In order to savour it, having first held it up to the light, they all leaned back in their leather chairs, and the toasts began. The first was to their host, who murmured: ‘My pleasure, my pleasure . . .’ his eyes full of tears of satisfaction.
‘To His Holiness Pius IX!’ cried Libaninho, raising his glass. ‘To the martyr!’
Much moved, they all drank. Libaninho then intoned Pius IX’s hymn in a falsetto voice. The priest prudently told him to stop because the gardener was outside trimming the box hedge.
They lingered over dessert, savouring every mouthful. Natário had grown sentimental and spoke of his two nieces, his two little roses, and quoted from Virgil, meanwhile dipping chestnuts in his port wine. Amaro, slumped in his chair, his hands in his pockets, was staring mechanically out at the trees in the garden, thinking vaguely about Amélia, about her body: he even sighed with desire for her as Father Brito, red-faced, was talking about beating some sense into the Republicans.
‘Long live Father Brito’s walking stick!’ shouted Libaninho enthusiastically.
But Natário had started discussing ecclesiastical history with the Canon and, back in argumentative mode, returned to his vague theories about the doctrine of Grace: he said that a murderer or a patricide could be canonized if God’s grace had been revealed to them. He rambled on, stumbling over his words, mouthing phrases learned at school. He cited saints who had led scandalous lives, others who, through their work, must have known, practised and loved vice. Hands on hips, he declared:
‘St Ignatius was a soldier.’
‘A soldier!?’ bawled Libaninho. Getting up, he ran over to him and put one arm about his neck in a gesture of childish, drunken affection. ‘A soldier, eh? And what rank did he hold? What rank did he hold, my dear St Ignatius?’
Natário pushed him away.
‘Get off me, man! He was a sergeant in the infantry.’
Everyone roared with laughter.
Libaninho was ecstatic.
‘Ooh, a sergeant in the infantry!’ he said, raising his hands beatifically. ‘My dear St Ignatius! Blessed and honoured be he for all eternity!’
Then the priest proposed taking their coffee under the vine trellis outside.
It was three o’clock. Everyone got up, slightly unsteady on their feet, emitting thunderous belches and laughing drunkenly; only Amaro had kept a clear head and steady legs, but he was nevertheless in a rather maudlin mood.
‘Right then, gentlemen,’ said their host, finishing his last sip of coffee, ‘what we need now is a walk to the farm.’
‘To help digest our lunch,’ grunted the Canon, getting to his feet with some difficulty. ‘Off we go to the farm, then.’
They took the short cut from Barroca, a narrow cart track. The sky was still very blue and the sun warm. There were ditches on either side of the path, which was thick with brambles; beyond, the flat fields were still full of stubble; here and there the slender leaves of the olive trees stood out in silhouette; the round hills on the horizon were covered with dark green pines; there was utter silence, broken only occasionally by a cart creaking down some distant lane. In the midst of the light and of that serene landscape, the priests walked along slowly, stumbling slightly, their eyes shining, their bellies full, joking with each other and feeling that life was good.
Canon Dias and the country priest were strolling arm in arm, arguing. Brito, next to Amaro, was vowing to drink the blood of the owner of the Cumeada estate.
‘Be sensible, Brito, be sensible,’ Amaro said, taking a puff of his cigarette.
And Brito, striding along beside him, snarled:
‘I’ll eat his liver!’
Libaninho, behind them, on his own, was singing in a high voice:
Little brown bird
Come out here . . .
Ahead of them all went Father Natário: he was carrying his cape over one arm, dragging it in the dust; his cassock was unbuttoned behind to reveal the filthy lining of his waistcoat; and his bony legs, in their laddered black woollen socks, unable to keep a straight line, kept sending him bumbling into the brambles.
And meanwhile, Brito, his breath stinking of wine, was growling:
‘I’d just like to get hold of a stick and beat the living daylights out of them. All of them!’ He made a sweeping gesture embracing the world.
His wings are broken
So he won’t appear . . .
Libaninho droned on in the background.
They suddenly stopped: ahead of them Natário was saying furiously:
‘You fool, watch where you’re going! You idiot!’
