Good Offices

“We can sing the Te Deum,” he said, his tone sorrowful but self-righteous. “We can repeat Francis Xavier’s Act of Contrition, chant a Trisagion to the Holy Trinity, offer up devotions to the Sacred Heart, make the Stations of the Cross together: we’ll go to the third Station, when Jesus stumbles for the first time, and maybe we’ll sing better, or fall asleep; we’ll go to the sixth Station, when Veronica wipes His face, and maybe we’ll be happy, or unhappy, and unhappier still at the seventh, when Jesus falls for the second time, and at the twelfth we’ll die with Jesus dying on the cross, and then, to give thanks for all His suffering, we’ll venerate the five Wounds of Christ, we’ll sing to the Wound on the left foot, the Wound on the right foot, the Wound on the left hand, the Wound on the right hand, the Wound in His side, and we’ll follow on with a prayer to Jesus scourged at the column, Jesus crowned with thorns, and utter the cries of the blessed souls in Purgatory, and then a response, and we will weep for misery.”

There was an emphatic silence from the sky.

“Do we want to weep?” the Father asked, getting to his feet. And answered himself immediately: “Never. No more suffering, ever. We don’t want to suffer any more.”

Just as immediately, he sat down or rather slumped to the ground. He seemed to expire from the effort.

“Rest, Father,” the Lilias said, surrounding him.

Only one of the women appeared to take fright at San José’s words. Not only did her expression show alarm, her white, wrinkled hand at her brow, but she fainted. There was a commotion of skirts around her. Finally they saw her come to, recover, eyelids fluttering.

“My God,” she said, “but I’m fine. The one who needs help is Father San José, bless him.”

Faced with this fainting fit and its denouement, Tancredo raised his eyes in resignation. He saw the church’s golden dome, ever far off, ever near. And, without intending to, he glanced up at the door of Father Almida’s room, on the first floor, which gave onto the garden. The door was open. He could see it was open, from the garden. He immediately headed for the steps, Sabina behind him. They ran up together. It was true: the door was ajar.

They approached on tiptoe. “Father Almida?” The lowered blind created a sort of night, a painful gloom. They leaned over his face. His mouth was set, rigid, twisted, desperate, converted into a silent scream. A slick of green vomit stained the feather pillow.

Sabina ran next door to Machado’s room. A few seconds later her scream was heard, short, stifled.

They met in the passage.

It was as if Sabina were levitating, unrecognizable, eyes bright, because, still in the prism of disbelief, she was smiling. Smiling and clasping her hands together. Now she fixed her hope-filled eyes on the sky.

At that point, the Lilias arrived inconveniently. It was as though they were confronting them on the first floor of the presbytery, in the passage green with creepers, in the presence of the other women waiting in the garden. Mute and flushed, the Lilias peered in through the wide-open doors. Then one of their voices could be heard.

“If they don’t wake up,” she said, as if issuing an order, “we’ll have to cry bitterly and pray for the rest of our lives. This is how they arrived from Don Justiniano’s house. This is how God brought them back. We didn’t even notice, God forgive us. We’ll have to cry and pray the rest of our lives.”

And they melted away again, down the deep steps.

They reappeared in the garden, arms akimbo, before the group of grandmothers surrounding Reverend San José: he was sleeping like a log. The seven or nine ladies let the Lilias through with a respect bordering on worship. The sun shone, the sky shimmered, but the dark figures crowded around the fountain radiated cold, a portent of rain, a bluish atmosphere, an intimate cloud of ice that obscured the willow trees.

“Take charge,” the Lilias told them, “we’ll come to you soon, but only when Father Matamoros has rested. Can’t you see? He sang too much today.”

From the first floor, Tancredo and Sabina were listening. They saw the Lilias take Matamoros away. Were they carrying him again? They could not make him out, hidden amid the old women, their arms open, their black shawls like wings.