Amaro began to wait and hope. It was July, the hottest time of the year. He said morning mass at São Domingos, and spent the day, in slippers and cotton jacket, idling at home. Sometimes he would go and chat to his aunt in the dining room; the windows would be closed, and in the half-darkness, one could hear the monotonous buzz of flies; his aunt sat crocheting at one end of an old wickerwork sofa, her spectacles poised on the end of her nose; Amaro, yawning, leafed through an old copy of some edifying magazine.
When evening fell, he would go out and take a few turns around the Rossio square. The still, heavy air was suffocating: from every corner came the repetitive cry of ‘Water! Cool water!’ On the benches, beneath the trees, tramps in patched clothes lay dozing; empty carriages for hire trotted slowly round and round the square; the lights in the café windows glowed; and overheated people drifted about, yawning, dragging their idleness with them along the pavements.
Amaro would then withdraw to his room, leaving the window open to the heat of the night, and in his shirtsleeves, with his boots off, he would stretch out on his bed and ponder his hopes for the future. He kept remembering, with a little rush of pleasure, what the Countess had said: ‘Don’t worry about it. My husband will have a word.’ And he could already picture himself, tranquil and important, in a parish in some pretty town, in a house with a garden full of cabbages and lettuces, receiving trays of sweetmeats from devout, wealthy ladies.
His spirit was at rest. The exalted moods provoked by the imposed continence of the seminary had been soothed by the satisfactions given him by a sturdy shepherdess, whom he used to watch as she rang the bell for mass on Sundays, her woollen skirt swaying and her cheeks flushed as she pulled on the bell rope. In his present serene mood, he punctually gave Heaven the prayers demanded by ritual, his flesh was contented and quiet, and he was doing his best to get himself well set up.
At the end of the fortnight, he went back to the Countess’ house.
‘She’s not in,’ the stable boy told him.
The next day, he returned, somewhat worried. The green baize doors stood open, and Amaro went slowly and timidly up the broad, red carpet, fixed in place by metal stair rods. A soft light came in through the skylight; at the top of the stairs, on the landing, seated on a scarlet morocco leather bench, a servant was dozing, leaning back against the glossy white wall, head drooping, mouth open. It was terribly hot and that profound, aristocratic silence frightened Amaro; he stood there hesitantly for a moment, his parasol dangling on his little finger; he discreetly cleared his throat to wake the servant, who seemed terrifying to him with his fine black sideboards and his thick gold watch-chain; and he was just about to go back down the stairs when, from behind a portière, he heard a man’s loud laughter. He wiped the whitish dust off his shoes with his handkerchief, straightened his cuffs, and, face ablaze, entered a large room with walls lined with yellow damask; the sunlight was pouring in through the open balcony doors, and he could see groves of trees in the garden. In the middle of the room three men stood talking. Amaro stepped forward and stammered:
‘F-forgive me for intruding . . .’
A tall man, with a grizzled moustache and gold-rimmed spectacles, turned round, surprised, a cigar in one corner of his mouth and his hands in his pockets. It was the Count.
‘I’m Amaro . . .’
‘Ah,’ said the Count, ‘Father Amaro! I’ve heard all about you! Please, come in . . . My wife spoke to me about you. Please . . .’
And addressing a short, stout, almost bald man wearing white trousers that were too short for him, he said:
‘This is the gentleman I was telling you about.’ He turned to Amaro. ‘This is the minister.’
Amaro bowed humbly.
‘Father Amaro,’ the Count went on, ‘grew up in my mother-in-law’s house. Indeed, I believe he was born there . . .’
‘That is so, Count,’ said Amaro, who remained at a distance, his parasol in his hand.
‘My mother-in-law, who was very devout and a great lady – of a sort one simply doesn’t find nowadays – made a priest of him. There was even a legacy, I believe . . . Anyway, here he is a parish priest . . . Where exactly, Father Amaro?’
‘In Feirão, sir.’
‘Feirão?!’ said the minister, to whom the name was unfamiliar.
‘In the Gralheira mountains,’ the man beside him explained. He was a thin man, squeezed into a blue frock coat, and he had very white skin, superb, ink-black sideboards and an admirable head of lustrous, pomaded hair immaculately parted.
