‘Good heavens, Father! Do you mean that I and the other women will have to spend the night under the same roof as that heretic?’
‘I’m afraid so. After all, at the moment, the boy is still considered one of the family. Besides, Dona Josefa, you, Dona Maria and the Gansosos are people of great virtue, but we must not be proud of being virtuous. Indeed if we are, we risk losing all the fruits of that virtue. Mingling occasionally with bad people is an act of humility most pleasing to God; it is like a great nobleman standing side by side with a farm labourer . . . It is as if we were saying: “I am superior to you in virtue, but compared with what I must be in order to enter into glory, who knows, perhaps I am as great a sinner as you!” And that humility of soul is the best possible gift we can offer to Jesus.’
Dona Josefa was listening to him, rapt. Then she said admiringly:
‘Ah, Father, it almost makes one virtuous just to listen to you!’
Amaro bowed.
‘God, in His kindness, sometimes inspires me with the right words. But I mustn’t take up any more of your time. We’re agreed, then. You will speak to Amélia tomorrow and if, as is likely, she agrees to hear my advice, then bring her to the Cathedral on Saturday, at eight o’clock. And be firm with her, Dona Josefa!’
‘You leave it to me, Father. But aren’t you going to taste my quince jelly?’
‘I certainly am,’ said Amaro, and, picking up one of the slabs, he graciously took a bite.
‘I made it from Dona Maria’s quinces. It’s turned out much better than the jelly the Gansoso sisters made.’
‘Goodbye, then, Dona Josefa. By the way, what has the Canon to say about this business with the clerk?’
‘My brother?’
At that moment, the bell downstairs rang furiously.
‘That will be him now,’ said Dona Josefa. ‘And he’s obviously angry about something.’
The Canon had just returned from the farm, furious with the tenant, with the farm manager, the Government and the general perversity of men. Someone had stolen some onion sets, and he was venting his rage by gleefully repeating over and over the name of the Evil One.
‘Please, brother, it’s not nice!’ exclaimed Dona Josefa, seized by scruples.
‘Now, sister, you can leave such nonsense for Lent. I say “Devil take it!” and I’ll say it again. But I’ve told the tenant that if he sees or hears anyone on the farm, then he should load his shotgun and shoot them!’
‘People just don’t respect other people’s property these days,’ said Amaro.
‘People don’t respect anything!’ said the Canon. ‘And they were such lovely onion sets too, it did you good just to look at them. But that’s the way things are. That’s what I call sacrilege, utter sacrilege!’ he added earnestly, because the theft of his onion sets, a Canon’s onion sets, seemed to him as black an act of impiety as if someone had filched the holy vessels from the Cathedral.
‘It shows a lack of the fear of God and a lack of religion,’ remarked Dona Josefa.
‘What do you mean “a lack of religion”!’ retorted the Canon, exasperated. ‘A lack of policemen, more like!’ And turning to Amaro, he said: ‘It’s the old girl’s funeral today, isn’t it? So I’ve got that to deal with too! Oh, sister, go and get me a clean collar, will you, and my buckled shoes.’
Father Amaro returned then to his main concern:
‘We were just talking about this business with João Eduardo and the article in The District Voice!’
‘There’s another bit of knavery,’ the Canon riposted. ‘Honestly, there are some terrible people about, terrible.’ And he stood, arms crossed, eyes wide, as if contemplating a legion of monsters roaming the universe and blithely attacking reputations, the principles of the Church, the honour of families and the clergy’s onion sets.
As he left, Father Amaro went over the recommended plan of action with Dona Josefa, who accompanied him out onto the landing.
‘So today, it being a time for condolences, we’ll do nothing. Tomorrow, you’ll talk to Amélia and then bring her to me at the Cathedral on Saturday. Fine. And do your best to persuade the girl, Dona Josefa, and try to save that soul. God is watching you. Speak to her firmly . . . firmly, do you hear! And our Canon will explain things to São Joaneira.’
