The Power and the Glory

by Graham Greene

  ‘No, no. It would be the last thing I would do.’

  Everything he said seemed to feed the beggar’s irritation. ‘Sometimes,’ the beggar said, ‘I feel as if I could kill . . .’

  ‘That, of course, would be very wrong.’

  ‘Would it be wrong if I got a man by the throat . . . ?’

  ‘Well, a starving man has got the right to save himself, certainly.’

  The beggar watched with rage, while the other talked on as if he were considering a point of academic interest. ‘In my case, of course, it would hardly be worth the risk. I possess exactly fifteen pesos seventy-five centavos in the world. I haven’t eaten myself for forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Mother of God,’ the beggar said, ‘you’re as hard as a stone. Haven’t you a heart?’

  The man in the drill suit suddenly giggled. The other said, ‘You’re lying. Why haven’t you eaten – if you’ve got fifteen pesos?’

  ‘You see, I want to spend them on drink.’

  ‘What sort of drink?’

  ‘The kind of drink a stranger doesn’t know how to get in a place like this.’

  ‘You mean spirits?’

  ‘Yes – and wine.’

  The beggar came very close. His leg touched the leg of the other man, he put a hand upon the other’s sleeve. They might have been great friends or even brothers standing intimately together in the dark. Even the lights in the houses were going out now, and the taxis, which during the day waited half-way down the hill for fares that never seemed to come, were already dispersing – a tail-lamp winked and went out past the police barracks. The beggar said, ‘Man, this is your lucky day. How much would you pay me . . . ?’

  ‘For some drink?’

  ‘For an introduction to someone who could let you have a little brandy – real fine Vera Cruz brandy.’

  ‘With a throat like mine,’ the man in drill explained, ‘it’s wine I really want.’

  ‘Pulque or mescal – he’s got everything.’

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Quince wine.’

  ‘I’d give everything I’ve got,’ the other swore solemnly and exactly, ‘– except the centavos, that’s to say – for some real genuine grape wine.’ Somewhere down the hill by the river a drum was beating, one-two, one-two, and the sound of marching feet kept a rough time: the soldiers – or the police – were going home to bed.

  ‘How much?’ the beggar repeated impatiently.

  ‘Well, I would give you the fifteen pesos and you would get the wine for me for what you cared to spend.’

  ‘You come with me.’

  They began to go down the hill. At the corner where one street ran up past the chemist’s shop towards the barracks and another ran down to the hotel, the quay, the warehouse of the United Banana Company, the man in drill stopped. The police were marching up, rifles slung at ease. ‘Wait a moment.’ Among them walked a half-caste with two fang-like teeth jutting out over his lip. The man in drill standing in the shadow watched him go by: once the mestizo turned his head and their eyes met. Then the police went by, up into the plaza. ‘Let’s go. Quickly.’

  The beggar said, ‘They won’t interfere with us. They’re after bigger game.’

  ‘What was that man doing with them, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows? A hostage perhaps.’

  ‘If he had been a hostage, they would have tied his hands, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘How do I know?’ He had the grudging independence you find in countries where it is the right of a poor man to beg. He said, ‘Do you want the spirits or don’t you?’

  ‘I want wine.’

  ‘I can’t say he’ll have this or that. You must take what comes.’

  He led the way down towards the river. He said, ‘I don’t even know if he’s in town.’ The beetles were flocking out and covering the pavements; they popped under the feet like puffballs, and a sour green smell came up from the river. The white bust of a general glimmered in a tiny public garden, all hot paving and dust, and an electric dynamo throbbed on the ground floor of the only hotel. Wide wooden stairs crawling with beetles ran up to the first floor. ‘I’ve done my best,’ the beggar said, ‘a man can’t do more.’

  On the first floor a man dressed in formal dark trousers and a white skin-tight vest came out of a bedroom with a towel over his shoulder. He had a little grey aristocratic beard and he wore braces as well as a belt. Somewhere in the distance a pipe gurgled, and the beetles detonated against a bare globe. The beggar was talking earnestly, and once as he talked the light went off altogether and then flickered unsatisfactorily on again. The head of the stairs was littered with wicker rocking-chairs, and on a big slate were chalked the names of the guests – three only for twenty rooms.

