“Money makes money, right Hughie? Give a little, take a little, that’s the name of the game. Use the right bait, and those snappers will snap.”
Augie’s presence dominated the shelter, and his voice pounded stubbornly in Father Hugh’s head. He wanted to squeeze it out of his hearing by pressing his hands against his skull, but Augie’s jeering persisted, taunting the priest.
Hugh Joyce had been the snapper, and the bait had been the money that gave him the influence he had craved. When Augie had put his cards on the table, frankly revealing everything, Father Hugh had agreed to collaborate with no questions asked. Even though he recognized the implications of Augie’s work, Hugh could not resist the wave of prestige on which it had placed him.
In 1979, one year after the guerrillas in El Salvador had made their first move, the undercover side of Augustin Sinclaire Enterprises, based mainly on university investments, was ready to do business on a wider scale. The company began with the guerrillas, but these clients were lured away and taken over by competitors from behind the Iron Curtain. Augie then switched his targeted market, turning to the government military enclave to barter his weaponry.
He invited Father Hugh to join him on several trips to the capital where they made contact with a man influential beyond even Augie’s expectations. Colonel Lucio Delcano, attached to Army Intelligence, initially listened intently to their plans and offers. Their main selling point was that they, los gringos as Augie and Hugh became known, offered a way of undercutting prices quoted by other arms brokers. The lower prices offered by the Americans ultimately convinced Colonel Delcano. He, and the interests he represented, accepted to do business with Sinclaire Enterprises.
The 1980s brought Augie Sinclaire the wealth he craved, and the university, satisfied with the steady returns of its investments, continued its dealings with Augustin Sinclaire Enterprises. As each Sinclaire check made its way back to the university, Father Hugh Joyce grew in stature and importance. He basked in adulation and admiration, protected in his identity of priest and scholar.
“Came in handy that you could just pick up and go south whenever you wanted, right Hughie? ‘Missionary work’ you used to call it. Ha! What a crock!”
Hugh rubbed his eyelids trying to relieve the burning sensation he was feeling. His fingers grazed his chin, and he felt the rough growth on his jaw. His tongue was coated with bitter spittle. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Señora?”
The priest’s words startled Luz, but she responded to his question without hesitating.
“Sí. You know that we call them espantos, don’t you? I still see my mother’s ghost, and others, too. But mostly, I see my grandfather’s espanto. He’s with me almost always. Especially during the night.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Sí… I mean no … what I mean is that I think that ghosts are really our memories, the ones that we don’t, or can’t, let go. When those memories frighten us, we think that it’s the espantos that do it.”
“Then you think that ghosts can haunt us?”
“‘Haunt’? What’s that, Padre, I don’t understand.”
“It means that if we let them, our ghosts come back to pick at us with their sharp edges. They never let us forget anything. They’re everywhere, hiding around corners, crouching in little niches where we least expect them. They like to turn their spikes inside of us, trying to make us regret what we’ve done. And even when we’re sorry; even when we’re ready to do things in a different way, they still hound and punish us.”
“Ah, sí, I know what you mean. And you’re right. I mean about their waiting for us when we aren’t ready to face them. Sometimes our espantos look like shadows, and sometimes they shine, but yes, they like to return, especially when we’re alone.”
Shocked by his openness with Luz, Father Hugh held his breath. He regretted having stirred her, and he hoped that she would return to her silent drowsiness. He waited a minute or two before he turned to looked at her. She was locked into her own thoughts, and she seemed far away. Father Hugh closed his eyes. They burned. His eyeballs seemed to be rolling in hot sand.
As the night hovered over San Salvador, moving toward its end, Hugh Joyce listened to the voice of the rector. Father Virgil’s voice was a hoarse whisper and his words were strained but distinct. Another voice was interfering with Father Virgil’s words, though. That voice soon was joined by another until the voices created an intolerable noise in Father Hugh’s head.
“Shut up!”
Father Hugh looked into the emptiness, relieved that no one seemed to have heard his outburst. He again pressed his hands to his forehead, hoping that he might fall asleep. He tried reciting a psalm, but he was unable to call up even one although he knew many by heart. Instead he uttered fragments that collided with one another. His verses were a mesh of disconnected lines and words.
