Graham Greene

by The Power

  Can't you sleep?

  I was dreaming, the priest whispered. He opened his eyes and saw the man by the door was shivering-the two sharp teeth jumped up and down on the lower lip. Are you ill?

  A little fever, the man said. Have you any medicine?

  No.

  The door creaked as the man's back shook. He said: It was getting wet in the river ... He slid farther down upon the floor and closed his eyes-mosquitoes with singed wings crawled over the earth bed. The priest thought: I mustn't sleep, it's dangerous, I must watch him. He opened his fist and [86] smoothed out the paper. There were faint pencil lines visible­-single words, the beginnings and ends of sentences, figures. Now that his case was gone, it was the only evidence left that life had ever been different: he carried it with him as a charm-because if life had been like that once, it might be so again. The candle-flame in the hot marshy lowland air burned to a smoky point, vibrating. ... The priest held the paper close to it and read the words Altar Society, Guild of the Blessed Sacra­ment, Children of Mary, and then looked up again and across the dark hut, saw the yellow malarial eyes of the mestizo watch­ing him. Christ would not have found Judas sleeping in the garden: Judas could watch more than one hour.

  What's the paper ... father? he said enticingly, shivering against the door.

  Don't call me father. It is a list of seeds I have to buy in Carmen.

  Can you write?

  I can read.

  He looked at the paper again and a little mild impious joke stared up at him in faded pencil-something about of one substance. He had been referring to his corpulency and the good dinner he had just eaten: the parishioners had not much relished his humour.

  It had been a dinner given at Conception in honour of the tenth anniversary of his ordination. He sat in the middle of the table with-who was it on his right hand? There were twelve dishes-he had said something about the Apostles, too, which was not thought to be in the best of taste. He was quite young and he had been moved by a gentle devilry, surrounded by all the pious and middle-aged and respectable people of Concep­cion, wearing their guild ribbons and badges. He had drunk just a little too much: in those days he wasn't used to liquor. It came back to him now suddenly who was on his right hand-­it was Montez, the father of the man they had shot.

  Montez had talked at some length. He had reported the prog­ress of the Altar Society in the last year-they had a balance in hand of twenty-two pesos. He had noted it down for comment-there it was, A.S. 22. Montez had been very anxious to start a branch of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul-and some [87] woman had complained that bad books were being sold in Concepcion, fetched from the capital by mule: her child had got hold of one called A Husband for a Night. In his speech he said he would write to the Governor on the subject.

  The moment he had said that the local photographer had set off his flare, and so he could remember himself at that instant, just as if he had been a stranger looking in from the outside-­attracted by the noise-on some happy and festal and strange occasion: noticing with envy, and perhaps a little amusement, the fat youngish priest who stood with one plump hand splayed authoritatively out while the tongue played pleasantly with the word Governor. Mouths were open all round-fishily, and the faces glowed magnesium-white, with all the lines and indi­viduality wiped out.

  That moment of authority had jerked him back to serious­ness-he had ceased to unbend and everybody was happier. He said: The balance of twenty-two pesos in the accounts of the Altar Society-though quite revolutionary for Concepcion-is not the only cause for congratulation in the last year The Chil­dren of Mary have increased their membership by nine-and the Guild of the Blessed Sacrament last autumn made our an­nual retreat more than usually successful But we mustn't rest on our laurels-and I confess I have got plans you may find a little startling. You already think me a man, I know, of inordi­nate ambitions-well, I want Concepcion to have a better school-and that means a better presbytery too, of course. We are a big parish and the priest has a position to keep up. I'm not thinking of myself but of the Church. And we shall not stop there-though it will take a good many years, I'm afraid, even in a place the size of Concepcion, to raise the money for that. As he talked a whole serene life lay ahead-he had ambition: he saw no reason why one day he might not find him­self in the state capital, attached to the cathedral, leaving another man to pay off the debts in Concepcion. An energetic priest was always known by his debts. He went on, waving a plump and eloquent hand: Of course, many dangers here in Mexico threaten our dear Church. In this state we are unusually lucky-men have lost their lives in the north and we must be prepared -he refreshed his dry mouth with a draught of wine- for the worst. Watch and pray, he went vaguely on, [88] watch and pray. The devil like a raging lion- The Children of Mary stared up at him with their mouths a little open, the pale blue ribbons slanting across their dark best blouses.

