The Head of the Saint

by Socorro Acioli

  Samuel did not have many days left in Candeia, and in those hours of rest and solitude he was sure that he was in love, completely in love, with someone whom he only knew by her voice and those few words that lived in his heart.

  He decided to ask Aécio Diniz for help. It was risky revealing all the secrets of the Singing Voice, but it was his only hope.

  Aécio broadcast on his radio program that Samuel, St. Anthony’s messenger, needed to talk to the woman who sang every day, at five in the morning and five in the afternoon. At first he thought about making up a story about there being a message for her from the saint, but Samuel changed his mind.

  “I don’t want there to be any lies with her,” he said.

  And he waited, nervously, for her to appear at his house at any moment.

  It was before dawn on Monday when Samuel sensed somebody moving the curtain cloth. He thought it must be the owner of the Singing Voice, but it was a violent attack by a cloaked man who had come to bring him a message.

  The man had been infiltrating the pilgrims for several days, but the only way for him to get access to the head was by disguising himself as a devotee waiting for a blessing for his love. He wore a St. Francis tunic, tied at the waist with a thick rope. This attracted no attention—he was just another stranger; there were people in town from right across Ceará. No one would ever presume that his purpose was to attack Samuel.

  “Don’t kill him or even hurt him—just give him a really good scare.” The instructions from the man’s boss were as clear as day. By the second day in the camp he had already seen that the best time for the attack would be around three in the morning, when Francisco wasn’t there and most of the pilgrims were asleep in their tents.

  The man pulled up the hood of his cloak. He removed the rope from round his waist, rolled it up in his right hand and pulled back the improvised curtain to enter the head of St. Anthony. He leaped onto Samuel’s back like a frog. He quickly wrapped the rope round Samuel’s neck. Unknown to him, the despair of not being able to breathe was precisely what Samuel feared the most.

  “I won’t kill you, saint-boy, I won’t do that. I’d like to, but my orders are just to pass on a message. You’re to leave Candeia tomorrow. By tomorrow night, got it?”

  “Who sent the message?”

  “Best not to try to guess. It’ll just make things more difficult for you.”

  “I’m not afraid of Osório; you can tell him that from me.”

  Samuel gathered his strength and tried to react but received two well-aimed punches to his face.

  “I charge a lot to pass on messages, saint-boy. And yours was very expensive.”

  He pulled the rope tighter, till Samuel groaned.

  “I’ve said all I have to say. You sit quiet here till I’ve gone, and don’t wake anyone up. You’ll only make it worse if you shout, because I’m not here alone.”

  “Damn coward!” Samuel tried to say, filled with loathing, but he was suffocating, turning purple, and didn’t altogether believe that he would survive the experience.

  “If you don’t do what you’re told, well, I wouldn’t mind that too much, actually. Because then my boss will send me back, and this time it’ll be to kill you. And I’d like to put an end to the friend of this damned St. Anthony.”

  —

  The last tightening of the rope lasted a few seconds; then Samuel was left unconscious. He woke up later, at five in the morning, feeling weak, but perhaps he’d only woken because the Voice was singing inside the saint’s head, stronger than ever, in her incomprehensible tongue. Just a few words made it past the veil of that strange language to present themselves to Samuel. That day it was “courage”; she was singing about courage. She sang two lovely songs, in a rhythm that had seemed so strange at first but that was now so familiar to Samuel’s heart. Then, finally, for the first time, the Singing Voice prayed. It was brief: “Give me courage, St. Anthony. I need courage, and strength.” Samuel wanted to meet her at once, to ask her to pray for him, to ask her to take him in her arms and hold him like a child. He remembered Mariinha, remembered her as if she had been the one singing in that strange language. He cried. Ever since Mariinha’s death he hadn’t shed a single tear, but he cried now. Niceia’s prediction was coming true; things were starting to get dangerous in Candeia.

