A sudden ring on the doorbell startled them all; coming up the stairs was the sound of rapid footsteps which paused in the living room below, then Ruça came in to say that it was Father Natário, who preferred not to come up, but would like a word with the Canon.
‘This is an odd time to deliver private messages,’ grumbled the Canon, levering himself reluctantly out of the comfortable depths of his armchair.
Amélia closed the piano, and São Joaneira put down her knitting and went to the top of the stairs to listen; outside, the wind was blowing hard and they could hear the retreat being sounded on the other side of the square.
Then the Canon called up:
‘Father Amaro!’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Come down here, will you, and tell São Joaneira that she can come too.’
São Joaneira went slowly down the stairs, much alarmed; Amaro assumed that Father Natário must have found out who the ‘Liberal’ was.
The little room seemed very cold and was lit only by the feeble light of the candle on the table; and on the wall, from an old, very dark painting – which the Canon had recently given to São Joaneira – loomed the pale face of a monk and a large skull.
Canon Dias had sat down on one end of the sofa and was reflectively taking a pinch of snuff; Natário, who was striding about the room, exclaimed:
‘Good evening, Senhora! Hello there, Amaro! I have come with news! I didn’t want to come upstairs because I assumed the clerk would be there, and these things are strictly between ourselves. As I was saying to Canon Dias . . . Father Saldanha has been to see me, and things are looking bad.’
Father Saldanha was the precentor’s confidant. And Father Amaro asked with some concern:
‘Bad for us, you mean?’
Natário solemnly raised one arm and said:
‘Primo: Father Brito has been moved to the parish of Amor near Alcobaça, to the mountains, to the back of beyond . . .’
‘No!’ exclaimed São Joaneira.
‘It’s all the doing of that so-called “Liberal”. Our worthy precentor took his time to ponder that article in The District Voice, and now he’s acted. Poor old Brito has been exiled.’
‘Well, you know what people said about the administrator’s wife . . .’ murmured São Joaneira.
‘Now then!’ the Canon broke in severely. ‘Now then, Senhora! This is not a gossip shop . . . Continue, Father Natário.’
‘Secundo,’ went on Natário, ‘as I was about to say to Canon Dias, the precentor, in view of the article and other attacks in the press, has decided, as Father Saldanha put it, “to review the behaviour of the diocesan clergy”. He very much disapproves of priests socialising with women . . . He wants an explanation regarding these dandified priests tempting pretty young girls . . . In short, in His Excellency’s words, he is determined “to cleanse the Augean stables”, which, put plainly, Senhora, means that there’s going to be an almighty fuss.’
There was a shocked silence. And Natário, standing in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, asked loudly:
‘So what do you think of that, eh?’
The Canon got slowly to his feet:
‘Look, Father Natário, things may not be as bad as they seem . . . And don’t you stand there looking like a Mater Dolorosa either, São Joaneira. Off you go and order the tea, that’s what matters.’
‘As I said to Father Saldanha . . .’ began Natário, about to launch into another peroration.
But the Canon stopped him abruptly in his tracks:
‘Father Saldanha is a pedant and a fool! Let’s go upstairs and have some toast, and remember, not a word of this to the young people.’
Tea was a silent affair. The Canon, frowning deeply, uttered an outraged sigh with every mouthful of toast; São Joaneira, having mentioned that Dona Maria da Assunção had a bad cold, grew sad and leaned her head on her hands; Natário paced about, creating quite a breeze in the room with the skirts of his long coat.
‘So when’s this wedding to be?’ he said suddenly, stopping in front of Amélia and João Eduardo, who were having their tea by the piano.
‘Soon,’ she said, smiling.
Then Amaro got up slowly and, consulting his silver fob watch, said dully:
‘It’s time I was getting back to Rua das Sousas.’