‘In a word,’ concluded the Count, ‘ghastly! Up in the mountains, with only the poorest of parishioners, no distractions, terrible weather . . .’
‘I’ve already put in a request for a different parish, sir,’ said Amaro timidly.
‘Fine, fine,’ said the minister. ‘We’ll sort something out.’ And he chewed on his cigar.
‘It’s only fair,’ said the Count, ‘indeed, necessary. Young, active men should be assigned to the difficult parishes in the cities. It’s obvious. But that’s not what happens; for example, near my estate in Alcobaça, there’s a gout-ridden old priest, a former seminary teacher, who’s a complete imbecile! That’s how the people come to lose their faith.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said the minister, ‘but being placed in a decent parish should, of course, be a reward for good service. There has to be some incentive . . .’
‘Absolutely,’ replied the Count, ‘but professional service to the Church, not service to the government.’
The man with the superb black sideboards seemed about to object.
‘Don’t you agree?’ the Count asked him.
‘I have the greatest respect for your opinion, of course, but if I may . . . I believe that the priests in the city are of great service to us in electoral crises. Of great service!’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘Look, sir,’ the man went on, the bit between his teeth now. ‘You just have to look at Tomar. Why did we lose there? Purely and simply because of the attitude of the priests.’
The Count responded:
‘Forgive me, but it shouldn’t be like that. Religion and the clergy are not electoral agents.’
‘Forgive me . . .’ the other man began.
The Count stopped him with a firm gesture; then speaking slowly and gravely, using words imbued with an authority backed up by vast knowledge, he said:
‘Religion can and should help established governments, operating, shall we say, as a brake . . .’
‘Exactly, exactly,’ drawled the minister, spitting out bits of chewed cigar end.
‘But to descend into intrigue,’ continued the Count in measured tones, ‘into imbroglios . . . Forgive me, my dear friend, but that is not the act of a Christian.’
‘But I’m a Christian, Count!’ exclaimed the man with the superb sideboards. ‘A real Christian, but I am also a liberal. And, as I understand it, the representative government . . . yes . . . given the most solid guarantees of . . .’
‘Ah,’ broke in the Count, ‘but do you know the effect of that? It discredits the clergy and it discredits politics.’
‘But surely the majority vote is a sacred principle,’ bellowed the man with the sideboards, his face scarlet, emphasising the word ‘sacred’.
‘It’s a perfectly respectable one.’
‘Now really, sir, really!
Father Amaro was listening, frozen to the spot.
‘My wife probably wants to see you,’ said the Count. And going over to a portière, which he lifted, he said: ‘Please, go in. Joana, it’s Father Amaro!’
Amaro went into another room, this time lined with satiny white paper, with furniture upholstered in a pale fabric. In the window bays, between long, milk-white damask curtains, caught back almost at floor-level by silk ties, stood white pots containing slender bushes with delicate, flowerless foliage. The cool, subdued lighting lent a cloud-like tone to all these various whites. A parrot was perched on one black f
oot on the back of a chair, its body contorted as, with the other foot, it scratched its green head in leisurely fashion. Embarrassed, Amaro bowed in the direction of the sofa where he could make out the blonde froth of curls crowning the Countess’ head and the glint of her gold-rimmed spectacles. A plump young man with chubby cheeks was sitting before her on a low chair, resting his elbows on his spread knees, and absorbed in swinging a tortoise-shell pince-nez back and forth like a pendulum. The Countess had a small dog on her lap and was smoothing the dog’s cotton-white coat with one thin, fine, veined hand.
‘How are you, Father Amaro?’ The dog growled. ‘Stop it, Jewel . . . As you see, I’ve already spoken on your behalf. Stop it, Jewel . . . The minister is next door.’
‘Yes, Senhora,’ said Amaro, still standing.
‘Sit down here, Father Amaro.’
Amaro sat on the edge of an armchair, his parasol still in his hand, and only then did he notice a tall woman standing by the piano, talking to a blond young man.
‘And what have you been up to, Father Amaro?’ asked the Countess. ‘Tell me, how is your sister?’