‘Don’t worry, Father. I’m her godmother, and whether she likes it or not, I’m going to set her on the road to salvation.’
‘Amen,’ said Father Amaro.
That night, Dona Josefa did indeed do nothing. It was the night of condolences in Rua da Misericórdia. They were all in the downstairs living room, which was dimly lit by a single candle hidden beneath a dark green shade. São Joaneira and Amélia, all in black, sat sadly on the sofa in the middle; on chairs ranged around the walls, their friends, sad-faced and dressed in deep mourning, sat in a dumb torpor, maintaining a funereal stillness; occasionally there would be the murmur of two voices, or a sigh would emerge from the shadows in one corner of the room; then Libaninho or Artur Couceiro would tiptoe over to trim the wick of the candle; Dona Maria da Assunção would mournfully clear her throat; and, in the ensuing silence, they would hear only the clatter of clogs over the cobbles or the poorhouse clock chiming the quarter hours.
At intervals, Ruça, who was also dressed in black, came in bearing a tray of cakes and tea; the shade would be removed from the candle, and the old ladies, whose eyelids were already drooping, would, in response to the sudden brightness in the room, immediately press their handkerchiefs to their eyes and then, sighing, help themselves to cakes.
Ignored by everyone, João Eduardo sat in one corner, near the deaf Gansoso sister, who was asleep with her mouth open; all night, in vain, his eyes sought those of Amélia, who did not move, her head bowed, her hands in her lap, alternately crumpling up and smoothing out her fine chambray handkerchief. Father Amaro and Canon Dias arrived at nine o’clock. Amaro went solemnly over to speak to São Joaneira:
‘It is a great blow, Senhora, but let us console ourselves with the thought that your excellent sister is now enjoying the company of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
There was a ripple of sobbing, and since there were no chairs left, the two clerics sat down on the sofa, on either side of São Joaneira and Amélia, who were both in tears. They were thus acknowledged as members of the family. Dona Maria da Assunção said quietly to Dona Joaquina Gansoso:
‘Isn’t it nice to see all four of them together.’
And so until ten o’clock, the evening continued in somnolent gloom, disturbed only by constant coughing from João Eduardo, who had a bad cold, although Dona Josefa Dias told everyone afterwards that ‘he was only doing it in order to make a mockery of the whole thing and out of a lack of respect for the dead’.
Two days later, at eight o’clock in the morning, Dona Josefa Dias and Amélia entered the Cathedral, having first spoken to Amparo, the pharmacist’s wife, whom they met outside; one of Amparo’s children had measles, and although it wasn’t anything very grave, she had come ‘just in case, to make a promise’.
It was a misty day, and the Cathedral was filled by grey light. Amélia, pale beneath her lace mantilla, stopped in front of the altar to Our Lady of Sorrows, fell to her knees and remained there motionless, her face resting on her prayer-book. Dona Josefa Dias, having first prostrated herself before the chapel of the Sacrament and before the high altar, padded over to the sacristy door and pushed it slowly open. Father Amaro was pacing about inside, shoulders bowed, hands behind his back.
‘Is she here?’ he asked at once, looking up at Dona Josefa, his restless eyes glittering in his closely shaven face.
‘She’s here,’ said Dona Josefa with quiet triumph. ‘I went to fetch her myself. I spoke to her firmly, Father, I didn’t spare her. Now it’s up to you.’
‘Thank you, thank you, Dona Josefa!’ said Amaro, squeezing both her hands hard. ‘God will not forget this.’
He looked about him nervously; he patted his pockets for his handkerchief an
d his notebook, then, quietly closing the door behind him, he went into the church. Amélia was still kneeling, a motionless black shape against the white pillar.
‘Psst,’ said Dona Josefa.
Amélia, very red-faced, got to her feet, tremulously arranging the folds of her mantilla around her face and neck.