“I am aware of my faults, Oh, God…I have my sin constantly in mind…having sinned against none other than you…Death’s terrors assail me, fear and trembling descend on me…Horror overwhelms me…Oh, for the wings of a dove to fly away and find rest…Take pity on me, God, as they harry me, pressing their attacks…My opponents harry me, hordes coming in to attack….”
“Hugh! Listen to me. I’m not your enemy, I never was. You made it worse on your own. How could you have done what you did? Wasn’t it bad enough that you made yourself a part of all this death and suffering?”
Father Hugh had to admit that he had messed things up even though he had been given the chance to make things right. He remembered now that it had been raining the night Father Virgil tapped at his door. When he entered he held papers in his trembling hands, and without saying a word, he passed the letter to Father Hugh who stiffly read its contents.
“Dear Father Virgil, I feel pained to be the one to inform you of Father Hugh Joyce’s involvement in…. ”
The letter detailed names, dates, and the amounts of money involved in each illegal deal. It provided the place of meetings and items discussed by Augie and Hugh and the others responsible in dealings that spanned years. There were pages crammed with accusations against the priest, telling of his direct involvement in the weapon business. The letter recounted the many trips taken by him to San Salvador to barter and settle deals, all with money finagled from the university.
Father Virgil found the accusation preposterous, impossible to believe. Before he had confronted Hugh, he had been convinced that it was a joke, or evidence of envy, even the work of a resentful student. Hugh, however, took a long time reading the contents of the letter, much longer than Father Virgil had expected. When Hugh finally raised his gaze, the rector saw fear in his eyes and he noticed his trembling hands.
Hugh denied it all, declaring that it was nonsense, a prank, or, worse, the intent of someone who wanted him disgraced in the eyes of the university. Hugh spoke rapidly, nervously stumbling over words, mumbling things unrelated to the accusation. He brought up Mr. Sinclaire’s generosity, reminding Father Virgil of the insult to which Augie would be subjected if the accusations contained in the letter ever reached his ears. Besides, Hugh was a priest, he insisted to his superior, a man who had lived as conscientiously as possible, always mindful of his vows, and this dirty business would clearly be a breach of everything he represented.
Father Virgil left in turmoil, unconvinced by the younger priest’s responses. Hugh’s words had been hollow, and they had failed to explain the fear in his eyes. His hands had trembled without stopping, and his face never regained its natural color, and even though the rector had initially thought that the possibility of Hugh’s involvement was beyond belief, he now felt grave misgivings.
After several days of reflection, Father Virgil decided to speak directly with Augustin Sinclaire. To his confusion, Sinclaire appeared to be expecting him. In his usual off-hand manner, Sinclaire admitted responsibility for the illegal enterprise in which Hugh Joyce was involved. He even willingly exposed more details, doing it arrogantly and sarcastically, while he nibbled on the tip of a long cigar.
Father Virgil was shocked, especially when he saw that Sinclaire’s admission was not, as he would have expected, prompted by guilt or shame. On the contrary, he was boastful and he seemed to relish the moment. He mockingly pointed out that the university was also involved. Everyone, from the president down to the newest professor, was now culpable of the business of peddling death, he said. Sinclaire reminded Father Virgil that the university had not only accepted and used his donations, but had reinvested its own monies in support of the business they were now discussing. The university had done so, not once or twice, but consistently over ten years.
“So, Father Rector, if you have the balls to blow the whistle, good luck! Be my guest.”
“You wrote the letter, didn’t you?” Father Virgil asked.
“Why, Father Rector, you’re not as stupid as Hughie thinks you are.”
Father Virgil felt the sting of Sinclaire’s sarcasm. He was offended by the implication that Hugh obviously had expressed an opinion regarding him.
“Why, in God’s name, did you do it? I thought Hugh Joyce was your friend?”
