San Salvador, 1989.
“I left this city in search of my son because he disappeared years ago in these very streets, somewhere near the Cathedral. It happened on the day the Archbishop was buried. But now I’ve returned, my hands empty.
“Please don’t think that I was careless in losing my son. Bernabé and I were among the mourners, but because he was carrying the cross in the procession, he was at the head, and I was behind him. Once the gun shots began we all turned like frightened cattle. There was a confusion that to this day I cannot describe. When we heard the explosions, we screamed and pushed, trying to escape. I kept my eyes on my son, but suddenly, he disappeared. At that same moment I was forced to my knees, and everything went black. I can’t tell you how long I was in that stupor. When I came out of it, the street was empty except for the dead and a few weeping people. The rest had run away hoping to save their lives.
“All I could think of was my son but I didn’t find him even though I ran through the streets shouting for him. I pounded on shuttered doors, screaming out his name, but no one had the courage to even stick their nose out the window. When I returned to the Cathedral hoping to find him, all I found were confused, lost people.
“‘Have you seen my son?’ I asked over and again, but they looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I remember that I turned to a woman who was sitting at the foot of the main altar, and I asked ‘Have you seen my son?’ I’ll never forget her eyes. They were pools of black mud, empty, cold eyes, and she responded, ‘You’re looking for your son, and I’m sitting here waiting to die. I’m waiting to follow my babies. They all died today. A soldier shot each one in the head. You’re looking for one son. I lost all four of mine.’
“Sí, Padre, it happened many years ago, but I haven’t stopped looking for him. I didn’t stay here in this city because everyone told me they thought that Bernabé would have taken a bus headed for el norte. Many young men did the same thing because they were afraid for their lives. So I followed. My journey has been long. I traveled first to Mexico, then to Los Angeles, and there I spent years hoping to find him. But I did not, so I came back to San Salvador only to find sighs and death and echoes of death. I’ve walked the streets for days, asking people if by chance they had ever seen my son. I went to Soyapango and found narrow streets and overgrown passageways clogged with dying people. When I went to Cuscatancingo to the church where my son used to assist at mass, I found men fighting with each other like enraged dogs. The church was in ruins, the statue of Our Lady was riddled with bullets, and the priest could not respond to my questions regarding Bernabé. His eyes were blank, like the eyes of a dead man. Then, when I made my way to Zacamil and to the Church of Christ Our Savior, I found a sign nailed to the door. It said, ‘Do not enter. This is a mine field.’ ”
Luz Delcano was speaking rapidly in English and Spanish to a priest she barely knew, Father Hugh Joyce. He sat next to her, huddled on the cement floor of the shelter along with other men, women and children, most of them Salvadoran, who were there to escape the battle raging on the city streets between guerrillas and government troops.
“Padrecito maybe you’ve seen my son. He’s not very tall. He is slim, and he has a beautiful face with eyes that are round and filled with light. His hair is brown, and not too curly. His hands are the hands of an artist, with small fingers. Did you ever run into him in Los Angeles? Someone told me that you’re from Los Angeles, although I never saw you in our church on Sundays.”
“Señora, I’m not from Los Angeles.”
The woman’s words were blurring in the priest’s mind; several months of extreme fatigue were overtaking him, and he was struggling to keep awake. It was not for her sake, however, that he fought off his need to sleep, but because he was afraid of sleeping. He feared being left alone with thoughts and memories that nagged and harped, reminding him of what he wanted to forget. He had come to San Salvador hoping to be free of his nightmares, but he was afraid that if he fell asleep, they would begin all over again.
Hugh forced himself to listen, and he was struck by the irony of her saying that she had not seen him in church. She would not have seen him there even if he had lived in Los Angeles. Father Hugh was not a church priest. He was a university professor, someone who wrote articles and essays. He wasn’t a minister who married people and baptized their babies. He was a scholar who published works that other researchers read. He was this, and more, because he had also become part of his university’s inner core, the handful of men who ran the institution. He had always taken pride in his work, and he hadn’t missed what he presumed was the dreary life of a priest attached to a church or to a pulpit or to a confessional. On the contrary, he had enjoyed being a scholar; and he had loved the excitement of power even more.
