Good Offices

“In the kitchen,” Tancredo said, coming to a decision. “We’ll have something to eat in the kitchen, Father. It’s warm in there. It won’t take long.”

“Whatever you wish,” Matamoros replied, his manner conciliatory. He was about to say something decisive, but regarded each of them in turn, his hawklike eyes investigating them, disinterring one by one the days of their lives, their memories, exposing them. Sabina could not withstand that stare; she averted her eyes. Now she looked like a little girl who’d been caught out, blushing. To Tancredo she seemed naked, blushing as though they had surprised her naked, just as he had surprised her once, years before, in the shower, stepping in behind her while Reverend Juan Pablo Almida celebrated Mass with Celeste Machado.

Just then, the three Lilias returned, one of them carrying a tray daintily covered with a little cloth, on the tray a gold-rimmed glass, snacks, and a bottle of brandy.

Matamoros, who had been on the point of saying something, stopped himself, all aglow, and opened his arms.

“Please,” he said, “I’m not going to drink alone.”

The five residents of the presbytery looked at one another, shocked.

“That’s right,” one of the Lilias said, obligingly. “We’ll all have a drink. It’s cold.”

“I don’t drink,” another Lilia said, smiling. With her smile, she seemed to be waiting for them to beg her to drink, to have a drink, to beg her just once, no need to insist.

The third Lilia shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. Then, by shrugging her shoulders, seemed to say: “Not for me, but you go ahead.”

“Me neither,” Tancredo said. “No matter, Father. We’ll keep you company.”

“Father,” Sabina said, “we’re not allowed to drink. And even if we were, none us who live in the presbytery would want to, not now, not ever. Father Almida very occasionally has a drink from the bottle they’ve brought you. .”

“It’s not the same bottle, señorita,” one of the Lilias interrupted sweetly, as if explaining the best way to make bread. And she started laughing, softly, generously. “There are lots of these bottles, lots and lots, all the same. Before bed, señorita, Father Almida and your godfather, Sacristan Celeste Machado, always drink a big glass of warm milk with an even bigger glass of brandy. They tell us it helps them to sleep. We believe them.”

Sabina flushed.

“Really?” she asked the Lilias, as if threatening them. “Do you also put yourselves to sleep with brandy?”

“Sometimes,” replied the Lilia who had previously said, “I don’t know.” Then she added, thoughtfully: “Although mint tea is better.”

Biting her lip, Sabina confronted her. “Reverend Almida will hear about this, you can be sure. We’ll see what he makes of it.”

Matamoros stood up; he seemed about to take his leave. He buttoned his overly large jacket with its big pockets, where he already had his empty cruet tucked away, and rubbed his hands together. “Its cold,” he said and smiled. But smiled to himself, or to no one, as if he were elsewhere, a million light years away, joining a chorus of angels, reminding himself of happy times long ago that concerned him alone; as if he had never been with them, all that time, since arriving at the church in the downpour and celebrating Mass and singing; as if he had heard nothing of the caustic exchange between Sabina and the old women. Straightening his jacket, he turned the collar up over his turtleneck. Now they saw that he was skinny and old and sad, like one of those people who never want to say goodbye yet say it. Sabina sighed: a weight was lifting from her; at last the priest would leave. But Father Matamoros turned calmly toward the Lilia holding the tray and, bowing to her, picked up the glass and bottle, and walked off.

In the doorway he stopped.

“Well,” he said, “if I’m going to drink alone, it won’t be sitting by myself in that solitary chair, surrounded by saints and archangels, while you stand and watch. Let’s go to the table.”

And he abandoned the sacristy, heading, it seemed, for the office. As soon as they were alone, the presbytery’s five residents recovered themselves.

“This is unacceptable,” Sabina said. “Father Almida will be angry, and he will have every right. Who asked you for. . refreshments? Is this how we obey the Father the first night he trusts us to be alone, in charge of his church? We should all go to bed. Tomorrow is the Family Meal. .”