  The beggar turned back to his companion. ‘The gentleman,’ he said, ‘is not in. The manager says so. Shall we wait for him?’

  ‘Time to me is of no account.’

  They went into a big bare bedroom with a tiled floor. The little black iron bedstead was like something somebody has left behind by accident when moving out. They sat down on it side by side and waited, and the beetles came popping in through the gaps in the mosquito wire. ‘He is a very important man,’ the beggar said. ‘He is the cousin of the Governor – he can get anything for you, anything at all. But, of course, you must be introduced by someone he trusts.’

  ‘And he trusts you?’

  ‘I worked for him once.’ He added frankly, ‘He has to trust me.’

  ‘Does the Governor know?’

  ‘Of course not. The Governor is a hard man.’

  Every now and then the water-pipes swallowed noisily.

  ‘And why should he trust me?’

  ‘Oh, anyone can tell a drinker. You’ll want to come back for more. It’s good stuff he sells. Better give me the fifteen pesos.’ He counted them carefully twice. He said, ‘I’ll get you a bottle of the best Vera Cruz brandy. You see if I don’t.’ The light went off, and they sat in the dark; the bed creaked as one of them shifted.

  ‘I don’t want brandy,’ a voice said. ‘At least – not very much.’

  ‘What do you want then?’

  ‘I told you – wine.’

  ‘Wine’s expensive.’

  ‘Never mind that. Wine or nothing.’

  ‘Quince wine?’

  ‘No, no. French wine.’

  ‘Sometimes he has Californian wine.’

  ‘That would do.’

  ‘Of course himself – he gets it for nothing. From the Customs.’

  The dynamo began throbbing again below and the light came dimly on. The door opened and the manager beckoned the beggar; a long conversation began. The man in the drill suit leant back on the bed. His chin was cut in several places where he had been shaving too closely; his face was hollow and ill – it gave the impression that he had once been plump and round-faced but had caved in. He had the appearance of a business man who had fallen on hard times.

  The beggar came back. He said, ‘The gentleman’s busy, but he’ll be back soon. The manager sent a boy to look for him.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He can’t be interrupted. He’s playing billiards with the Chief of Police.’ He came back to the bed, squashing two beetles under his naked feet. He said, ‘This is a fine hotel. Where do you stay? You’re a stranger, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just passing through.’

  ‘This gentleman is very influential. It would be a good thing to offer him a drink. After all, you won’t want to take it all away with you. You may as well drink here as anywhere else.’

  ‘I should like to keep a little – to take home.’

  ‘It’s all one. I say that home is where there is a chair and a glass.’

  ‘All the same –’ Then the light went out again, and on the horizon the lightning bellied out. The sound of thunder came through the mosquito-net from very far away like the noise you hear from the other end of a town when the Sunday bullfight is on.

  The
beggar said confidentially, ‘What’s your trade?’

  ‘Oh, I pick up what I can – where I can.’

  They sat in silence together listening to the sound of feet on the wooden stairs. The door opened, but they could see nothing. A voice swore resignedly and asked, ‘Who’s there?’ Then a match was struck and showed a large blue jaw and went out. The dynamo churned away and the light went on again. The stranger said wearily, ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  He was a small man with a too large pasty face and he was dressed in a tight grey suit. A revolver bulged under his waistcoat. He said, ‘I’ve got nothing for you. Nothing.’

  The beggar padded across the room and began to talk earnestly in a very low voice: once he gently squeezed the other’s polished shoe with his bare toes. The man sighed and blew out his cheeks and watched the bed closely as if he feared they had designs on it. He said sharply to the one in the drill suit, ‘So you want some Vera Cruz brandy, do you? It’s against the law.’

  ‘Not brandy. I don’t want brandy.’

  ‘Isn’t beer good enough for you?’

  He came fussily and authoritatively into the middle of the room, his shoes squeaking on the tiles – the Governor’s cousin. ‘I could have you arrested,’ he threatened.

