The Head of the Saint

by Socorro Acioli

  With each step he took, Samuel was getting stronger. They walked, all of them, toward the house of Chico the Gravedigger: that would be the place from which he would set off, leaving town once and for all.

  “Before I leave, I need to go to the saint’s feet to light a candle.”

  Francisco thought this was funny.

  “To St. Anthony?”

  “I was asked to do it.”

  “You sure you can make it up there?” asked Madeinusa.

  “I’ve got to. I can’t leave Candeia without doing this.”

  “I’ve got a candle and matches,” said Chico the Gravedigger.

  “We’ll go with you,” said Adriano.

  —

  They stopped awhile to eat, have a bath, rest. Setting off to the top of the hill would be less obvious from there. Having woken up and eaten a good lunch of bean stew with curd cheese and cashew-fruit juice, Samuel felt ready for the climb. The walk would take a little over half an hour.

  Adriano, Madeinusa and Chico the Gravedigger went with him, round the back of the hill so as not to attract the attention of the town’s inhabitants—who fortunately were all gathered in front of the saint’s head.

  The closer they got to the decapitated body, the weirder the whole thing seemed. Down there was Candeia. The people looked like ants surrounding St. Anthony’s head.

  The pack of dogs that guarded the saint’s body appeared. There were more than ten of them, and they were nice and calm. They looked at Samuel as though he was someone they knew, without barking, without threats. The dog that had bitten him approached, wagging its tail. He recognized it from the marking on its forehead, the smudge in the fur that looked like a deformed star.

  Chico the Gravedigger handed Samuel the box of matches and the candle. Now the dogs got nervous, barking as though they wanted to say something, walking toward the saint’s feet. Samuel remembered that the candle had to be lit at the feet. He remembered Niceia asking him to express his anger about everything to the saint, and asked his friends to move back down the hill a little to allow him to pray for the first and last time in his life.

  “I don’t know how to pray, Mr. Saint. All I know is that up till now my life has been nothing but misfortune and it’s your fault. You see all that, all that happening down there? You see these marks on my arm, from being scratched, from being punched? All your fault.”

  The candle wouldn’t stay alight in the wind. As he tried to find some way to get it to burn so that he could leave, he kept talking: “I have no faith at all, old man. Even the candle I’m lighting isn’t strong enough to keep its flame. This business of faith is what ruins poor people like me. I did actually believe, at first. When I saw those people getting married, I did believe in the miracle. Damned miracle.”

  Samuel started shouting. The dogs took fright.

  “Damned miracle! There’s no saint, there’s no miracle.”

  Adriano wanted to go over to him, but Madeinusa prevented him. “Let the poor thing get it off his chest.”

  Samuel had anger in his voice, in his body, in his movements, in his feet as they kicked the enormous unfinished statue of St. Anthony.

  “And this bloody candle still won’t stay alight. Damned candle, damned saint, who ruined my life and my mother’s life, too. The poor thing, she died still believing. You ruined the people of Candeia. Just look at this town. It’s your fault. I hate this whole lie about St. Anthony. Hate it! I never want to see another saint in my life. Next time I see a saint’s statue I’m going to smash it, I’m going to demolish it.”

  Samuel was getting more upset every minute. The dogs, which till that point had been lying on the ground around him, jumped to their feet. Some barked at Adriano, Madeinusa and Chico the Gravedigger, who were farther off now, nearly halfway down the hill.

  “I never meant to hurt you.”

  The voice was coming from the feet of the saint.

  “Who said that?”

  Samuel was scared. He yelled again: “Who said that?”

  “I never meant to hurt you, nor your mother, nor anybody in Candeia,” answered the voice that came from the saint’s feet.

  “I’ve gone mad. Oh, Mother, I’ve gone mad! I don’t want to hear any more voices.” Samuel knelt on the ground, hands over his ears.

  “For the love of God, forgive me! I so badly need to ask you for forgiveness, Samuel.”

