Good Offices

“I simply meant to suggest,” Father Almida yielded, “that Tan-credo does not neglect his studies, even if they aren’t officially recognized by the university.”

Once more, the sacristan gave the shadow of a nod, this time somewhat forced and unenthusiastic. Juan Pablo Almida was making the hunchback uncomfortable. He must have some hidden agenda to insist so on Tancredo’s education.

“We can speak in Latin, if you wish,” Almida said.

The sacristan raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“That will not be necessary,” he replied.

Who knows whether he said this to protect the hunchback from such a test. As for Tancredo, he was ready, any time. The long hours spent studying at an arid desk, with no other life to live, had not been in vain.

“We can,” Father Almida insisted.

Naturally we can, thought the hunchback. We will prove the existence of God in ten ways. And then — Or ten whacks.

“Of course,” the sacristan said. “We do not doubt it, Father, if you say so.”

He continued to look fixedly at the hunchback.

“How time flies.” Glancing at the clock, Almida seemed to be excusing himself. “There is always so much to do,” he said.

“Seven o’clock Mass,” the sacristan said.

“There is time.” Father Almida consulted his watch as well. “There is time.”

It was almost 6:00 in the evening and darkness was falling. Part of the garden could be seen from the office. Like hands, the branches of a willow were waving goodbye. A cat half hid in the stone fountain. The wind, gentle and cold, crept along the walls.

Like the dining hall and the office, the sacristy, connected to a passage leading to the interior of the church, was situated on the ground floor on one side of the garden. Beyond the garden, along a little path intersected by an adobe wall, was the back patio: here were the kitchen, the ironing room, the laundry, the shared bathroom, the three Lilias’ bedroom and the hunchback’s room, as well as the garage where the Father’s old Volkswagen was kept. The bedrooms belonging to the Father, to Sacristan Machado and to his goddaughter, Sabina Cruz — each with its own private bathroom — were on the first floor of the presbytery, overlooking the garden; from the garden you could see their wide oak doors along the passage adorned with flowers and vines, as well as the little library where, along with the books, was the improvised altar of a small black-and-white television, which was switched on only for the news, or when religious festivals or papal messages were broadcast live. Deep stone steps covered with creepers led from the garden to the presbytery’s first floor.

The church — its three naves, its bell tower, its chapel dedicated to Saint Gertrude with its oratory and confessional, its lofty vestibule and the cruciform violet stained-glass window presiding over it, its choir stalls and its apse — took up three quarters of the property. Nevertheless, the living space was extensive, and the immense room that had been intended for games — with its six ping-pong tables — and had then been used for the Young Christians’ theatrical performances, for the games, raffles, collections and bazaars organized by the elderly ladies of the Neighborhood Civic Association, and for chats between clergy and parishioners, was finally turned into the dining hall for the Community Meals. This was Tancredo’s disgrace, or his final destination: with secondary school behind him, he could no longer dream of university.

A bird sang outside, and its song came in like a balm, washing over them. The slender hand of Sabina Cruz, meanwhile, poured more hazelnut liqueur into the gold-rimmed glasses. She served Tancredo too, without a greeting, without a glance. This time she left the bottle on the table.

“Hazelnut liqueur.” Father Almida read from the label. Some-thing, a faint irony, seemed to inflect his tone.

“Exquisite,” the sacristan said, drinking again. “It is sweet and comforting. Thank you, thank you very much.”

His light-colored eyes quickly took in the pale, round face of Sabina Cruz, his goddaughter, much paler than his own: a freckled, immutable face. No expression, no emotion animated it.

“It is sweet,” Father Almida conceded, continuing to examine the label. “But it’s 25 per cent proof: twice as strong as wine.”

God only knew, the hunchback thought, what hidden agenda those two representatives of the Church were pursuing, what their obscure purpose had been for calling him in to enquire about the Meals. A cat regarded them attentively from the very top of the shelves. Everyone in the office seemed to have been waiting for the sacristan’s goddaughter to finish replenishing the glasses.