  The man in the drill suit cringed formally. He said, ‘Of course, your Excellency . . .’

  ‘Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do than slake the thirst of every beggar who chooses . . . ?’

  ‘I would never have troubled you if this man had not . . .’

  The Governor’s cousin spat on the tiles.

  ‘But if your Excellency would rather I went away . . .’

  He said sharply, ‘I’m not a hard man. I always try to oblige my fellows . . . when it’s in my power and does no harm. I have a position, you understand. These drinks come to me quite legally.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I have to charge what they cost me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Otherwise I’d be a ruined man.’ He walked delicately to the bed as if his shoes were cramping him and began to unmake it. ‘Are you a talker?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘I know how to keep a secret.’

  ‘I don’t mind you telling the right people.’ There was a large rent in the mattress; he pulled out a handful of straw and put his fingers in again. The man in drill gazed out with false indifference at the public gardens, the dark mud-banks and the masts of sailing ships; the lightning flapped behind them, and the thunder came nearer.

  ‘There,’ said the Governor’s cousin, ‘I can spare you that. It’s good stuff.’

  ‘It wasn’t really brandy I wanted.’

  ‘You must take what comes.’

  ‘Then I think I’d rather have my fifteen pesos back.’

  The Governor’s cousin exclaimed sharply, ‘Fifteen pesos.’ The beggar began rapidly to explain that the gentleman wanted to buy a little wine as well as brandy: they began to argue fiercely by the bed in low voices about prices. The Governor’s cousin said, ‘Wine’s very difficult to get. I can let you have two bottles of brandy.’

  ‘One of brandy and one of . . .’

  ‘It’s the best Vera Cruz brandy.’

  ‘But I am a wine drinker . . . you don’t know how I long for wine . . .’

  ‘Wine costs me a great deal of money. How much more can you pay?’

  ‘I have only seventy-five centavos left in the world.’

  ‘I could let you have a bottle of tequila.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Another fifty centavos then. . . . It will be a large bottle.’ He began to scrabble in the mattress again, pulling out straw. The beggar winked at the man in drill and made the motions of drawing a cork and filling a glass.

  ‘There,’ the Governor’s cousin said, ‘take it or leave it.’

  ‘Oh, I will take it.’

  The Governor’s cousin suddenly lost his surliness. He rubbed his hands and said, ‘A stuffy night. The rains are going to be early this year, I think.’

  ‘Perhaps your Excellency would honour me by taking a glass of brandy to toast our business.’

  ‘Well, well . . . perhaps . . .’ The beggar opened the door and called briskly for glasses.

  ‘It’s a long time,’ the Governor’s cousin said, ‘since I had a glass of wine. Perhaps it would be more suitable for a toast.’

  ‘Of course,’ the man in drill said, ‘as your Excellency chooses.’ He watched the cork drawn with a look of painful anxiety. He said, ‘If you will excuse me, I think I will have brandy,’ and smiled raggedly, with an effort, watching the wine level fall.

  They toasted each other, all three sitting on the bed – the beggar drank brandy. The Governor’s cousin said, ‘I’m proud of this wine. It’s good wine. The best Californian.’ The beggar winked and motioned and the man in drill said, ‘One more glass, your Excellency – or can I recommend this brandy?’

  ‘It’s good brandy – but I think another glass of wine.’ They refilled their glasses. The man in drill said, ‘I’m going to take some of that wine back – to my mother. She loves a glass.’

  ‘She couldn’t do better,’ the Governor’s cousin said emptying his own. He said, ‘So you have a mother?’

  ‘Haven’t we all?’

  ‘Ah, you’re lucky. Mine’s dead. His hand strayed towards the bottle, grasped it. ‘Sometimes I miss her. I called her “my little friend”.’ He tilted the bottle. ‘With your permission?’

  ‘Of course, your Excellency,’ the other said hopelessly, taking a long draught of brandy. The beggar said, ‘I too have a mother.’

  ‘Who cares?’ the Governor’s cousin said sharply. He leant back and the bed creaked. He said, ‘I have often thought a mother is a better friend than a father. Her influence is towards peace, goodness, charity. . . . Always on the anniversary of her death I go to her grave with flowers.’