  Francisco arrived soon after five and was alarmed at the state Samuel was in.

  “There was a man who came in here. I couldn’t get a proper look at him; I don’t know who he was. He tied a rope round my neck and said I had to get out of Candeia.”

  Francisco called two men into the head, and they picked Samuel up in their arms. He needed rest, medicine—something to help his neck heal—and to be kept away from everyone while Francisco tried to understand what had happened.

  There was nowhere Francisco’s friend could be taken but the house of his father, Chico the Gravedigger.

  Before the great misfortune, Candeia had been a lively place. The church was often packed with the faithful, who came to pray to the patron saint when his day came around. They would ask St. Anthony to bless their town.

  On the clean white cemetery wall, women would practice magic rituals to get hold of a husband and find out what the man in question looked like. Young women would hurl eggs furiously against the wall and run over to see what pattern the yolk might make as it trickled down. They believed in everything, because hope and desire can make the impossible happen. The reputation of that wall raced from town to neighboring town and attracted the despair of many young women who were frantic to marry.

  A speech from the mayor was traditional on the patron saint’s feast day, but one year there was a rumor that the speech would reveal a huge piece of news for the town. Nobody expected too much. Candeia was a peaceful place, really very peaceful indeed, with almost a thousand inhabitants spread along symmetrical streets, which had been minutely planned by the town’s founders, along with their surroundings. No crime, no great upsets, no great townspeople, no serious problems. The mayor led the town with a firm hand and the help of a wife who was an absolute saint, as the women of Candeia used to say.

  Considering this almost monotonous tranquility, no big bombshell was ever expected—so the rumor of any news in the official announcements seemed particularly curious.

  The mayor and his wife climbed up to the platform. Someone adjusted the microphone on its stand, but the mayor was whispering something to one of his advisers and hadn’t yet begun to speak. But now the eccentric young Father Zacarias was running toward them nimbly, climbing the steps to the platform two at a time and smiling like never before. He had recently arrived in the town and seemed to be full of new ideas.

  “People of Candeia,” began the mayor at last. “Good evening! We’re all gathered here at this feast-day celebration to praise our patron saint, St. Anthony of Padua, the Portuguese nobleman who left our town as the greatest example of his passage here on earth…”

  He gave a long pause. His lower lip was trembling. The mayor had learned this from an American film and thought it was lovely.

  “…his Christian, crystalline love. But I believe St. Anthony is not happy with us. In fact, I think our poor saint must be fed up with each and every one of you, people of Candeia.” The audience exchanged appalled glances. The mayor went on, undisturbed: “How is it possible that a town that has St. Anthony as patron saint should go on despite the shame of not having a single big statue in his honor? Well, I have come to you today, people of Candeia, to announce that I have signed a contract with the firm of M.J. Engineering, which has built many exceptionally beautiful sacred monuments all over Brazil, to construct a twenty-meter-high statue of St. Anthony to go up on the hill.”

  The townspeople were thrilled.

  “We are going to make Candeia St. Anthony’s third homeland. First comes Lisbon, where he was born. Then Padua, where he died. And now Candeia, where he has returned to live forever!”

  Nothing that had ever happened before ha
d awoken such a commotion in Candeia. Anyone who was not nearby when the speech began was attracted by the crowd. Fascinated, Candeians were delighted at the news.

  “Along with the federal government, I have managed to secure authorization for a credit line for any entrepreneurs who want to set up a small business. Just look at Canindé, with so many people to shelter, to feed, to accommodate. Set up your inns, your restaurants, your little shops. Let’s make Candeia prosper!”

  The uproar was uncontrollable. Building a giant statue of St. Anthony was so impossible that no one else had even been able to dream of such a thing. The people expected the change to be quick and dramatic. The date for the unveiling of the statue was a year away—allowing enough time for the town to sort itself out and spread the word.