But São Joaneira wouldn’t hear of it. Honestly, anyone would think someone had died. Why didn’t they have a game of lotto to distract them? The Canon, however, emerged from his torpor to say severely:
‘You’re quite wrong, Senhora, no one here is in the least bit sad. We only have reasons to be glad. Isn’t that so, João Eduardo?’
João Eduardo fidgeted and smiled:
‘Well, I certainly only have reasons to be glad.’
‘Of course,’ said the Canon. ‘Now I’ll bid you all good night. I’m off to play lotto in the land of Nod. And so is Amaro.’
Amaro went over and silently shook Amélia’s hand, then the three priests went down the stairs in silence.
In the sitting room below, the candle was burning down. The Canon went in to get his umbrella, and then, beckoning to the others, slowly closed the door. He said quietly:
‘I didn’t want to frighten São Joaneira, but this business with the precentor and all the gossip that’s flying around could prove disastrous.’
‘We must take great care,’ counselled Natário in a low voice.
‘Yes, it certainly looks bad,’ murmured Amaro sombrely.
They were standing up in the middle of the room. Outside, the wind was howling; the skull in the painting was thrown first into darkness then into light by the flickering candle flame; and upstairs Amélia was gaily singing ‘Chiquita’.
Amaro recalled other happy nights when he, carefree and triumphant, would make the ladies laugh, and Amélia would turn her languid gaze on him as she sang: ‘Ay, chiquita que sí . . .’
‘As you know,’ said the Canon, ‘I have enough to eat and drink, so I’m all right, but what matters is upholding the honour of the priesthood.’
‘There’s no doubt,’ added Natário, ‘that if there’s another article and more gossip, the thunderbolt will fall . . .’
‘Poor old Brito,’ muttered Amaro, ‘exiled to the back of beyond.’
Someone must have made a joke upstairs because they could hear the clerk laughing.
Amaro snorted bitterly:
‘Well, they’re certainly enjoying themselves.’
They went downstairs. As Natário opened the front door, a gust of fine rain struck him full in the face.
‘What a night!’ he exclaimed angrily.
The Canon was the only one with an umbrella, and opening it slowly, he said:
‘Well, it looks like we’re in for a soaking . . .’
From the brightly lit upstairs window came the sounds of the piano, the accompaniment to ‘Chiquita’. The Canon huffed and puffed, clinging on to his umbrella in the wind; beside him, Natário ground his teeth furiously and drew his coat about him; Amaro walked along, head bowed, exhausted and defeated; and as the three priests, huddling together under the Canon’s umbrella, squelched through the puddles along the dark street, the loud, drenching rain beat ironically against their backs.
XI
A few days later, the gentlemen who used to gather at the pharmacy in the square were astonished to see Father Natário and Dr Godinho standing at the door of the ironmonger’s shop engaged in harmonious conversation. The tax-collector – to whom everyone deferred on matters of foreign policy – observed them closely through the glass door of the pharmacy and declared in grave tones that he could not be more surprised than if he had seen Victor Emmanuel and Pius IX out walking arm in arm.
The town’s surgeon, however, was unsurprised by that ‘exchange of friendship’. According to him, the last article in The District Voice, which had obviously been written by Dr Godinho himself (it was his incisive style, so full of logic, so crammed with erudition!), showed that
the members of the Maia Group wanted closer links with those running the poorhouse. Dr Godinho (as the surgeon put it) was currying favour with the district government and the diocesan clergy; the closing words of the article were significant – ‘it is not our place to argue with the clergy over how best they should carry out their divine mission’.
The truth was (as an obese fellow called Pimenta remarked) that, although they had not yet made their peace, they were in negotiations, for, very early the previous morning, he had seen with his own eyes Father Natário leaving the office of The District Voice.
‘Come on, Pimenta, you’re making it up!’
