The mother abbess stared at the ground, stunned. A cat inched closer and sniffed at Manuel Escorza’s boots. “I don’t know what men you are talking about, Manuel,” she whimpered. “I . . .”
“Don’t mess with me, little sister. Where are Sirga and the superintendent? And the bishop—where have you put the bishop? And what are you all doing out here?”
A militiaman who had walked back to the convent’s main entrance now reappeared in the cloister, approached Gil Portela, and said something to him. Gil Portela cleared his throat and spoke to Manuel Escorza: “Comrade, the buses with the patrolmen and the brothers have arrived, as well as the car with Ordaz and Fernández.”
“Good,” replied Escorza without taking his eyes off the mother abbess. “As I’ve mentioned, we have work to do, little sister. Round up your wimpled fanatics and shut them in the chapel; we have no need for them here. And come back immediately; you and I need to have a talk. I have something to show you that I’m sure will pique your interest. Understood?”
The mother abbess nodded.
“You,” continued Manuel Escorza, turning to the soldiers, “go to the entrance and bring the religious here to the courtyard. And you, Gil, find out what’s going on with Sirga, the superintendent, and our friend the bishop. There’s something fishy here.”
“Monsignor, step away from the girl.”
The superintendent had reached the bottom of the stairs and was standing at a safe distance from the bishop, who had his back to him. From the steps behind him leading down to the well came a cold, damp blast of air. He could see the novice clearly now; she had removed her hands from her face and placed them between her legs, trying to cover her nakedness. She was stricken with terror and shame; the contrast of the menstrual blood on her pale thighs gave her a disturbing air. The superintendent noticed the recess with the image of Saint Galderic. Religious faith was just another form of folly, he thought.
The bishop did not respond, so the superintendent insisted, “Monsignor, I am a police superintendent. Please look at me and step away from the girl.”
Superintendent Muñoz was holding his gun, but he was not pointing it at the bishop. Monsignor did not turn around; he remained perfectly still, his hunched shoulders blocking the officer’s view of his hands. Keeping as much distance as the shelves of food and sacks of grains allowed, Superintendent Muñoz maneuvered around until he had the bishop in profile. Sister Concepció followed him with her eyes. She was still crying, her thick, abundant tears rolling down her face and neck and pooling on her budding breasts. But she no longer moaned, sobbed, or said a word. The girl’s silence—and the bishop’s—combined to give the scene a vaguely oneiric atmosphere. Yes, this could have been one of my nightmares, thought Superintendent Muñoz. Though this little girl is naked, not me, it’s clear that someone is mocking me.
He observed the bishop’s bloated profile carefully. Monsignor seemed lost in reverie. The superintendent could now see the bishop’s hands: he had them crossed on his lap and he moved his thumbs every now and then, as though counting something. Monsignor had yet to look at him, nor was he looking at the girl. It was as though he were alone.
“Monsignor, we must leave immediately. Your life is in grave danger. The anarchists are coming to kill you and the nuns, the girl, and myself. They will kill us all, do you understand? Do you understand?”
The superintendent fell silent. The only sound that could be heard was the water trickling from the stone into the well. Sister Concepció began to weep again. For now, he could congratulate himself on having succeeded in scaring her even more.
Suddenly the bishop turned to the police officer with his arms extended and his mouth agape. The superintendent raised his weapon and pointed it at the bishop’s head.
“Let them despoil me of riches and honor,” intoned the bishop, eyes raised toward the heavens, “let illness deprive me of my strength; let me be parted from grace by succumbing to sin—not for this shall I lose hope, yet will I preserve it until my last breath. And vain will be the efforts of all the demons in hell to seize it from me, for with Your guidance I will rise above guilt. My trust rests entirely on the certainty with which I await Your guidance. For You, Oh Lord, have singularly confirmed me in my hope . . .”