  “How do you know my name, damned saint?”

  “Because of the love I feel toward you.”

  Samuel had never imagined anything so scary could happen to him. After getting access to the women’s prayers, now he could hear the voice of the saint? Coming from the toes of his decapitated body? He was going crazy, he was sure of it. All of a sudden the fear passed. Yes, he had been afraid at first, not knowing where that voice was coming from. But now he believed it could be the saint’s voice. Only crazy people talk to saints. That being so, he thought, let’s talk.

  “That’s just perfect. So the famous St. Anthony talks out of his feet?”

  “I need to hear you say you’ll forgive me.”

  “I thought it worked the other way round, that sinners asked saints for forgiveness. My poor mother, she died believing that.”

  “Mariinha was a saintly woman.”

  “And she died like an animal, scrawny, deep inside the hammock, thinking you or some other saint was going to turn up and save her from her wretchedness.”

  Samuel was almost crying. He remembered how he had only been happy when he was living beside his mother. He saw the road on which he had arrived, and along which he would be leaving. From the top of the hill he could see the statue of St. Francis in Canindé. “It serves you right that they’re going to blow up that head. I hope they blow up this body, too. A saint who talks out of his feet doesn’t deserve a statue.”

  “Are they going to blow up the body?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to know everything?”

  “Did they say they’re going to blow up the body? What’s going to happen to me?”

  The dogs had become very agitated. They approached the saint’s left foot, barking loudly. Samuel went with them. There was forest all around, and they barked and barked, and the voice kept on talking, getting louder and louder, closer and closer. With the barking of the dogs it was impossible to hear what it was saying.

  Madeinusa, Adriano and Chico the Gravedigger walked back up to the top of the hill to find out what was happening. The barking dogs were facing away from them and didn’t see them approach. Samuel was in a cold sweat, pale. Dr. Adriano was concerned.

  “You mustn’t put yourself under this stress. We should go back down.”

  “Can you all hear the voice, too?” asked Samuel.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Madeinusa was afraid.

  The bushes next to the saint’s foot moved suddenly, pushed aside by a human foot with long toenails that emerged from a hole in the statue. The diameter of the hole was just right for a very thin man to get through, and one did—in a pair of old trousers tied at the waist with an electric cable that served as a belt.

  He looked confused, and covered his eyes with his hands to protect himself from the glare. The dogs gathered round him, no longer barking now. He was their master.

  Samuel, Adriano and Madeinusa were afraid and drew back. Chico the Gravedigger did the opposite. He came closer, gradually, till the man moved his hands from his face and he was able to be sure of what he’d suspected.

  “Samuel, it’s your father! It’s your father, Manoel Meticuloso!”

  Chico the Gravedigger hugged Manoel, but Samuel held back. He didn’t recognize this man as his father. It wasn’t a reunion—there was no question of love, no feeling of missing him to appease. His sixteen days’ walking was intended to bring him to Candeia to kill this man who was standing in front of him, who gave his mother a child. Manoel, Meticuloso, who was responsible for the curse upon Candeia. The wheel had come full circle: Samuel had found his father. He
gave up his initial plan straightaway—you don’t kill someone who has already been so abandoned by life. Perhaps Manoel had only remained barely alive thanks to an intervention by the saint. Not that Samuel was now a man of faith, but he couldn’t deny that St. Anthony had certain tricks up his sleeve.

  While Adriano nervously sat the man down on the floor to examine him, Samuel went over to the hole out of which his father had appeared a few seconds earlier. He was the same height and almost the same weight, so he was able to get through it to the inside of the statue.

  It was clear that the body of the saint was Manoel’s house, and had been for many years. He’d used his skill in design and building work to make the hollow body, open at the neck, into a spacious home, with conditions that were basic but comfortable.