  He talked for a long while, enjoying the sound of his own voice: he had discouraged Montez on the subject of the St. Vin­cent de Paul Society-because you had to be careful not to encourage a layman too far, and he had told a charming story about a child's deathbed-she was dying of consumption, very firm in her faith at the age of eleven. She asked who it was standing at the end of her bed, and they had said: That's Father So-and-so, and she had said: No, no. I know Father So-and-so. I mean the one with the golden crown. One of the Guild of the Blessed Sacrament had wept. Everybody was very happy. It was a true story too, though he couldn't quite remem­ber where he had heard it. Perhaps he had read it in a book once. Somebody refilled his glass. He took a long breath and said: My children ...

  … and as the mestizo stirred and grunted by the door he opened his eyes and the old life peeled away like a label: he was lying in torn peon trousers in a dark unventilated but with a price upon his head. The whole world had changed-no Church anywhere: no brother priest, except Padre José, the out­cast, in the capital. He lay listening to the heavy breathing of the half-caste and wondered why he had not gone the same road as Padre José and conformed to the laws. I was too ambi­tious, he thought, that was it. Perhaps Padre José was the better man-he was so humble that he was ready to accept any amount of mockery: at the best of times he had never consid­ered himself worthy of the priesthood. There had been a con­ference once of the parochial clergy in the capital-in the happy days of the old Governor, and he could remember Padre José slinking in at the tail of every meeting, curled up half out of sight in a back row, never opening his mouth. It was not, like some more intellectual priests, that he was over-scrupulous: he had been simply filled with an overwhelming sense of God. At the Elevation of the Host you could see his hands trembling-he was not like St. Thomas, who needed to put his hands into the wounds in order to believe: the wounds bled anew for him over every altar. Once Padre José had said to him in a burst [89] of confidence: Every time ... I have such fear. His father had been a peon.

  But it was different in his case-he had ambition. He was no more an intellectual than Padre José, but his father was a store­keeper, and he knew the value of a balance of twenty-two pesos and how to manage mortgages. He wasn't content to remain all his life the priest of a not very large parish. His ambitions came back to him now as something faintly comic, and he gave a little gulp of astonished laughter in the candlelight. The half-­caste opened his eyes and said: Are you still not asleep?

  Sleep yourself, the priest said, wiping a little sweat off his face with his sleeve.

  I am so cold.

  Just a fever. Would you like this shirt? It isn't much, but it might help.

  No, no. I don't want anything of yours. You don't trust me.

  No, if he had been humble like Padre José, he might be living in the capital now with Maria on a pension. This was pride, devilish pride, lying here offering his shirt to the man who wanted to betray him. Even his attempts at escape had been half-hearted because of his pride-the sin by which the angels fell. When he was the only priest left in the state his pride had been all the g
reater; he thought himself the devil of a fellow carrying God around at the risk of his life; one day there would be a reward. ... He prayed in the half-light: O God, forgive me-I am a proud, lustful, greedy man. I have loved authority too much. These people are martyrs-protecting me with their own lives. They deserve a martyr to care for them-not a fool like me, who loves all the wrong things. Perhaps I had better escape-if I tell people how it is over here, perhaps they will send a good man with a fire of love ... As usual his self­-confession dwindled away into the practical problem-what am I to do?

  Over by the door the mestizo was uneasily asleep.