‘She lives in Coimbra now; she’s married.’
‘Ah, married!’ said the Countess, fiddling with the rings on her fingers.
There was a silence. Amaro, eyes downcast, feeling awkward and nervous, kept stroking his lips with his fingers.
‘Has Father Liset gone abroad?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he’s in Nantes. His sister is dying,’ said the Countess. ‘But he’s the same as always, so kind and gentle, the very soul of virtue!’
‘I prefer Father Félix,’ said the fat young man, stretching his legs.
‘Don’t say such things, cousin! Heavens! And Father Liset is so worthy of respect. Besides there are other, kinder ways of putting these things. And he’s so tender-hearted . . .’
‘Yes, but Father Félix . . .’
‘Now, stop it! Father Félix is a man of great virtue, granted, but Father Liset’s sense of religion is somehow . . . ,’ with a delicate gesture she sought the right word, ‘finer, more distinguished. And he mixes with very different people.’ Then, smiling at Amaro: ‘Don’t you agree?’
Amaro did not know Father Félix and could not remember Father Liset.
‘Father Liset must be getting on a bit now,’ he said in order to say something.
‘Do you think so?’ asked the Countess. ‘But he’s so well-preserved. And such vivacity and enthusiasm! He’s really quite special.’ And turning to the woman standing by the piano, she said: ‘Don’t you think so, Teresa?’
‘Just a moment,’ replied Teresa, absorbed in what she was doing.
Amaro looked at her properly for the first time. She seemed to him like a queen or a goddess, so tall and strong, with magnificent shoulders and bosom; her slightly wavy, dark hair was in stark contrast to her pale, aquiline face, reminiscent of Marie Antoinette’s imposing profile; her black, short-sleeved dress with its square neckline, and the long train decorated with black lace broke up the monotonous whiteness of the room; her neck and arms were covered by black gauze through which one could glimpse the whiteness of her flesh; her figure had the firmness of ancient marble statues, but was alive with the warmth of rich blood.
She was smiling and talking softly in a harsh-sounding language that Amaro could not understand, all the time opening and closing her black fan, and the handsome, blond young man wearing a monocle was listening to her, twirling one end of his slender moustache.
‘Were your parishioners terribly devout, Father Amaro?’ the Countess asked.
‘Oh, yes, excellent people.’
‘Of course, nowadays, it’s only in the villages that one finds real faith,’ she said piously. She complained about having to live in the city, a slave to luxury; she wished she could spend all her time on her estate in Carcavelos, praying in the old chapel and chatting to the good people of the village. Her voice grew tender.
The chubby young man laughed:
‘Oh, come off it, cousin!’ If he was obliged to hear mass in a little village chapel, he would probably lose his faith altogether. He simply couldn’t understand the point of religion without music. Was it possible to have a religious celebration without someone with a really good contralto voice?
‘Well, it’s certainly more enjoyable,’ said Amaro.
‘Of course it is. It’s entirely different. It has cachet! Cousin, do you remember that tenor . . . what was his name? Vidalti. Do you remember Vidalti on Maunday Thursday, in the chapel at the English College, singing the Tantum ergo?’
‘I preferred him in The Masked Ball,’ said the Countess.
‘Oh, really, cousin!’
The blond young man came over and shook the Countess’ hand, speaking in a low voice and smiling. Amaro admired his noble mien and his gentle blue eyes; he noticed that he had dropped a glove and humbly picked it up for him. When the young man left, Teresa, having first walked unhurriedly over to the window to gaze out at the street, sat down on a love seat with an abandon that only emphasised the magnificent sculptural forms of her body; then, turning languidly to the plump young man, she said:
‘Shall we go, João?’
The Countess said:
‘Father Amaro was brought up with me in Benfica, you know.’
Amaro blushed; he felt Teresa turn on him her beautiful, dark, glittering eyes, like black satin covered with water.
‘And are you living outside Lisbon now?’ she asked, yawning slightly.
‘Yes, Senhora, I arrived a few days ago.’
‘In a village?’ she asked, slowly opening and closing her fan.