  In the corner Samuel could see a stash of bits of wood, bottles of water, pieces of cloth, old clothes—material used to make this home’s furniture. Manoel had an old mattress as his bed; it was covered with a bedspread, tidily made. A stove, still smoking, was topped by an old pan with watery soup made of who knew what. Apart from its grotesque location, the house was well set up. All organized, everything in its little place. It seemed Manoel must creep out of his hiding place in search of rubbish, for the results of his foraging could be seen in his furniture, in the blankets made up of old scraps. Perhaps the cold night wind drove Manoel under those improvised covers. Perhaps from there, by the saint’s feet, he could see the moon. Alone, for years, in this strange house inside a saint.

  The hollow body was well ventilated and suffocating at the same time. More beautiful and frightening—much more—than the head of the saint. This is my father’s house, Samuel thought. This is where he has lived all this time.

  It was lovely looking up and seeing the clouds go by, peacefully, through the hole in the neck. Samuel felt a sense of calm as he watched them, distracting himself by trying to guess at their shapes. They kept moving, in slow motion, without the slightest interest in what was happening down below.

  Adriano called out to Samuel, who hurried out of the body.

  From up high on the hill they could see that Osório had brought in reinforcements from the neighboring police forces, and judging by the movement of men approaching and entering one house after another, Samuel guessed they were looking for him. Did Helenice and Osório know that he hadn’t yet left, that he hadn’t taken the chance that they’d given him to leave right away?

  Samuel understood that he couldn’t fight against Osório’s dangerous weapons; he wouldn’t be able to avoid an agonizing spell in prison. He had found his father. Now he had to run away.

  They went back down the hill as quickly as they could, carrying Manoel Meticuloso, who didn’t take his eyes off his son. The man’s appearance was frightening. A beard grown over many years, yellowish, sunken cheeks, thin, decrepit body, with hardly any resemblance to a human being, almost as much an animal as were his dogs.

  “Let’s go straight to our place,” said Chico.

  Manoel disagreed.

  “I want to go to my mother’s house.”

  “Maybe it’d be safer,” said Samuel. “No one dares go in there.”

  “I don’t either,” said Madeinusa. “No way am I setting foot in that place.”

  “I’m staying with her.” Adriano was losing his nerve, too.

  “We three can go, Samuel.” Chico the Gravedigger was hardly afraid of anything.

  During the descent they could see that almost the whole town was standing around the head, waiting for the explosion, which was the only reason the three of them were able to get to Niceia’s house without being noticed.

  Perhaps they all imagined the house would be filthy, dark, rat-infested, overgrown by the forest, but they were surprised to find a living room that was tidy and clean, as though the flow of life here had never stopped.

  At last Samuel was going into his grandmother’s house, and this time it wasn’t sealed up. As though she was expecting them, the gate was open, no chain, just like all the gates and doors on the abandoned houses. And Samuel’s grandmother was not at home. He called out to her, to no avail. In the first bedroom they came to, there was a red crocheted bedspread covering the single bed, on which they placed Manoel. Chico told Samuel to stay with his father while he went to find some water.

  The old man motioned for his son to sit down on a stool next to the bed.

  “What I wanted to do was go back to your mother….”

  “Chico told me. I know the whole story.”

  “Did your mother forgive me?”

  “Before she died she asked me to come and find you. You never went there, not even for a visit.”

  “I couldn’t. I was so ashamed after I’d ruined the lives of all these people. My life fell apart. But you came to save the town?”

  “What do you mean, save it? All I did was deceive these people.”

  “I know you really could hear them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Everything you said in the head I could hear in the body. At first I didn’t know who you were, but my mother came to tell me.”

  Chico the Gravedigger and his wife returned with water and food and interrupted the conversation. Francisco stayed outside the house, having lost his nerve since the cameraman’s experience, but he asked for his friend to come out and talk to him at the gate.

  “They’ve delayed the explosion till tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Apparently there’s some TV crew coming from Rio de Janeiro. They decided to wait.”

  “I don’t want to see it,” said Samuel.