“My friend? You must be joking! I would sooner be friends with a shark. Remember, Father, that I’ve known Hughie since we were just kids with snot running down our noses. Believe me, I know, he’s a shark! His only friend is Hugh Joyce. Now, if you’re asking why I wrote that letter, the answer is simple. First, Hugh’s getting too big for his britches. He needs to be brought down a peg or two. You’re the guy to do just that. Second, I’m bored with this whole damned thing. Oh, now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not bored with the moola. I wasn’t dropped on my head when I was a kid. No, sir! What I mean is that I’m dying to see a little fireworks between Hugh and the big boys who run his life. Oh, I know damn well you’ll never blow the whistle on the business. You guys are too smart for that. But what you will do—and I’ll bet my money to your apples—is put that son of a bitch Hugh in his place. He deserves to….”
Augie’s voice trailed off when he saw Father Virgil stand and wordlessly leave the office. He was disappointed because he had wanted to tell Hugh’s superior how much he hated the man everyone assumed was his best friend. Sinclaire yearned to tell the whole world how much he had grown to despise Hugh because of his arrogance, and more than anything, he wanted to reveal that he hated Hugh because he had shunned him when he had needed him most. He was willing to give anything to see Hugh humiliated and disgraced.
Father Virgil returned to the Residence where he spent the rest of the day in prayer. He was afraid, and he didn’t know what to do, but that evening he returned to Hugh’s room.
“The university’s ties with Sinclaire must be severed immediately. It’s your responsibility to see this accomplished without tarnishing the reputation of the university or anyone in it,” Father Virgil commanded.
A deep silence wrapped itself wround the two men. When Father Virgil spoke again his voice was calm.
“You must resign from your position in the university at once,” he ordered. “Sickness—your own, or someone else’s—can be the excuse. Anything will do, but your action must be immediate.”
Hugh refused to speak but his eyes betrayed rage and fear. The rector, seeing that the younger priest had nothing to say, turned and left the room. When he returned to his office, he wrote Hugh a brief letter: “As your superior, and in the name of obedience, I command you to cease and desist from the business in which you have been engaged for ten years. You are to do so immediately. I will see to it that you are transfered to another community as quickly as is conveniently possible.”
Now, the cramped shelter only intensified Hugh’s memory, and he clasped his hands over his eyes, trying to block out Father Virgil’s image. Hot tears flooded his eyes. He felt that his throat was on fire, and that he was about to choke on his tongue. They were crowding in on him, all of them: Augie, Virgil, his father, his mother and others, every one of them pointing long, bony fingers at him. Behind them, Hugh thought he saw several Salvadorans peering in his direction. He rubbed his eyes. Were they the same ones who had been huddling in the shelter? Why were they staring at him? He heard them murmuring, whispering among themselves, wagging their uncombed, disheveled heads in agreement about something concerning him. Hugh shut his eyes so tightly that a blinding light flashed under his eyelids as he relived his most difficult moments.
He recalled that he had found Father Virgil’s order impossible to fulfill. To have resigned from the university would have alerted Hugh’s enemies. They would have probed and asked questions until the truth would have been discovered. He then would have been the object of mockery and disgust. Underlying his fear of humiliation, furthermore, had been probability of imprisonment.
Hugh had decided not to obey Father Virgil’s order. Instead, he had confronted him. The two men had argued violently, with Hugh asserting that he would not be a scapegoat. He had threatened to reveal that the university, not he, was the guilty party. He had reminded Father Virgil that if he were exposed, it would be they, the priests, who would hear the full brunt of the accusation. A major scandal would be the result.
Hugh, enraged, was aggressive and hostile with Father Virgil. He shouted at him even though he saw the old man’s face grow pale and twitch with pain. At one point, Hugh had raised a clenched fist, jabbing the air close to the other priest’s face. He had lowered his hand only when Father Virgil collapsed in his chair. When Hugh had left the rector’s office, he had been quaking with anger, and his face had been drained of its usual color. The next day the community of priests awakened to the notice that their rector had died of a massive heart attack.
In the shelter, Hugh now felt as if his lungs were deflating. He could barely breathe. Father Virgil’s slumped body appeared in the darkness at his feet. Hugh’s eyes bulged with horror as they had when he had looked at the rector’s body shortly after his death.
Outside, a new wave of helicopters scooped down over the shelter. A barrage of missiles and bombs tore at the city of the Savior with jaws of steel and fire. In the bleak darkness, the stench of terror mingled with stifling heat as Father Hugh Joyce wrestled with the espantos that were tormenting him.