Amaro saw precious stones glinting on her slender fingers; stroking the handle of his parasol, he said:
‘In the mountains, Senhora.’
‘Can you imagine anything more dreadful,’ said the Countess. ‘Constant snow, no roof on the church apparently, with only shepherds as parishioners. Awful! I’ve asked the minister if we can get him moved. You ask him too . . .’
‘Ask him what?’ said Teresa.
The Countess explained that Amaro had applied for a better parish. She spoke about her mother and how fond she had been of Amaro . . .
‘She just adored him. Now what was it she used to call you . . . can you remember?’
‘I don’t know, Senhora.’
‘Brother Malaria! Isn’t that funny? Because Senhor Amaro was always so pale and spent all his time in the chapel . . .’
But Teresa, addressing the Countess, said:
‘Do you know who this gentleman looks like?’
The Countess studied him; the plump young man held the pince-nez to his eyes.
‘Doesn’t he look like that pianist we saw last year?’ Teresa went on. ‘I can’t quite remember his name . . .’
‘Oh, I know, Jalette,’ said the Countess. ‘Yes, he does slightly. Not his hair though.’
‘Of course not his hair, the pianist didn’t have a tonsure!’
Amaro blushed scarlet. Teresa got to her feet and, dragging her magnificent train behind her, went over and sat down at the piano.
‘Do you read music?’ she asked, turning to Amaro.
‘We learn music in the seminary, Senhora.’
She ran her hand over the low notes and then played the phrase from Rigoletto, reminiscent of a Mozart minuet, sung by Francis I, who is saying goodbye to Madame de Crécy after the party in the first act, and whose desolate rhythms express the limitless sadness of dying love and of arms disentwining in a final, supreme farewell.
Amaro was captivated. That luxurious, cloud-white room, the passionate piano music, Teresa’s neck and throat which he could see beneath the black transparency of the gauze, the thick, goddess-like plaits of her hair, the peaceful groves of trees in the noble garden all vaguely suggested to him the kind of superior existence led by characters in novels, a life of exquisite carpets, upholstered carriages, operatic arias, tasteful melancholy and love affairs full of rare pleasures. Sinking back into
the softness of the armchair, listening to the aristocratically plangent music, he thought of his aunt’s dining room and its pervasive smell of fried onions; and he felt like a beggar who, given some delicious soup, is too frightened to taste and enjoy it, thinking that soon he will have to return to his usual harsh diet of stale crusts of bread and the dust of the roads.
Meanwhile, Teresa, abruptly changing tunes, began singing that old English aria of Haydn’s that speaks so eloquently of the sadness of separation:
The village seems asleep or dead
Now Lubin is away! . . .
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ exclaimed the Minister of Justice, who appeared at the door, gently clapping his hands. ‘Excellent! Absolutely delightful!’
‘I have a favour to ask of you, Senhor Correia,’ said Teresa, standing up.
The Minister hurried gallantly to her side.
‘What is it, what is it?’
The Count and the man with the magnificent sideboards had also come into the room still arguing.
‘Joana and I have a favour to ask,’ said Teresa to the Minister.
‘I’ve already asked him, twice in fact!’ said the Countess.
‘But, my dear ladies,’ said the Minister, making himself comfortable in a chair, legs outstretched, a satisfied look on his face, ‘what is all this about? Is it some very serious matter? I promise most solemnly to . . .’
‘Good,’ said Teresa, tapping him on the arm with her fan. ‘Now where is there a good vacancy for a parish priest?’
‘Ah,’ said the Minister, realising what she meant and looking at Amaro, who bowed his shoulders and blushed.
The man with the sideboards, who was still standing up, gravely twirling the pendants on his watch chain, stepped forward, bursting with information.
‘The best current vacancy, Senhora, is in Leiria, district capital and bishop’s see.’
‘Leiria?’ said Teresa. ‘Oh, I know, aren’t there some ruins there?’
‘A castle, Senhora, built by Dom Dinis.’
‘Leiria would be excellent.’
‘Forgive me, Senhora,’ said the Minister, ‘but Leiria is a bishop’s see, a city . . . and Father Amaro is still a very young cleric . . .’
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 5