“What the Hell am I doing here?”
The priest was mumbling, thinking that he must have looked repulsive. Struggling to keep his glazed eyes open, he ran his fingers through his red hair, disheveled and gummy with the grime of the shelter. He felt his jaw prickling with more than a day’s growth. He thought of the killing that was going on out on the streets.
“Hughie, boy, you’re part of the package. How do you think they got those weapons?”
The voice rang unexpectedly in the priest’s head, physically jolting him. His surprise was momentary, however. Father Hugh had grown used to the twanging noise that had robbed him of sleep night after night ever since Augie Sinclaire had died in a plane crash. The priest hated the voice. As always, he wanted to drown it out.
“Shut up!”
“What did you say, Padre? You want me to be quiet?”
“No, Señora. Por favor, I was thinking of something else. I’m listening to you.”
“I arrived here a few days ago; I was thrown out of Los Angeles …”
The woman abruptly interrupted what she was saying, then looked at the priest, “Tell me, Padre, what’s your name?”
“Me llamo Padre Hugo.”
He was surprised that he had used the Spanish version of his name. He repeated, “Sí, me llamo Hugo.”
“Padrecito Hugo, why did you leave your land where you were safe? Why did you come here to where there’s only death and sadness? When did you get here? Did others come with you?”
The woman’s questions grated on the priest’s nerves. He was feeling dizzy, and he began to sweat. He didn’t know what to say, so he kept silent.
“What’s the matter, Hughie? Scared of the old bag’s questions? Go on, tell her the truth.”
Father Hugh ignored the voice reverberating in his head. Instead he tried to smile at the woman, but he gave up, knowing that he would look ridiculous, artificial. He was relieved to hear the roar of the helicopters and the machine guns tearing at the Salvadoran night since the noise blocked out the sarcastic voice ringing in his ears. The priest turned his attention to the woman.
“Padrecito, I’m frightened for myself, but especially for my son. He might be out there in the darkness hearing somebody’s confession. He was preparing to be a priest, just like you. Or perhaps he’s helping someone to die in peace. I’m going out to search for him.”
The woman made an attempt to stand. It was difficult; her knees seemed too weak for her bulky body.
“No, no, Señora, sit down, please. You can’t go right now. None of us can. We have to stay here until daylight, or until the fighting stops. Try to rest. Look at the others. They’re all trying to regain some of their strength.”
She looked around as the priest had asked her to do. “No, Padre,” she said, “my son might be waiting for me. I’m his mother and I must look for him. I feel it here.” She pointed at her heart. “I know in here that I’ll find Bernabé.”
“Wait for awhile. Why don’t you stay and tell me about yourself and about your son? You say you’ve been in Los Angeles. Let’s talk. Maybe, yes, yes, maybe I do know something of your son Bernardino.”
“Bernabé. Not Bernardino.”
The woman lumbered back to the cement floor where she sat and turned to the priest. “Padre, I need to confess,”she said softly.
Her face reflected an intensity that surprised Father Hugh. He didn’t want to hear her confession. He had not heard one in years.
“Señora, I’m sorry to say that I’m not prepared.”
“What do you mean, Padre? Isn’t a priest always prepared for these things?”
“I mean I don’t even have a stole or….”
“That means nothing to me. You’re a priest, and that’s all that matters!”
Father Hugh was angered by the woman’s tone. He felt cornered, forced into doing what he didn’t want to do. He remembered, however, that her silence meant the return of the carping voice.
“Very well, Señora. Begin.”
“Padre, my name is Luz Delcano, and I’m a sinner. My son Bernabé is the love of my life, but he’s the fruit of my sin. I loved his father, and I allowed him to love me even though he was married to another woman. I have never regretted nor repented of my love. That’s a sin, isn’t it?”
The priest was irritated by the woman’s question.
“Loving is not a sin.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean love. I know that’s not a sin. I mean, not repenting! I’ve never repented of what I did. If Bernabé’s father appeared here, right now, I would do everything with him all over again. Sometimes, at night especially, I think that when I die I’ll go to Hell. But, we’re already in Hell. What do you think, Padre Hugo?”