  How little his pride had to feed on-he had celebrated only four Masses this year, and he had heard perhaps a hundred con­fessions. It seemed to him that the dunce of any seminary could have done as well ... or better. He raised himself very care­fully and began to move on his naked toes across the floor. He [90] must get to Carmen and away again quickly before this man … the mouth was open, showing the pale hard toothless gums: in his sleep he was grunting and struggling; then he collapsed upon the floor and lay still.

  There was a sense of abandonment, as if he had given up every struggle from now on and lay there a victim of some power. ... The priest had only to step over his legs and push the door-it opened outwards.

  He put one leg over the body and a hand gripped his ankle. The mestizo stared up at him, Where are you going?

  I want to relieve myself, the priest said.

  The hand still held his ankle. Why cant you do it here? the man whined at him. What's preventing you, father? You are a father, aren't you?

  I have a child, the priest said, if that's what you mean.

  You know what I mean. You understand about God, don't you? The hot hand clung. Perhaps you've got him there-in a pocket. You carry him around, don't you, in case there's any­body sick. … Well, I'm sick. Why don't you give him to me? Or do you think he wouldn't have anything to do with me ... if he knew?

  You're feverish.

  But the man wouldn't stop. The priest was reminded of an oil-gusher which some prospectors had once struck near Concep­cion-it wasn't a good enough field apparently to justify fur­ther operations, but there it had stood for forty-eight hours against the sky, a black fountain spouting out of the marshy useless soil and flowing away to waste-fifty thousand gallons an hour. It was like the religious sense in man, cracking sud­denly upwards, a black pillar of fumes and impurity, running to waste. Shall I tell you what I've done-it's your business to listen. I've taken money from women to do you know what, and I've given money to boys ...

  I don't want to hear.

  It's your business.

  You're mistaken.

  Oh, no, I'm not. You cant take me in. Listen. I've given money to boys-you know what I mean. And I've eaten meat on Fridays. The awful jumble of the gross, the trivial, and the grotesque shot up between the two yellow fangs, and the hand [91] on the priest's ankle shook and shook with the fever. I've told lies, I haven't fasted in Lent for I don't know how many years. Once I had two women-I'll tell you what I did ... He had an immense self-importance: he was unable to picture a world of which he was only a typical part-a world of treachery, vio­lence, and lust in which his shame was altogether insignificant. How often the priest had heard the same confession-Man was so limited: he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civiliza­tion-it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the cor­rupt. He said: Why do you tell me all this?

  The man lay exhausted, saying nothing: he was beginning to sweat, his hand loosed its hold on the priest's ankle. He pushed the door open and went outside-the darkness was complete. How to find the mule? He stood listening-something howled not very far away. He was frightened. Back in the hut the can­dle burned-there was an odd bubbling sound: the man was weeping. Again he was reminded of oil land, the little black pools and the bubbles blowing slowly up and breaking and beginning again.

  The priest struck a match and walked straight forward-one, two, three paces into a tree. A match in that immense darkness was of no more value than a firefly. He whispered: Mula, mula, afraid to call out in case the half-caste heard him; besides, it was unlikely that the stupid beast would make any reply. He hated it-the lurching mandarin head, the munching greedy mouth, the smell of blood and ordure. He struck another match and set off again, and again after a few paces he met a tree. Inside the hut the gaseous sound of grief went on. He had got to get to Carmen and away before that man found a means of communicating with the police. He began again, quartering the clearing-one, two, three, four-and then a tree. Something moved under his foot, and he thought of scorpions. One, two, three-and suddenly the grotesque cry of the mule came out of the dark; it was hungry, or perhaps it smelt some animal.

  It was tethered a few yards behind the hut-the candle-flame [92] swerved out of sight. His matches were running low, but after two more attempts he found the mule. The half-caste had stripped it and hidden the saddle: he couldn't waste time look­ing any more. He mounted, and only then realized how impos­sible it was to make it move without even a piece of rope round the neck-he tried twisting at its ears, but they had no more sensitivity than door-handles: it stood planted there like an equestrian status. He struck a match and held the flame against its side-it struck up suddenly with its back hoofs and he dropped the match: then it was still again, with drooping sullen head and great antediluvian haunches. A voice said accusingly: You are leaving me here-to die.