  “And you can’t. The law is looking for you, you’ve got to run. They’ve made up all kinds of things—they say we stole money from all those ignorant people. I tried to say it was all my fault, but no one believes me,” explained Francisco.

  “You lie so often there’s no longer any point trying to be honest.”

  They both laughed.

  “There’s something else. The whole town somehow already knows Meticuloso was living in the body of the saint. Soon the authorities will be looking for him, too.”

  Francisco passed on a hug and a message from Madeinusa: there was no sign of Rosário. But she wouldn’t give up on the search and hoped that one day she’d find her. Now, without any access to the head, she had lost the only clue to her sister’s whereabouts. It might be impossible, but she would try.

  Samuel nodded, glad someone would continue his search. He looked over at the town. All he could see were bright spotlights illuminating the head in anticipation of the explosion.

  “It’s like a horror film.”

  “What’s the old lady’s house like inside?”

  “Normal. Nice and tidy.”

  “Really? I never would have thought it!”

  They heard the sound of people approaching. Francisco started to hurry.

  “Aécio told me to tell you that he’ll come here at four in the morning to take you away. He’s got hold of a hat, glasses, even a wig.”

  “I’ll spend the night here, it’s safest.”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be safer. Even I don’t dare go in.”

  An infinite silence, that in reality lasted just fractions of a second, made them realize that what they were experiencing was a goodbye. Samuel was confused and tired, and in a few hours he would no longer have the company of Francisco, the most loyal and faithful friend he would ever meet.

  A police car drove past Niceia’s house. Samuel ducked so as not to be seen. Francisco walked along the pavement and crossed the road.

  Back inside the house, Manoel and Chico didn’t stop talking and crying as night drew in. Even though Samuel needed to sleep, even though he could hardly bear the tiredness of that difficult day, he gave in to his curiosity and walked all around Niceia’s house with a candle in his hand.

  Nothing different or unusual to see. Nothing to justify the desperate terror of the cameraman, who had never told anyone what he’d witnessed
inside. He went along the corridor, through the kitchen, the yard, the bedrooms, the living room, the bathrooms. All tidy, a living house, with water in the taps, no dust on the furniture.

  Samuel came into his father’s bedroom to say goodbye to him and to Chico the Gravedigger.

  Manoel was asleep. Samuel could only give him a glance, no more than that. He looked at the fragile figure of the man who had been living inside a hollow body all the time Samuel was growing up, all the time Mariinha was dying.

  Chico the Gravedigger got up to give Samuel the hug he needed. They thanked each other for everything. Chico said Dr. Adriano had promised to take care of his father until he was restored to normal strength. Dr. Adriano didn’t know how he had survived, actually. His body bore signs of snakebites, malnutrition, skin diseases and possibly lung damage, too.

  Chico the Gravedigger tried to convince Samuel to think about another way out.

  “If you stay, here in this house, maybe no one will come in. Everyone’s scared. We’ll even help to spread more rumors about ghosts, just until the mayor gives up.”

  “It’s not as easy as that, Chico—he’s not going to give up, not ever. What he wants is to get rid of everyone and sell Candeia.”

  “And Rosário?”

  “What about her?”

  “Don’t you want to find Rosário?”

  “The head’s filled with explosives. How am I supposed to go in there to hear any news of her? It’s over, Chico. I wasn’t born to have a happy ending.”

  “The ending—the real ending, Samuel—doesn’t come till I lower your coffin into the grave. There’s still time.”

  “You’re a real dreamer, Chico.”

  “I learned that from death. The time to dream is when you’re still aboveground.”

  —

  Just then, Manoel awoke babbling, crying from his pain. A pain that he called Mariinha. Chico brought a glass of water to the man’s mouth, but he choked, then turned purple, and then he calmed down and went back to sleep. After that, Chico the Gravedigger left.

  Samuel set up a green hammock beside his father’s bed. He chatted to him, talked about this and that in his life, suspecting his father wasn’t following any of it. They fell asleep at last, defeated by their fatigue.