Good Offices

His eyes drilled into Tancredo. Scrutinizing not just him, but his reply as well. There was an uncertain silence. It seemed to Tancredo a surprising moment to begin such an interrogation. Besides, he felt worn out, exhausted: after the old people crawling around the hall, over and under the table, bathed in soup, steeped in filth and saliva, like a Roman orgy or a witches’ Sabbath, to have to face the sacristan’s inquisition infuriated him. Once again he experienced the dreadful fear of being an animal, or the desire to be one, which was worse. He imagined himself dashing that table against the ceiling; kicking over the chairs of the Church’s two representatives; tipping out their occupants, pissing on their sacred heads; pursuing Sabina, pulling up her heavy lay sister’s skirt, ripping into the apparent innocence of her blouse, buttoned up to the neck, pawing her breasts, pinching her belly button, her thighs, her backside. Truly, he thought, aghast, he needed to confess to the Father about his dreadful fear of being an animal, and the sooner the better. He had to reveal his inner turmoil or he would suffocate. His palms sweaty, his knees knocked together beneath the table.

But Father Juan Pablo Almida urged him on. “Tell us about your experiences, Tancredo, your conclusions. We were talking about the Community Meals while waiting for you to finish your work.”

The hunchback turned to the sacristan.

“It depends,” he said, with considerable effort. “There are days when attendance is lower. I mean, it varies. This year hasn’t been the same as last year. You are aware of this, I think.” That was his rather general reply to the question.

The sacristan was not satisfied.

“Bear in mind that I am not well informed,” he said. “Does attendance vary according to the day of the week?”

“That’s right.” Tancredo could not help but agree.

“According to the day of the week, more than anything else.” Father Almida’s voice, his apparent composure, persuaded Tancredo to divulge his information all at once.

“Yes,” he said, “In the case of the elderly, there is almost full attendance. Not so with the street children. Their numbers are going down. Nineteen last time. They complain that the police keep an eye on them here, and in a way they’re right. . Last week they caught two of them; perhaps they had charges pending. They didn’t even let them finish their lunch. .”

The Father and the sacristan exchanged solemn glances.

“It puts them off coming,” Tancredo said. He didn’t want to say anything more, hoping they would free him from the conversation. Let him go to the library, to be alone, far from the dreadful fear of being an animal.

But that is not what happened.

“How old are the street children?” the sacristan asked.

“All different ages,” the hunchback answered carelessly. And then: “Well, from four to fifteen.”

“Four!” The sacristan was astounded. Raising his head, he contemplated the ceiling as if in prayer. Only after a minute had passed, an almost celestial interlude, did he rouse himself. His blue eyes blinked. His voice sounded concerned. “And the attendance levels of the blind?”

Tancredo would have liked to reply: The same as the attendance levels of the angels. But he stopped himself in time, remaining silent for a few seconds. He thought of the blind, the most delightful of diners, or at least the most peaceful, the most thoughtful and always agreeable — with him and with each other. Unlike the street children, they never griped about the menu, and they accepted the end of every meal with seemly resignation, without protest.

The impatience of Father Almida, who was drumming his fingers on the table, spurred Tancredo on.

“As for the blind,” he said, “numbers are stable: thirty or forty every Tuesday.”

His listeners’ expectant silence convinced him to go on.

“The number of prostitutes is going down,” he said. “Six last Monday.”

There was another silence. Father Almida’s curiosity shifted away from the Meals.

“I was reminding Celeste that you are a secondary-school graduate,” he said.

“That’s right, Father.”

“The parish expects to be paying for his studies in philosophy and theology in the not too distant future,” Almida said, without looking at anyone. He had been saying the same thing for the three years they had been offering the Community Meals. The hunchback no longer cared about going to university, but it did irritate him, irredeemably so, that Almida should bring up the plan for him to study philosophy and theology at the slightest opportunity, in front of Celeste Machado.

“Tancredo,” Almida asked with evident smugness, “what book are we reading?”

Tancredo felt like a trained beast, on show.

“Augustine’s Confessions,” he replied.

“You mean Saint Augustine.” The sacristan corrected him immediately. And added, sipping his liqueur: “We must not disregard saintliness in a Doctor of the Church. Inescapable, transcendent saintliness, which makes it all the greater.”

“That’s true,” Tancredo was obliged to concede. “Saint Augustine.”