  The new businesses began to spring up, with their names painted onto the fronts of houses: “St. Anthony Barber’s,” “St. Anthony Snack Bar,” “St. Anthony Hostel,” “St. Anthony Restaurant.”

  The promise of a successful new town attracted outsiders into Candeia. People interested in the new Candeia showed up from everywhere. They formed partnerships, but they weren’t all successful. Some stayed, others were kicked out. But of all of these, none was a bigger hit than Fernando, a Portuguese businessman who was passing through the backlands and who smelled prosperity in that place.

  Fernando sold fabrics and traveled the whole world. He dealt in cloth, from small pieces to large-scale orders. He negotiated between companies in São Paulo and Senegal, traded lace from Ceará for Chinese silk. He dispatched imported Indian saris to shops in Rio de Janeiro. And he spoke several languages. His talk was intoxicating, that’s what they said. He couldn’t get into a negotiation without the outcome ending up to his advantage, and he was always smiling, his almond eyes dancing as he spoke to his customers.

  In a town full of young girls who were desperate to marry, Fernando’s arrival had an even bigger effect than the announcement of the construction of the statue of the saint. For besides being a good talker, he was also very handsome. He had smooth black hair, always nicely combed back, attractive dark eyes and skin that was dark from so much sun.

  Within a short space of time, the news spread that he was betrothed to Helenice, daughter of the wealthiest man in Candeia—although this didn’t count for much. No one had expected it. As far as anyone knew, the girl led a cloistered life and was soon to enter the convent in Baturité. She wore long skirts and her hair tied back—or at least she did until Fernando walked around Candeia Square with her. Now she let her hair hang loose in public, making respectful gestures and exchanging glances of love. Yes, she truly did seem very much in love.

  The wedding was set for the following year, for the day after the unveiling of the statue. Fernando went away, claiming that he was going to buy white silk for the bride’s dress—pure Chinese silk. His relatives were already packing their bags to travel to Candeia from Braga in Portugal. It would be the wedding of the century.

  While everyday life went on all round the Candeia church, up at the top of the hill the saint’s body was already in place, from his feet up to his neck. Anyone passing from the road could see it. The head, meanwhile, was still disassembled, its pieces spread around on the ground. This was the point in the work when the lead engineer of M.J. Engineering was called off to an urgent job in the capital and had to be away for a week. Before leaving, he called a meeting with the priest and the mayor and announced that in his absence he would be leaving the work in the hands of “Meticuloso,” a local workman who had stood out for his intelligence. It was the engineer who’d given Meticuloso his nickname, awestruck at his natural tendency toward perfection, focus and attention to detail.

  The engineer went away and Meticuloso couldn’t help having a brief celebration with his friends. Barbecue skewers and cachaça. A lot of cachaça. The following day, the eight men charged with assembling the saint’s head went to Meticuloso’s house at seven in the morning and found him still drunk. They asked him what they were supposed to do to start the construction of the head—whether they should await orders or begin at once.

  “I’m the one who gives the orders round here. Didn’t you hear Mr. Engineer say so? You can put the head together on the ground, so that when he’s back he’ll find the whole saint finished.”

  The stonemasons spent a week assembling the skull, the chin, the neck, the eyeballs, the mouth and the nose of the saint. It was all millimetrically perfect, under Meticuloso’s constant supervision. The inhabitants followed the progress of the face as it took shape, and there was a small gathering looking at the holy head when the engineer arrived. Meticuloso was so proud of what he had achieved that he took the liberty of marking the saint’s head with his signature, the letter M within a circle.

  Then the crowd parted to let the engineer through, who was shouting and yelling: “You idiot!”

  It took him some time to get his anger under control, and he had to be calmed down by the people. The usually well-mannered, incredibly polite engineer got into a terrible state and wanted to give Meticuloso a beating. He wanted to kill the man, and only afterward was he able to explain why: the head should have been assembled right up on top, on the neck, with the help of some scaffolding that was on its way. He was almost sure that this head, assembled down on the ground, could never be carried up to the top of the saint’s body.