Pimenta drew himself up majestically, gave a grave tug at the waistband of his trousers, and was just about to deliver an indignant riposte, when the tax-collector came to his aid:
‘No, no, Pimenta’s quite right. The other day I saw that rascal Agostinho doff his hat to Father Natário. Natário is up to something, that’s for sure. I’m a great one for watching people . . . For example, Father Natário, who never used to come here to the arcade, is always nosing around the shops now. Then there’s his sudden friendship with Father Silvério . . . They’re always to be seen together in the square when the Angelus is rung. And it’s all to do with Dr Godinho and his followers. Father Silvério is Godinho’s wife’s confessor. You see, it all fits!’
Father Natário’s recent friendship with Father Silvério had indeed been much commented upon. Only five years earlier in the Cathedral sacristy there had been scandalous scenes between the two clergymen. Natário had launched himself at Father Silvério, brandishing an umbrella, and was only stopped by good Canon Sarmento, who, his face bathed in tears, had grabbed Natário’s cassock and cried: ‘No, dear colleague, this will be the ruin of religion!’ Natário and Silvério had not spoken since, much to Silvério’s dismay, for he was a kindly, dropsically obese fellow, and, according to his confessants, ‘he was all affection and forgiveness’. But small, gaunt Natário clung to his rancour. When Precentor Valadares took over the running of the See, he called them in and, having eloquently reminded them both of the need to ‘maintain peace in the Church’ and having mentioned the touching example of Castor and Pollux, he had propelled Natário gravely and tenderly into the arms of Father Silvério, who, much moved, held him for a moment clasped to his vast chest and stomach, murmuring:
‘We are all brothers, we are all brothers!’
But Natário, whose hard, coarse nature, like cardboard, never lost its folds, always spoke to Father Silvério in sullen tones; if they met in the Cathedral or the street, he would slip past him with a curt nod, muttering: ‘At your service, Father Silvério!’
One rainy afternoon, two weeks ago, however, Natário had paid an unexpected visit to Father Silvério, on the pretext of sheltering from a sudden downpour.
‘I also wanted to ask you for your remedy for earache because one of my nieces is being driven almost mad with it!’
Overjoyed to be able to put to use his studies in household remedies, and doubtless forgetting that he had seen Natário’s two nieces that very morning, looking as healthy and happy as two house sparrows, good Silvério quickly wrote down the recipe and said with a broad smile:
‘What a pleasure it is to see you here again in what I hope you consider to be your house!’
This reconciliation was so public that the Barão de Vila-Clara’s brother-in-law, a graduate with considerable poetic gifts, wrote on the subject in one of his many satires, which he called Barbs, and which were passed around in manuscript form from house to house, much savoured and much feared; he entitled the poem ‘The Famous Reconciliation between the Monkey and the Whale’, obviously having in mind the physical appearance of the two priests. It was indeed a common sight now to see Father Natário’s slight figure gesticulating and hopping about beside Father Silvério’s enormous, slow bulk.
One morning, even the employees standing on the balcony of the municipal council offices (which were, at the time, opposite the Cathedral) had great fun observing the two priests strolling about on the square in the warm May sunshine. The administrator – who spent his office hours gazing from his balcony through a pair of binoculars at the wife of Teles the tailor – had suddenly burst out laughing; the notary Borges immediately ran to the balcony, quill in hand, to see what the administrator was laughing at, and then, snorting with amusement, he, in turn, called to Artur Couceiro, who was busily copying out a song from a magazine in order to practise it later on the guitar; even the stern and dignified amanuensis Pires joined them, pulling his silk cap down over his ears, terrified as he was of draughts; and the whole group gazed, wide-eyed, at the two priests, who were standing outside the Cathedral. Natário seemed very excited about something; he was clearly trying to persuade or incite Father Silvério to action, and he stood there on tiptoe in front of him, frantically waving his bony hands about. Then, suddenly, he grabbed Father Silvério by one arm and dragged him the length of the paved square; when they reached the end, he drew back, made a sweeping gesture of utter desolation, as if attesting to the possible ruin not only of himself, but of the Cathedral beside them, the city and the whole universe; kindly Silvério, eyes bulging, looked absolutely terrified. And then they resumed their walk. But Natário again grew agitated; he would abruptly step back or poke Silvério’s vast stomach with one bony finger, then stamp furiously on the polished flagstones, and just as suddenly, arms hanging loose by his sides, slump into despair. Then good Silvério spoke for a moment, his hand pressed to his bosom; immediately, Natário’s sallow face lit up; he gave a little skip, patted his colleague joyfully on the shoulder, and the two priests went into the Cathedral, arm in arm and laughing softly.