He spoke in a falsetto tone, as though saying Mass. Then he abruptly stopped, rose from the barrel, and took a step toward the superintendent. Standing, and in those clothes, Bishop Perugorría looked like a dragon that was too fat and well-larded to take flight.
“Stand back, Monsignor,” ordered the superintendent, gripping his gun. “Do not come near me or the girl or I will have to shoot you. Do you hear me? Stand back.”
The bishop finally obeyed. He turned to his right, giving his back to the superintendent and Sister Concepció, and began walking toward the stairs to the well.
“Do not move. Stop where you are, Monsignor.”
The bishop did as he was told. He stopped, spread his arms wide, and recited: “I know full well that, on my own, I am fragile and inconstant. I understand that temptation overpowers the strongest of virtues, and yet this knowledge does not daunt me. If my faith remains strong I shall be safe from misfortune, and I shall faithfully await You always, as I have faith that You shall fulfill this hope . . .”
He paused again and lowered his head, as his body began to sway gently. His eyes were streaming with tears. The superintendent could hear the young girl crying behind him. The bishop plunged into a slow, measured weeping, devoid of histrionics; his tears were sincere, caused by a great sadness. He turned to the police officer, who was still pointing his gun at him. With his face contorted by grief, he sobbed: “My mother. My poor mother, weeping at home over the death of her son. The torment . . .”
He let himself go, and another kind of weeping began, convulsed, incensed. Devastated, he collapsed and continued to sob on the floor, pummeling his knees with his fists. The superintendent lowered his weapon; he would have liked to feel empathy but he could not. Who among them did not miss their mother?
Keeping an eye on him, he approached Sister Concepció. She had stopped crying, but she was still trembling. Her body was numb from cold and shame. She kept her hands over her crotch, but she couldn’t hide the trickles of blood that reached down to her knees.
“Don’t be scared, child,” said the superintendent, his voice like a lullaby. “I’m with the police. We’ll get you out of here now; I’m here to help you.”
Sister Concepció looked at him intently and nodded.
“Has he touched you?” asked the superintendent, pointing at the bishop with his free hand. “Has he hit you or hurt you?”
She looked at him as though she didn’t understand the question. She opened her mouth and blurted out, “I’m cold and I have a bellyache.”
“Of course,” said the superintendent.
He glanced at the bishop, who was still crying in the middle of the cellar, removed his jacket, and placed it around the novice’s shoulders. Though he was a small, scrawny man, his jacket seemed enormous as it enveloped Sister Concepció’s slight frame.
“Bundle up, child. We’ll leave now, and then it will all be over. Don’t be afraid.”
Sister Concepció remembered her mother telling her not to be afraid. But His Excellency had said that her mother was dead. She wanted to ask that man if it was true, but just as she was about to pose the question there was a tremendous ruckus outside. The superintendent gestured for her to keep quiet while he listened intently for a few seconds.
“Don’t budge,” he ordered.
He walked past Bishop Perugorría, who seemed to have completely lost touch with reality, and bounded up the steps. From the threshold he could see part of the cloister and the courtyard.
“Shit.”
He recognized Manuel Escorza, Aureli Fernández, and Antoni Ordaz, as well as two Marist brothers from Pension Capell,
clumsily disguised as anarchists. Then he caught sight of a multitude of their brothers who were following the orders of a group of FAI militiamen. There were at least twenty of them.
“Have the brothers position themselves along the arcade, facing the north façade. And have the boys line up along the south façade with their rifles loaded and ready.”
Antoni Ordaz and Aureli Fernández listened carefully to Manuel Escorza’s instructions and then turned to the large group of people who had assembled and began to carry out the orders. The one hundred and seventy-two Marists who had responded to the evacuation call were still filing into the convent from the street, ushered by the soldiers who greeted them at the entrance. When they arrived at the cloister they were met by another group of soldiers, who informed them that they had reached the meeting point. The Marists quickly formed small groups and began to converse about their situation. Amid the chatter, it was not difficult to catch snippets of hopeful conversations.