  His suspicion was confirmed by an expert who was brought over from Rio de Janeiro to assess the situation. The town hall didn’t even have the money for the man’s ticket, but the engineer paid for it out of his own pocket. It was the cost of rescuing a piece of work that could lead to prosperity or failure.

  His name was Dr. Rubens, and everyone held him in high regard because he was part of the firm in charge of maintaining the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro. His opinion would be definitive.

  After a few days of examination, analysis, calculation and phone calls, Dr. Rubens gave his diagnosis. Carrying the head up to the body would be impossible. There wasn’t a crane in the world able to bear that much weight. The only solution was to make a new head.

  Dr. Rubens left and couldn’t help giving a little laugh when he saw, from a distance, the headless body on top of the hill.

  “Idiots.”

  The mayor had no more money to create another head; the local council had accumulated ridiculous debts, they were behind on their installments and there were no more creditors with any inclination to lend so much as a cent to anybody in the town. The unveiling party was canceled. News spread by word of mouth, because the mayor had gone to the capital, rarely to return, lacking the courage to face the people of Candeia.

  Unhappiness. Misfortune. Despair.

  Meticuloso, who’d been left in charge, vanished. All that remained was his signature, the M in a circle, recording for all time the man responsible for Candeia’s ruin.

  The description of Samuel’s injured neck, his one closed eye and the blood coming out of his nose spread very quickly around the pilgrims in the town and to everyone who was on their way there. It was nearly time for the pilgrimage to St. Francis in Canindé, and a lot of people took advantage of their journey to stop off in Candeia to ask St. Anthony’s messenger for a wedding.

  It was hard to keep in check all the people who accompanied Francisco as he carried Samuel to the home of his parents, Chico and Gerusa. They had to cross the cemetery to reach the little house on the far side. They had no choice but to close the cemetery gate behind them and secure it with a chain. It would only be unlocked when the inhabitants calmed down, which was taking some time to happen.

  The efficiency with which the news spread meant that it didn’t take long for Dr. Adriano to arrive, even though this wasn’t one of his surgery days. He brought medical supplies, medicines and, most of all, his friendship.

  “I still can’t understand it,” said the doctor.

  “It must be Osório, Dr. Adriano. It was because of the pamphlet,” Samuel replied in hatred. He
wondered whether the mayor knew where Meticuloso was—the man responsible for the M in the circle on the head, responsible for the town’s misfortune.

  “I heard the rumors. The pamphlet is the one thing everyone’s talking about everywhere.”

  “Osório must think Samuel is obstructing his plans,” said Chico the Gravedigger. “People think he wrote the pamphlet.”

  “You’ve got to be really careful, Samuel. Best not go back to the head.”

  “Where am I supposed to go, Dr. Adriano?”

  “You can come with me and Madeinusa, we’ll work something out.”

  “You can stay here with us, hidden. It’s safer here in the cemetery,” said Gerusa, arriving with a plate of chicken broth for Samuel.

  As he struggled to drink his soup lying on the sofa, everyone else sat at the table to have their lunch—Francisco with his father, mother and little sister, Diana. Dr. Adriano left, promising to come back the following day.

  In the presence of the girl, they all changed the subject. They behaved just as they did on any other day, listening to her chatterings, laughing at nonsense, trying to keep things as light as they could.

  The family all interacted with a natural affection and unpretentious love for each other, in their looks, their expressions. Samuel watched from the sofa, and his heart was split between gratitude at the welcome they were giving him and a deep sadness that he was not a part of that life, that he had no family of his own. No mother, no father, no siblings.

  Outside there were hundreds of pilgrims praying for him. The rumors about his ailments grew and became increasingly sophisticated. Some said he had stigmata, the same wounds Christ had suffered on the cross, which only appeared on the chosen few, out of deserving and sanctity.