  The man in drill caught a hiccup politely. He said, ‘Ah, if I could too . . .’

  ‘But you said your mother was alive?’

  ‘I thought you were speaking of your grandmother.’

  ‘How could I? I can’t remember my grandmother.’

  ‘Nor can I.’

  ‘I can,’ the beggar said.

  The Governor’s cousin said, ‘You talk too much.’

  ‘Perhaps I could send him to have this wine wrapped up. . . . For your Excellency’s sake I mustn’t be seen . . .’

  ‘Wait, wait. There’s no hurry. You are very welcome here. Anything in this room is at your disposal. Have a glass of wine.’

  ‘I think brandy . . .’

  ‘Then with your permission . . .’ He tilted the bottle: a little of it splashed over on to the sheets. ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘Our grandmothers.’

  ‘I don’t think it can have been that. I can’t even remember mine. The earliest thing I can remember . . .’

  The door opened. The manager said, ‘The Chief of Police is coming up the stairs.’

  ‘Excellent. Show him in.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. He’s a good fellow.’ He said to the others. ‘But at billiards you can’t trust him.’

  A large stout man in a singlet, white trousers and a revolver-holster appeared in the doorway. The Governor’s cousin said, ‘Come in. Come in. How is your toothache? We were talking about our grandmothers.’ He said sharply to the beggar, ‘Make room for the jefe.’

  The jefe stood in the doorway, watching them with dim embarrassment. He said, ‘Well, well . . .’

  ‘We’re having a little private party. Will you join us? It would be an honour.’

  The jefe’s face suddenly lit up at the sight of the wine. ‘Of course – a little beer never comes amiss.’

  ‘That’s right. Give the jefe a glass of beer.’ The beggar filled his own glass with wine and held it out. The jefe took his place upon the bed and drained the glass: then he took the bo
ttle himself. He said, ‘It’s good beer. Very good beer. Is this the only bottle?’ The man in drill watched him with frigid anxiety.

  ‘I’m afraid the only bottle.’

  ‘Salud!’

  ‘And what,’ the Governor’s cousin said, ‘were we talking about?’

  ‘About the first thing you could remember,’ the beggar said.

  ‘The first thing I can remember,’ the jefe began, with deliberation, ‘– but this gentleman is not drinking.’

  ‘I will have a little brandy.’

  ‘Salud!’

  ‘Salud!’

  ‘The first thing I can remember with any distinctness is my first communion. Ah, the thrill of the soul, my parents round me . . .’

  ‘How many parents then have you got?’

  ‘Two, of course.’

  ‘They could not have been around you – you would have needed at least four – ha, ha.’

  ‘Salud!’

  ‘Salud!’

  ‘No, but as I was saying – life has such irony. It was my painful duty to watch the priest who gave me that communion shot – an old man. I am not ashamed to say that I wept. The comfort is that he is probably a saint and that he prays for us. It is not everyone who earns a saint’s prayers.’

  ‘An unusual way . . .’

  ‘But then life is mysterious.’

  ‘Salud!’

  The man in drill said, ‘A glass of brandy, jefe?’

  ‘There is so little in this bottle that I may as well . . .’

  ‘I was very anxious to take a little back for my mother.’

  ‘Oh, a drop like this. It would be an insult to take it. Just the dregs.’ He turned it up over his glass and chuckled, ‘If you can talk of beer having dregs.’ Then he stopped with the bottle held over the glass and said with astonishment, ‘Why, man, you’re crying.’ All three watched the man in drill with their mouths a little open. He said, ‘It always takes me like this – brandy. Forgive me, gentlemen. I get drunk very easily and then I see . . .’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, all the hope of the world draining away.’

  ‘Man, you’re a poet.’

  The beggar said, ‘A poet is the soul of his country.’

  Lightning filled the windows like a white sheet, and thunder crashed suddenly overhead. The one globe flickered and faded up near the ceiling. ‘This is bad news for my men,’ the jefe said, stamping on a beetle which had crawled too near.