Luz’s words were drifting away and the priest’s mind began to wander. He was thinking of Hell, of repenting, and of being sorry for one’s deeds.
“Bet you never felt sorry either, did you Hughie? Not you, big time priest that you always were. Who would have known you were such a son of a bitch?”
Hugh shut his eyes and ordered his brain to listen to the woman. He was suddenly glad to be hearing her confession because it blocked out the words echoing in his ears.
“Today, I went to my old barrio here in San Salvador near Santa Marta. I found my comadre Aurora crying because her husband had been killed. I can’t imagine why anyone would kill him since he was a good man. He used to drink a little too much sometimes, but he was a good man.”
Father Hugh knew that this was no longer a confession, but he didn’t interrupt because he feared returning to his own thoughts. So he listened to Luz’s rambling conversation.
“My comadre Aurora had three sons, but she told me that they’ve all disappeared. Now that her husband is dead who knows how she’ll be able to live. Padrecito, my friend Aurora is practically a cripple. Many years ago, even before the death of our Archbishop, she was washing clothes by the river along with the rest of us. Suddenly we heard gunshots. All the other women ran, but Aurora wanted to gather her things, and she lost valuable time. When she finally did run, it was too late. A bullet shattered her knee. We dragged her to the hospital, but by the time her wound received attention, it was too late. Her leg couldn’t be straightened. Now she walks like a spider, jerking her leg backward and forward in tiny steps, making her body go up and down. Pobrecita.”
“No, Padre, I’m not finished! I have more to tell you. Look at me, please. If you look at my face carefully you’ll see many things right there. Por favor, mire. Look at my face. What do you see?”
Father Hugh strained in the gloom to look at Luz’s face.
“I see a fine face.”
“You’re wrong! Forgive me, Padre, but your eyes do not see the truth. They don’t see that on the inside of me is a lake of black, stinking mud, just like someone already in Hell!”
The priest was surprised by the intensity with which the woman spoke. She was speaking in English, and even though it lilted with a heavy accent, Luz’s words conveyed her conviction. Father Hugh’s words were a whisper.
“Forgive me, Señora, but I don’t see any sin. I don’t see mud.”
“Do you know that I was almost shot when I wandered through the barrios? Do you know what I saw? I saw many people killed right in front of me. They were running in every direction trying to escape the bullets that were flying back and forth. Some of those poor people even waved white flags, not real flags, but rags and tablecloths, even shirts. They hoped that the killing might go somewhere else. But their flags didn’t help them, because everywhere there were bodies, and parts of bodies. The stink of human shit was awful.”
Luz became silent, again prompting Hugh to ask if she had finished her confession.
“No, Padre, I have more to say. I’m a sinner, and I ask you to bless me because I have sinned many times. When I was a child, just thirteen years old, I caused my grandfather to commit a grave sin. It was my fault. Of that I have always been certain, because you see, at the time he was old and past the time of temptation. I’ve been paying ever since then.”
Luz began to sob; her crying was loud. One or two refugees stirred, making shussing sounds.
“Señora, God forgives us our transgressions. He knows our weaknesses, and He doesn’t look for vengeance.”
“No!”
Again the woman’s intensity startled the priest. He regretted the platitudes.
“Some sins are unforgivable, Padre,” she whispered hoarsely. “Like the sins of my people. Why do you think we’re being killed like pigs? It’s because of our sins, because we have done only what our bodies tell us to do, and we have never listened to what is good in this life.”
“Señora, you’re wrong! Those people out there are being slaughtered, not because of their sins but because of the greediness and cruelty of others.”
She remained silent, waiting for the priest to continue, but instead he was giving in to the inner voice.
“Hugh, you’re a god-damn hypocrite! Cut the crap, and stop pointing the finger at others. Go on! Tell her about your own greed. Why don’t you Jess up to your own sins? Tell the old bag that it’s you who’s the slime bucket, not her.”
Father Hugh forced himself to stifle Augie’s voice.
“Señora, please go on with your confession,” he encouraged.