He had reached a bend in the road. He had collided with an old man leading a sheep; he had fallen over and, in his vinous rage, was shaking his fist at him.
‘God forgive me, Father,’ the man was saying humbly.
‘You idiot!’ bawled Natário, eyes flashing. ‘I’ll have you for this!’
The man was stammering and had removed his hat, revealing his white hair; he looked like a former farmhand who had grown old in the job; he was possibly someone’s grandfather, and bowed, scarlet with shame, he shrank back into the hedge to allow the priests – all jolly and flushed with wine – to pass him on the narrow cart track.
Amaro decided not to go with them to the farm. At the edge of the village, at the crossroads, he took the Sobros path back to Leiria.
‘It’s a whole league back into town,’ said the priest. ‘I’ll have them saddle up the mare for you, Father.’
‘Certainly not. I’ve got strong legs!’ And throwing his cape over his shoulder, Amaro set off, singing ‘The Farewell!’
Just by Cortegaça, the Sobros path broadens out and runs alongside an estate surrounded by a mossy wall the top of which bristles with glinting glass. When he reached the low red gate, he found a large spotted cow blocking the way; amused, he prodded it with his umbrella, and as the cow trotted off, udders swaying, Amaro turned to find Amélia standing at the door. She greeted him, smiling:
‘Are you frightening away my cows, Father?’
‘Oh, it’s you! What miracle is this?’
She blushed slightly.
‘I came to visit Dona Maria da Assunção’s estate. I just came to have a look at the farm.’
Beside Amélia, a girl was arranging cabbages in a basket.
‘So this is Dona Maria’s estate.’
And Amaro stepped inside the door.
A broad driveway, lined with old cork oaks providing delicious shade, led up to the house which could be seen at the far end, gleaming white in the sunlight.
‘That’s right. Our farm is on the other side, but you can reach it through here as well. Come on, Joana, hurry up!’
The girl put the basket on her head, said goodbye and set off towards Sobros, swaying her hips.
‘It certainly looks like a very fine property,’ commented Amaro.
‘Come and see our farm,’ Amélia said. ‘It’s only a little plot of land, but just to get an idea. We can go this way . . . Look, let’s go and see Dona Maria, would you like to?’
‘Yes, I would.’
They walked up the tree-lined path in silence. The ground was covered with dry leaves and, between the widely spaced trunks, the flowers on the clumps of hydrangeas hung their heads, grown yellow in the rain; at the end of the drive squatted the old, one-storey house. Along the wall huge pumpkins were ripening in the sun, and doves fluttered on the roof blackened by the winter rains. Behind it the orange trees formed a mass of dark green foliage, and a water wheel creaked monotonously.
A little boy passed them, carrying a bucket.
‘Where did your mistress go, João?’ asked Amélia.
‘To the olive grove,’ said the boy in a soft, drawling voice.
The olive grove was some way off, at the far end of the estate; the ground was muddy and a person would have to wear clogs to get there.
‘We’ll get too dirty,’ said Amélia. ‘Let’s forget about Dona Maria, shall we? Let’s go and see
the garden instead . . . This way, Father . . .’
They were standing opposite an old wall overgrown with clematis. Amélia opened a green door and they went down three crumbling stone steps into an area shaded by a broad vine trellis. Near the wall roses grew all year round; on the other side, amongst the stone pillars supporting the trellis and the twisted feet of the vines, one could see a large field of grass, yellow in the sun; the low, thatched roofs of the cattle sheds stood out darkly in the distance, and from there a thread of white smoke vanished up into the intensely blue air.
Amélia kept stopping to explain what was planted where. Barley was going to be sown there; and he must see the onions, they were so pretty . . .
‘Dona Maria takes great care of everything!’
Casting sideways glances at her, his head bowed, Amaro listened to her talking; in the silence of the fields, her voice seemed sweeter and more mellifluous; the fresh air brought a more piquant colour to her cheeks, and her eyes shone. She hitched up her dress to avoid a puddle, and the glimpse that he had of her white stocking troubled him as much as if it were a foretaste of her naked skin.