  Nonsense, the priest said. I am in a hurry. You will be all right in the morning, but I can't wait.

  There was a scuffle in the darkness and then a hand gripped his naked foot. Don't leave me alone, the voice said. I appeal to you-as a Christian.

  You won't come to any harm here.

  How do you know, with the gringo somewhere about?

  I don't know anything about the gringo. I've met nobody who has seen him. Besides, he's only a man-like one of us.

  I won't be left alone. I have an instinct ...

  Very well, the priest said wearily, find the saddle. When they had saddled the mule they set off again, the mes­tizo holding the stirrup. They were silent-sometimes the half­-caste stumbled, and the grey false dawn began; a small coal of cruel satisfaction glowed at the back of the priest's mind-this was Judas sick and unsteady and scared in the dark. He had only to beat the mule on to leave him stranded in the forest­-once he dug in the point of his stick and forced it forward at a weary trot and he could feel the pull, pull of the half-caste's arm on the stirrup, holding him back. There was a groan-it sounded like Mother of God, and he let the mule slacken its pace. He prayed silently: God forgive me : Christ had died for this man too: how could he pretend with his pride and lust and cowardice to be any more worthy of that death than this half-caste? This man intended to betray him for money which he needed, and he had betrayed God not even for real lust. He said: Are you sick? and there was no reply. He dismounted and said: Get up. I'll walk for a while.

  [93] I'm all right, the man said in a tone of hatred.

  Better get up.

  You think you're very fine, the man said. Helping your enemies. That's Christian, isn't it?

  Are you my enemy?

  That's what you think. You think I want seven hundred pesos-that's the reward. You think a poor man like me can't afford not to tell the police. …

  You're feverish.

  The man said in a sick voice of cunning: You're right, of course.

  Better mount. The man nearly fell: he had to shoulder him up. He leant hopelessly down from the mule with his mouth almost on a level with the priest's, breathing bad air into the other's face. He said: A poor man has no choice, father. Now if I was a rich man-only a little rich-I should be good.

  The priest suddenly-for no reason-thought of the Ch
il­dren of Mary eating pastries. He giggled and said: I doubt it- If that were goodness ...

  What was that you said, father? You don't trust me, he went rambling on, because I'm poor, and because you don't trust me- He collapsed over the pommel of the saddle, breathing heavily and shivering. The priest held him on with one hand and they proceeded slowly towards Carmen. It was no good: he couldn't stay there now: it would be unwise even to enter the village; for if it became known, somebody would lose his life-they would take a hostage. Somewhere a long way off a cock crew: the mist came up knee-high out of the spongy ground, and he thought of the flashlight going off in the bare church among the trestle tables. What hour did the cocks crow? One of the oddest things about the world these days was that there were no clocks-you could go a year without hearing one strike. They went with the churches, and you were left with the grey slow dawns and the precipitate nights as the only measurements of time.

  Slowly, slumped over the pommel, the half-caste became visible, the yellow canines jutting out of the open mouth; really, the priest thought, he deserved his reward-seven hundred pesos wasn't so much, but he could probably live on it in that [94] dusty hopeless village-for a whole year. He giggled again: he could never take the complications of destiny quite seriously; and it was quite possible, he thought, that a year without anxiety might save this man's soul. You only had to turn up the under­side of any situation and out came scuttling these small absurd contradictory situations. He had given way to despair-and out of that had emerged a human soul and love-not the best love, but love all the same. The mestizo said suddenly: It's fate. I was told once by a fortune-teller ... a reward ...

  He held the half-caste firmly in the saddle and walked on-­his feet were bleeding, but they would soon harden. An odd stillness dropped over the forest, and welled up in mist from the ground. The night had been noisy, but now all was quiet. It was like an armistice with the guns silent on either side: you could imagine the whole world listening to what they had never heard before-peace.