“Why have they brought us here?” asked one fluty voice.
“Can’t you see this is the meeting point?” replied a thicker voice. “People from all over are assembling here, and they need to make sure that everything unfolds according to plan. The evacuation will start soon.”
“Will we sleep in France tonight?”
“Probably not tonight—look at the time—it’s late already and it will still be a while before we head out. Tomorrow . . .”
Someone lowered his voice before posing a question. “What about the nuns who live here?”
“God knows where they are. The war . . .”
Taking advantage of the commotion, Brother Plana approached Antoni Ordaz. “Do you remember me?”
Ordaz looked at him as though he were facing a plaster saint. “Of course I do, hermano,” he answered just to say something. “Now return to the line and find your place.”
“I’m the one who brought Brother Darder to Tostadero for you,” moaned the Marist, trembling.
“Yes, yes, don’t worry—none of this has anything to do with you. Just get back to your place. Go on.”
Antoni Ordaz and Aureli Fernández flitted about trying to keep the Marists from lingering in idle conversation and to have them make their way to the arcade and line up along its perimeter. They were going to conduct a roll call, they said. Everyone happily acquiesced; there was even some joking and elbowing to grab a spot in the first row. Like a couple of Catalan sheepdogs, Ordaz and Fernández busied themselves correcting their placement. When the group was starting to look fairly organized, Manuel Escorza approached Aureli Fernández.
“Come with me for a moment, comrade.”
Fernández moved away from the group and followed Escorza, who led him to a corner of the courtyard. Once there, Escorza, using his crutches to hoist himself up, sat on the stone banister of the cloister’s gallery. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“I’m listening,” offered Aureli Fernández.
Manuel Escorza pointed with his head to the group of Marists, who were still lining up along the arcade.
“Which one of them killed Burntface?” he asked through a mouthful of saliva.
Aureli Fernández had feared the question. He shrugged. “None of them, comrade. We have yet to find our man.”
Manuel Escorza’s eyes grew smaller. “I assume you have a good excuse for that. You always do,” he said, drawing out each syllable.
“There’s no excuse. I can only say that I am sorry. As soon as . . .”—he hesitated for a moment—“we are finished here, I will assign more men to the task and we’ll intensify our search. We’ll find him.”
Manuel Escorza again gestured with his head toward the men who stood along the perimeter of the cloister. “You disapprove of all this, don’t you?”
Aureli Fernández felt cornered. He made an effort to sound steadfast: “No, comrade. Upon reflection, I have realized you’re right. Revolution has a price, and one can’t be wishy-washy about it.”
Escorza spat out his most offensive laugh and climbed down from the banister. “I like that wishy-washy bit, Fernández,” he said, steadying himself on his crutches. “Try not to let it slip your mind; I would hate to have to remind you of it one day. Now find our little fugitive priest, as you said you would—and let it be soon.”
Aureli Fernández felt a twinge of hatred in his stomach, but he swallowed and remained silent.
The mother abbess appeared in the hall that led to the Saint Agatha chapel, escorted by two militiamen.
“Comrade Escorza,” one of them announced, “the nuns have been locked in the chapel until further orders from you.”
“Good,” replied Escorza. He noticed the panic in the mother abbess’s face. He said: “So, what do you think, little sister? A nice little gathering we’re having here, isn’t it?”
“What does all of this mean, Manuel? What are your intentions?”
Manuel Escorza smiled again, enjoying himself. “Where are Sirga and the superintendent, little sister?”
The mother abbess was silent. She turned toward the Marists. Nearly all had found their place when one of them, dressed as a patrolman, stepped out of the line and began walking toward them.
“Hey, hermano, where do you think you’re going?” shouted Antoni Ordaz. “Come back here immediately! Hey—comrade!”
Brother Lacunza played deaf and hurriedly crossed the courtyard to where Aureli Fernández and Manuel Escorza were standing.
“Where are Brother Darder and Adjutant Aragou?” he inquired, agitated.
