. I bought it with my own money. My last dress was no good any more. It’s a long and dusty road from the village and it was good for nothing so I bought a new one. I thought it would please you.’

Father Enrique still wanted to know who the man was, but there was something in her answer which interested him even more.

‘What money? I don’t know about such things but it looks expensive. How could you have the money for such a dress?’

This time Carmen took a little more time and care in her reply.

‘My husband gave it to me.’

It wasn’t good but it was the best she could manage.

‘But you said your husband was in the mountains. That you hardly ever saw him.’

‘I went back to the village to see my daughter. He came to see us. He had heard I was there and he came to see me. He gave me the money.’ Father Enrique didn’t say anything so she went on. She needed to stay in San Juan for two more weeks: the only alternative was going back and waiting in the village and that was unthinkable. Their job for the American was nearly done, soon Dominador Gomez would be able to persuade General Sakay to come down from the mountains then they would take their money and go away together to America and become rich. But things weren’t quite finished yet. Then there was her new friend, the artist. To have to leave no sooner than she had met him: no, that was impossible. She couldn’t let it happen. Cost what it might she needed to stay in San Juan and that meant staying in this house. ‘My husband wanted me to stay in the village so he gave me money. But I told him I was going to come back here, to you. I told him it was finished between us, that I loved you now and would be your woman.’ Again Father Enrique kept silent so she went on. ‘He became angry, violent. He said he would kill me rather than let me go to another man. But I faced up to him. I told him that I would die rather than give you up. Then he began to cry and I felt sorry for him. I told him he could have his money back but he told me to keep it. He said he could see how strong my love for you was and that as he couldn’t leave the army he was prepared to accept my decision. Then he went.’

She had enjoyed the story, the way it had built in her mind from nowhere: it was a good story, so good she could almost believe it herself.

‘And the man?’

The question brought her fairytale crashing down.

‘What man?’

‘The man you were seen with here in San Juan not so very long ago, walking arm in arm.’ Father Enrique waited, but only for a moment and when he spoke his voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Perhaps it was that friend of your father’s, the one who so kindly gave you the money for the last dress you bought? Remember him? Maria told me all about him. Perhaps this man is yet another of your father’s, a new one.’

Carmen saw now that no story was going to be any good. He wouldn’t believe her now no matter how clever it was.

‘Yes, there was a man. It’s true my husband gave me the money but when I came back to San Juan I wanted to show off my new dress and last time you didn’t seem interested in me or my dress. You locked your door, remember? While I was away in the village I was worried and frightened. I thought that perhaps you had stopped loving me, that when I came back you might send me away and if you did where could I go? Not back to my village, not after what I had said to my husband, and where else was there? That’s why I spent all the money my husband gave me on these new things, to make myself beautiful for you so you would go on loving me as I love you.’ She paused. She had made him think, she could see that. ‘I was worried as I said: I didn’t know whether you would want me back so I walked for a little. And I was hungry, I hadn’t eaten all day so when a gentleman stopped me and complimented me on how I looked I,’ she paused and tried to look ashamed, ‘I admit it, I talked to him.’

‘A stranger, on the street, old enough to be your father?’ Carmen looked up at him. He knew all right. The sarcasm returned. ‘But I understand he was well dressed. Maybe that’s what attracted you?’

‘No. I told you, I was worried and frightened and I was hungry. I wanted to be pretty for you so I had spent all my money on the dress, the hat, and the parasol He said he was an artist and with artists things were different, that when he saw something beautiful he had to say so.’

‘And you let him say so?’

Her eyes went down again.

‘Yes. I was hungry and he was nice. He said kind things and offered to give me a meal. I was weak and frightened, and I fell.’ She waited for a second. She had to keep her place in this house so now she had to work at it, work hard. She looked up again. This time there was no shame in her eyes. ‘It’s not all my fault. I am only a woman: I am not a priest. I cannot be like you.’

‘Like me?’

Now the tears, it was time for the tears.

‘Oh you don’t know it, but you are too hard to live with.’

Father Enrique saw the tears forming.

‘Hard? When have I been hard? I took you in, gave you a roof. How is that hard?’

‘No, that is not hard, it is kind, but that is what I mean, that is how you are, always kind, always loving and caring. You would never let anyone say it but you are a holy man, some people say you are a saint already.’

‘Stop that.’

She saw she had gone too far too quickly.

‘Yes that is wrong. That is what the foolish people say. But others say that you are truly holy, others who are not fools. They say look at the orphanage and the sewing school. They say look at how hard you work. Look at how you give yourself totally to the people of San Juan. I cannot be like that. I am not good enough. I am frightened of you because you are a holy man and I am just a weak, sinful woman.’ The eyes came up slowly. This was where she won or lost. ‘Tell me, Father, is it wrong for a woman like me, a weak and sinful woman, to love a holy man, to love him so much she wants to give him the one thing that is truly hers, her body? Is that wrong, Father? Is that a sin?’

She waited.

Father Enrique stood looking at her but without speaking. It wasn’t what he had been expecting, and this was not at all how he had intended things to go, not at all.

Behind the slightly open door Maria was thinking. The slut was working damned hard. Whatever else she was up to she wanted to stay in the house, that much was obvious, and if he let himself only half believe the rubbish she was giving him she would get her way. Why was she so set on staying? Why?

Then the answer dawned on her.