At the far end of the vine trellis, they walked alongside a stream, and across a field. Amélia laughed at Amaro because he was afraid of toads, and he then pretended to be even more afraid. There aren’t any snakes, are there, Miss Amélia? And he brushed against her, recoiling from the tall grasses.
‘Do you see that ditch? Well, on the other side is our farm. You can get in through that gate, do you see? But you look tired. You’re obviously not much of a walker. Look out, a toad!’
Amaro gave a start and bumped against her shoulder. She gave him a gentle push and said with a playful laugh:
‘You really are scared!’
She was so happy, so alive. She spoke of ‘her farm’ with the satisfied pride of one who knows about farm work and about being a landowner.
‘It looks like the gate is shut,’ said Amaro.
‘It’s not, is it?’ she said. She gathered up her skirts and ran over. It was indeed closed. What a shame. And she impatiently rattled the narrow bars of the gate which were set in two strong stone posts flanked by thick brambles.
‘The tenant must have taken the key!’
She crouched down and called across the field, lengthening out the vowels as she did so:
‘Antó-o-nio-o-o! Antó-o-nio-o-o!’
No one replied.
‘He must be somewhere in the back,’ she said. ‘What a bore! But if you like, there’s a place up ahead where we could climb over. There’s an opening in the hedge that we call the goat-leap. We can jump down onto the other side.’
And contentedly walking along by the brambles, splashing through the mud, she went on:
‘When I was a little girl, I never used the gate, I always jumped through there. I used to land with quite a thump when the ground was slippery! You might not think it, but I was a real tomboy! You’d never know it, would you, Father? Now, of course, I’m getting old!’ And turning to him with a smile that showed her white teeth, she said: ‘Don’t you think so, Father, don’t you think I’m getting old?’
He smiled. He found it hard to speak. The sun beating down on his back, after all the wine he had drunk at lunch, had a softening effect on him; the sight of her, of her shoulders, and the way he and she occasionally brushed against each other filled him with intense, unremitting desire.
‘Here it is,’ said Amélia, stopping.
There was a narrow opening in the hedge; the field on the other side was lower down and very muddy. From there São Joaneira’s farm could be seen: the flat field extended as far as an olive grove, and the fine grass was starred with tiny white daisies; a black spotted cow was munching the grass and, beyond, you could see the pointed roofs of cottages and flocks of sparrows fluttering about them.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Amaro.
‘We jump,’ she said, laughing.
‘Here goes!’ he shouted.
He wrapped his cape about him and jumped, but he slipped on the damp grass, and Amélia leaned towards him, laughing helplessly and waving her hands.
‘Goodbye, then, Father, I’m off to find Dona Maria. You’re a prisoner in the farm now. You can’t jump over and you can’t get through the gate! You’re a prisoner . . .’
‘But Miss Amélia, please!’
She sang mockingly:
Here I sit all alone
Now my lover is in prison!
Her flirtatious manner excited Amaro, and with arms outstretched, he said pleadingly:
‘Jump! Jump!’
She said in a childish voice:
‘I’m afraid, I’m afraid!’
‘Jump, Miss Amélia!’
‘Here I come!’ she called.
She jumped and fell against his chest with a little shriek. Amaro slipped, then steadied himself. Feeling her body in his arms, he embraced her hard and kissed her passionately on the neck.
Amélia pulled away and stood before him, breathing hard, her face ablaze, tremulously adjusting the folds of her woollen shawl around her head and neck. Amaro said:
‘Amélia!’
But she suddenly snatched up her dress and ran the whole length of the hedge. A dazed Amaro strode after her. When he reached the gate, Amélia was talking to the tenant, who had appeared with the key.
They crossed the field beside the stream and then the courtyard covered by the vine trellis. Amélia went ahead, chatting to the tenant, and behind came Amaro, deep in thought, his head bowed. By the house, Amélia stopped, and blushing, still drawing her shawl around her neck, said:
‘António, show Father Amaro the way out, will you? Good afternoon, Father.’
And then she ran across the damp earth to the far end of the estate, to the olive grove.
Dona Maria da Assunção was still there, sitting on a stone, chattering away to old Patrício; a band of women, wielding large sticks, were beating the branches of the olive trees.
‘What’s this, you silly girl? Why all this running? Foolish creature!’
