Good Offices

“He’s the thief,” they said, “he likes artichokes, would you believe? He’s driving us to despair, he’s asking for trouble, as they say; he gives cats a bad name. One day he swallowed the stuffed eggs we’d made for Father Almida, another day the dressed pork medallions. If we’re keeping track, we have to count that whole cheese from the coast that he ate all by himself, a month’s worth of bacon last March, as well as the fact that he makes our lives a misery, pees on the laundry, hides things, God knows this never happened to us with a cat before, and we’ve had lots and lots of cats. Benedicto, Calixto, Honorio were the first; they died, then came Aniceto and Seferino; then Simplicio, who lived alone, died, and was replaced by Inocencio, Tera, Bonifacio, and León, Santo, Beato, Félix, Agapito, Justo, Melquíades, Cayo, and Fabiano. Santo was poisoned, Beato and Agapito got run over by a car in the pouring rain, Hilario took their place, then Lucio and Evaristo, Clemente and Sisinio; we’ve really had lots of cats, Pío, Flamíneo, Triunfo, and Celedonio and a whole lot more names that miaowed, but we never keep female cats, or very few, two or three, they’re like some women and only bring suffering, yowling and blood.”

“You’re very well versed in the names of the Popes,” Matamoros said.

“Yes, Father. A way to show our love for the saints and Apostles and God’s holy representatives on earth is to give their names to our pets, those we most cherish, with whom we live, eat and wake up; we laugh and cry with them, because they listen, Father, and feel our suffering, they share it; that’s why there’s nothing sweeter than a little cat called Jesús, for instance, or Simón or Santiago or Pedro, there’s nothing like having the Apostles close by, even if they’re in the bodies and hearts of cats, but they’re God’s creatures when all’s said and done, are they not? Yet you have to suffer their feline ingratitude from time to time; the one we said is the devil worries us sick, leaves our souls in tatters.”

The Lilias scoured the darkness. The cat had very definitely disappeared. They wanted so much to go on talking, but the cat, its absent presence, was upsetting them. And they wanted to talk; how long was it since they had talked? And with a priest, a cantor, so respectful toward them, so attentive.

“Don’t worry too much,” the Father said. His eyes didn’t savor the innumerable treats that brightened the table; rather, they relished the bottles of red wine that accompanied them. Tancredo placed the bottle of brandy at one end of the sideboard, and the Father’s eyes followed every move, every detail. He seemed undecided between wine and brandy.

“And that ungrateful cat,” he asked, just to say something, so it wouldn’t be too obvious that his eyes were pursuing the brandy, “what’s he called?”

The three Lilias remained silent. At last, the youngest, flourishing a large piece of bread topped with avocado and prawns, dared to reply: “Almida, Father.”

And the others, completely serious, utterly sure of themselves, said: “Yes, Father. He’s called Almida. Like Reverend Juan Pablo Almida.”

Tancredo’s brief, spontaneous guffaw rang out. Neither the Father nor the Lilias took any notice.

“Who would believe it?” Reverend San José Matamoros said. “Almida, the most badly behaved cat of them all.”

“The one that does us the most harm.”

Again, Tancredo could not contain his laughter.

“What is it, Tancredito?” A Lilia confronted him. “Are we telling jokes?”

Matamoros poured wine into all the glasses.

“There’s wine for everyone,” he said. And raised his glass to propose a toast. “To Almida,” he said. “Not the cat — Reverend Juan Pablo Almida. It is thanks to him that this table is laid.”

He blessed the glasses and the three Lilias drank immediately, then came back for more.

It’s late, they’ve been held up — Tancredo was thinking about Almida and the sacristan. Nine o’clock and still not back. Sabina would be beneath the altar, he thought, until God found her, as she said, or as Matamoros said, and as soon as he heard the Volkswagen’s horn he would have to run and warn her, come out, Sabina, Machado’s back. Or possibly, disappointed in him, Sabina had gone to bed, plotting for tomorrow, her own accomplice. Anything was possible with Sabina. She might even appear again, utterly exasperated by Matamoros’s presence, and not just insult him but might even throw any one of the dishes in his face, or the bottles, or the cookers. After all, it was his stubborn presence that was frustrating her plans: San José Matamoros, the magnificent little Father who was serving more wine to left and right and revelling under the spell of the dishes the Lilias were recommending.

“What do you call that pudding over there?”

“It has no name, Father; everyone calls it something different.”

“And that little wing? It looks like a sparrow’s.”

“Almost, Father. They’re from tender little chicks; the meat falls off the bone, try them.”

“Is that pineapple?”

“Sugared oranges.”