“Our brother here is quite the character,” Escorza laughed. “And, mind you, it’s a good question: Where are they, Fernández?”
“They must . . . they must be about to arrive,” he improvised. “There is still a van missing with some of the laggards.”
“Do you take me for an imbecile?” exploded Brother Lacunza. “There is no one missing here except Adjutant Aragou and Brother Darder. Don’t feed me any more of your excuses. You gave me your word back there . . .”
Manuel Escorza grasped both crutches in one of his hands and put the other on Brother Lacunza’s shoulders in a friendly manner. “The man is right, Fernández.” He patted Brother Lacunza’s back as though it was a dog’s head. “Besides, he has proven himself to be a skilled negotiator and a man of determination. He deserves to be spoken to with candor. Look, Lacunza”—he drew his face nearer—“your beloved Adjutant Aragou is locked up in the Modelo prison and we intend to approach your Marist institution for ransom. As for Brother Darder—he was causing us some trouble. So we had him detained, but he killed one of the men who was watching him and escaped. We have been left with no other choice but to find him and execute him. That is the whole shebang. Satisfied, Lacunza?”
Brother Lacunza wished to say something, but he couldn’t speak—he could scarcely breathe. The oppression in his chest was choking him. For the first time in his life, he experienced fear, and he discovered that fear deprived him of his strength. Fear. And disgust. And horror at his own idiotic behavior. He succeeded only in exchanging glances with the mother abbess, who had also gone mute and was struggling to come to terms with what she was seeing and feeling.
Gil Portela came running toward them as though he were being chased, pushing his way through the throngs of Marists and militiamen gathered in the cloister.
“Comrade Escorza,” he panted. “I’ve found Sirga. He’s dead.”
The smile on Manuel Escorza’s face vanished.
“He’s in a room over there,” Gil Portela continued. “He has two bullets in his body and he’s not looking good.”
“Where’s the superintendent, little sister?” grunted Manuel Escorza.
The mother abbess said nothing. She shook her head slightly, as though telling herself that what was happening could not be real.
“You hear me? Tell
me where the superintendent and the bishop are, you filthy whore!”
He raised his free arm and with the flat of his hand slapped his sister so hard that she was knocked to the ground, and there she remained, seated, her cheek on fire and a ringing in her ear. A vacant expression had settled across her face; she looked like a little girl struggling to understand her punishment.
“Do you hear me, little sister? Tell me where they are!”
A wave of commotion swept through the Marists, who had witnessed the scene. Some of them stepped out of the line and tried to come to the mother abbess’s aid, but Antoni Ordaz and some of the militiamen pushed them back.
“Nobody move!” Gil Portela shouted across the courtyard. “Ordaz, if anyone budges, put a bullet in him, got me? You hear that, you filthy priests?”
They had heard him clearly. The echo of the threat reverberated through the courtyard. The militiamen stood before the semicircle formed by the Marists, rifles in hand. Antoni Ordaz took his place on one side of the troops, expectant. Brother Plana tried to gesture to him, but it was useless—either Ordaz did not see him, or he pretended not to.
Brother Lacunza helped the mother abbess to her feet. She planted herself in front of Escorza.
“Manuel, you have always been despicable,” she said in a clear voice. “You may think you’re triumphant, but you were born a miserable good-for-nothing and will be one until the day you die. And when that happens, you can be certain I will pray that you burn in hell for all of eternity.”
Aureli Fernández averted his face to conceal his satisfaction at the nun’s words. Gil Portela, however, kept his eyes trained on Escorza, awaiting an order. But none came. The Cripple of Sant Elies twisted his mouth into a grimace, unable to hide his pain.
“Escorza! Over here!” cried a voice from across the courtyard.
Everyone turned in the direction of the voice, but there was nothing to see. Manuel Escorza suddenly emerged from his stupor and smiled. “Superintendent! Where are you, you son of a bitch?”
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