‘I ran all the way,’ Amélia said, panting, her face scarlet.
She sat down next to the old woman and remained there, motionless, still breathing hard, her hands in her lap, her mouth half-open, her eyes staring into space. Her whole being was absorbed by but one thought:
‘He loves me! He loves me!’
She had been in love with Father Amaro for a long time, and sometimes, alone in her room, she had despaired to think that he did not see the love in her eyes. From the very first, as soon as she heard him call up from downstairs for his breakfast, she felt her whole being fill up with joy for no reason, and she would start singing as volubly as a bird. Then she noticed that he seemed sad. Why? She knew nothing of his past, but, remembering the friar from Évora, she wondered if perhaps he had become a priest because of some disappointment in love. She would idealise him then; she imagined he must have a very tender nature, and it seemed to her that his pale, elegant person exuded some special fascination. She wanted to have him as her confessor; how good it would be to kneel at his feet in the confessional, to be close to his dark eyes and to hear him talking in his low voice about Paradise. She loved his soft mouth; she turned pale at the idea of being able to embrace him in his long black cassock! When Amaro went out, she would go into his bedroom where she would kiss the pillowcase and take away with her the hairs in his comb. Her cheeks flamed with colour when she heard him ring the bell.
If Amaro was to dine with Canon Dias, she would be in a bad mood all day, she would quarrel with Ruça, and even speak ill of him, say that he was stubborn and far too young to inspire respect. Whenever he mentioned some new young female confessant, she would sulk, filled with childish jealousy. Her old religious devotion was reborn, full of sentimental fervour; she felt an almost physical love for the Church; she would have liked to embrace and to plant lingering little kisses on the altar, the organ, the missal, the saints, on Heaven itself, because she made no
real distinction between them and Amaro; they seemed to her mere appendages of his being. She read her missal, all the time thinking of him as if he were her personal God. And Amaro had no idea that when he was pacing agitatedly back and forth in his room, she was upstairs listening, fitting her heartbeats to his steps, hugging her pillow to her, weak with desire, blowing kisses into the air, where she imagined his lips to be.
It was growing dark as Dona Maria and Amélia returned to the town. Amélia walked ahead in silence, urging her donkey onwards, while Dona Maria da Assunção chatted to the boy labourer who had hold of the donkey’s halter. As they passed the Cathedral, the Angelus was rung, and Amélia, as she prayed, could not take her eyes off the great stone walls of the Cathedral that had clearly been built solely so that he would celebrate mass there. She remembered the Sundays when, as the bells were tolling, she had seen him give the blessing from the steps of the high altar; and everyone bowed, even the ladies from the Carreiro estate, even the Baronesa de Via-Clara and the district governor’s haughty wife with her prominent nose. They had bowed beneath his raised hands and they too probably thought what lovely dark eyes he had! And he had held her in his arms by the hedge! She could still feel on her neck the warm pressure of his lips: passion ran like a flame through her whole being; she let go of the donkey’s halter, pressed her hands to her breast and, closing her eyes, put her whole soul into this one prayer:
‘Our Lady of Sorrows, my protectress, please make him love me!’
Some of the canons were sauntering about outside the Cathedral, talking. The lamps were already lit in the pharmacy opposite, and behind the scales could be seen the majestic figure of Carlos the pharmacist, in his beaded cap.
VIII
Father Amaro returned home, terrified.
‘Now what? Now what?’ he kept saying as he leaned, with shrinking heart, at the window.
He would have to leave São Joaneira’s house at once. He could not continue there in that state of easy familiarity, not now that he had behaved so boldly with Amélia.
She had not seemed particularly outraged, merely stunned; she had perhaps felt constrained by respect for the clergy, by politeness towards a guest, by consideration for Canon Dias’ friend. But she might tell her mother or the clerk . . . And the scandal that would ensue! He could already see the precentor crossing his legs and looking at him hard – the pose he always adopted when he was about to reprimand someone – then telling him gravely: ‘It is precisely this kind of irregularity that brings dishonour on the priesthood. I would expect no less from a satyr on Mount Olympus!’ They might exile him once more to the mountains. What would the Condesa de Ribamar say?
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 12