Good Offices

“Come with me,” Matamoros replied, allowing them to surround him. Sabina approached them; she wanted to say something, she had to say something, to have the last word. But she didn’t know what it was.

Tancredo hurried back to the church. Crossing the empty interior, he made sure there was no one in the naves. He even peeked into the chapel of Saint Gertrude; its blue image, with eyes that seemed to be slipping away as if on a river, held his gaze, and he crossed himself, wanted to say a prayer, but was unsure of which one to say. Still preoccupied, remembering the pungent smell of the aguardiente at the altar, he still couldn’t believe it; seeming to pray silently, he was thinking of the Inquisition: for that one act alone they might have burned San José Matamoros alive. He imagined the priest on a pyre, in this very church, and smiled: before the fire, the priest would request another aguardiente, please. Tancredo smiled more broadly as he checked the confessionals, one by one, in case some thief had taken refuge there. This was not unusual. Thefts from the church were on the rise. Not just valuable objects were stolen, such as the chalice or the linens, but also simple plaster statues, tapers and candlesticks, votive candles, sticks of palosanto, censers, collection boxes — one day a prie-dieu, another day a pew, a strip of carpet, even the stone jars in which the holy water was kept, the shabby noticeboard from the entrance, the rubbish bin and, to top it all, the first two steps of the narrow staircase, polished and carved, which in their long ascent spiralling up to the domed ceiling illustrated the Stations of the Cross. However much Reverend Almida publicly exhorted the thief to render unto God the things that are God’s, explaining that the staircase had been a present from a Florentine religious society and had, besides, been blessed by Pope Paul VI, the two steps were not returned; worse still, a third and a fourth disappeared, in just three Sundays, and it no longer seemed the work of a thief, but that of a prankster or a fanatic seeking the Pope’s blessing. A collector. Bogotá, in any case. Father Almida ordered the rest of the steps to be stored away and replaced with ordinary stairs, made of poor-quality timber, now being eaten away by woodworm.

Tancredo was about to shut the doors when he noticed that the last pew in the church, in the main nave, was completely occupied by motionless women, seven or nine worshippers from the parish, most of them feeble, confused grandmothers, members of the Neighborhood Civic Association. They had been watching him all that time, ever since he had begun to check the confessionals, seek out lurking presences, realign pews, and straighten up the prie-dieux.

“You take a lot of trouble,” one of the women said.

Tancredo pretended not to be surprised.

“I have to shut the doors now,” he said.

“Doors that ought to remain open,” the same woman replied. “But what can we do, Tancredito, if not even God is respected in this country?”

They got to their feet as one and moved toward Tancredo.

“It was a lovely Mass,” they said. “For a moment we thought it wasn’t an earthly one. The Reverend who celebrated it must be. . a special person. Thanks to him, we’re singing once more. We sing with him and weep for joy. If Doña Cecilia were alive she would have been happy.”

And they all made the sign of the cross.

“May she rest in peace,” they said in unison. They seemed to go on singing. And moved behind Tancredo to the doors, as if in procession. The rain had eased, but a persistent, stinging drizzle made it even worse out in the street.

“The rain doesn’t matter,” one of the women said. “It wasn’t a waste of a Mass, thank God.”

The rest agreed sorrowfully: “Because some are, some are.”

They were waiting for Tancredo to say something, but he remained silent.

“We wanted to speak to the Father,” they said, letting him off the hook.

“Whenever you like,” Tancredo replied. “You can make an appointment, as always.”

“You don’t understand, Tancredito. We want to speak to the bird who sang before us today. Would that be possible?”

Tancredo had already guessed this.

“Father San José is taking some refreshment,” he said.

“So, his name is San José.” They were astonished.

“It would have to be, for someone who sings like that.”

And then, discussing it among themselves: “Don’t disturb him. We’ll meet him one day. We need a priest like him so much, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do,” another replied. “Because, begging God’s pardon, if this priest were in charge of our parish, we’d all be livelier.” Having said this, she blushed immediately; none of her companions wanted to, or could, contradict her.

“The Lilias,” they said, “our friends the Lilias, the loyal and devoted Lilias, will be able to tell us about Father San José and his whereabouts, with all the details. Don’t worry, Tancredito, we’ll speak to them.”