‘Ridiculous creatures!’ said Borges, who hated priests.
‘I bet you it’s about that newspaper article,’ said Artur Couceiro, resuming his lyrical work. ‘Natário won’t rest until he’s found out who wrote it; he said so at São Joaneira’s house. And he’s on to a good thing with Silvério, because he’s confessor to Dr Godinho’s wife.’
‘Scum!’ growled Borges in disgust. And he continued slowly writing the document he was composing, despatching to Alcobaça the numbed and hopeless prisoner sitting on a bench at the far end of the room between two soldiers, his wrists manacled, his face bearing the marks of hunger.
Some days later, a service was held in the Cathedral for the lying in state of the rich landowner Morais, who had died of an aneurism, and to whom his wife was giving, as people said, ‘a funeral fit for a king’ (doubtless as a penance for the grief she had caused him by her unbridled passion for lieutenants in the infantry). Amaro had removed his vestments and, by the light of an old brass oil lamp in the sacristy, was catching up on some paperwork, when the oak door creaked open and Natário’s agitated voice said:
‘Amaro, is that you?’
‘Yes, what’s wrong?’
Father Natário closed the door, threw wide his arms and said:
‘Great news! It’s the clerk!’
‘What clerk?’
‘João Eduardo! It’s him. He’s the “Liberal”! He was the one who wrote the article!’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Amaro, astonished.
‘I’ve got proof, my friend. I saw the original written in his own hand. I actually saw it. Five whole sheets of paper.’
Amaro was staring at Natário, wild-eyed.
‘It was hard work,’ said Natário, ‘but I’ve found out everything! Five sheets of paper! And he wants to write another one. Senhor João Eduardo, our dear friend Senhor João Eduardo!’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Sure? I’m telling you I saw it, man!’
‘And how did you find out, Natário?’
Natário bowed, and with his head down, he said very slowly:
‘Ah, as for that, my friend . . . The whys and wherefores . . . You understand I’m sure. Sigillus magnus!’
And then, his voice shrill with triumph, he strode up and down the
sacristy.
‘But that’s not all! The Senhor João Eduardo we used to see in São Joaneira’s house, apparently such a nice lad, is and always has been a complete rogue! He’s a close friend of Agostinho, the scoundrel who edits The District Voice. He’s there at the office until the early hours of the morning . . . An orgy of wine and women . . . And he boasts that he’s an atheist . . . He hasn’t been to confession for six years. He refers to us as a “priestly rabble”. He’s a republican. A brute, dear Amaro, an utter brute!’
As he listened to Natário, Amaro, with trembling hands, was fumblingly putting away papers in the drawer of his desk.
‘And now what?’ he asked.
‘Now?’ replied Natário. ‘Now we destroy him!’
Amaro closed the drawer and, nervously dabbing at his dry lips with his handkerchief, said:
‘The brute . . . And the poor girl . . . how can she marry a man like that . . . a libertine!’
The two men looked at each other hard. In the silence, the old sacristy clock continued its sad tick-tock. Natário took his snuffbox from his trouser pocket and with his eyes still fixed on Amaro, the pinch of snuff between his fingers, he said with a cold smile:
‘We should stop the marriage, don’t you think?’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Amaro urgently.
‘My dear colleague, it’s a matter of conscience . . . For me, it’s a question of duty. We can’t let the poor young thing marry a scoundrel, a freemason, an atheist . . .’
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 20