‘I’ll leave her to you, Father,’ said Dona Josefa. ‘I’m going to see Amparo now, and I’ll come back for Amélia later. Off you go, child, off you go. And may God bring enlightenment to your soul.’
And she left, curtseying before all the altars as she went.
Carlos the pharmacist – who was one of the Canon’s tenants and rather behind with the rent – made a great show of doffing his cap when Dona Josefa appeared at the door, and he led her immediately upstairs to the curtained room where Amparo was sitting at the window sewing.
‘Don’t you worry about me, Senhor Carlos,’ said Dona Josefa. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your work. I’ve just left my goddaughter at the Cathedral and have popped in here to have a rest.’
‘Then if you’ll excuse me . . . How’s the Canon by the way?’
‘He hasn’t had any more pain, but he has had some dizzy spells.’
‘It’s the spring,’ said Carlos who was once more his majestic self, standing in the middle of the room, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat. ‘I’ve had the same thing. Sanguine people, like the Canon and myself, tend to suffer from what one might term the rising of the sap. There are many humours in the blood, which, if they are not eliminated through the proper channels, can, if I may put it like this, make various inroads into the body in the form of boils or pimples that often occur in the most uncomfortable places, and although, in themselves, insignificant, they are always accompanied, so to speak, by . . . But forgive me, it’s the practitioner in me speaking. Now if you’ll excuse me . . . My best regards to the Canon, and tell him to use James’s magnesium!’
Dona Josefa asked to see the little girl with the measles. But she did not go beyond the door of the room, urging the child, who stared at her from amidst the blankets with wide, feverish eyes, not to neglect her prayers morning and night. She suggested various miracle cures to Amparo, adding that if that promise of Amparo’s had been made with faith in her heart, then the child could consider herself as good as cured. Ah, every day she gave thanks to God that she had never married. Children bring nothing but work and worry, and what with the problems they cause and the time they take up, they were often the very reason why women neglected their religious duties and thus risked going to Hell . . .
‘You’re quite right, Dona Josefa,’ said Amparo. ‘They are a burden. And I’ve got five of them! Sometimes they drive me so wild that I just sit down here on this chair and have a good cry all by myself.’
They had gone back to the window and were enjoying themselves hugely by spying on the administrator who was in his office peering through his binoculars at the tailor’s wife. It was scandalous! They never used to have civil servants like that in Leiria. And then there was the secretary-general’s outrageous behaviour with Novais’ wife! But what could you expect from men with no religion, who had been brought up in Lisbon and who, according to Dona Josefa, were predestined to be consumed like Gomorrah by the fires of Heaven? Amparo continued her sewing, head bowed, ashamed perhaps, in the presence of such pious anger, of her longing to visit the Passeio Público in Lisbon and to hear the singers in the Teatro São Carlos.
But Dona Josefa quickly moved on to the subject of João Eduardo. Amparo knew nothing about it, and Dona Josefa had the satisfaction of giving her a blow-by-blow account of the history of the article, of the unfortunate events at Rua da Misericórdia, and Natário’s campaign to unmask the ‘Liberal’. She went into particular detail when it came to describing João Eduardo’s character, his lack of piety, his orgies . . . And, considering it her Christian duty to destroy the atheist utterly, she even implied that certain robberies committed recently in Leiria were also the work of João Eduardo.
Amparo declared herself to be ‘flabbergasted’. And what about his marriage to Amélia?
‘Oh, that’s all in the past now,’ declared Dona Josefa gleefully. ‘They’re going to put him out of the house! I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t hauled up before the magistrates. I think he should be myself, and so do my brother and Father Amaro . . . There are more than enough reasons to clap him in jail.’
‘But I thought Amélia was fond of him.’
Dona Josefa grew indignant. Amélia was a sensible, virtuous girl. The moment she had found out about his outrageous behaviour, she had been the first to reject him! She hated him now. And lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, Dona Josefa went on to say that it was a well-known fact that he lived with a woman of easy virtue over by the barracks.
‘Father Natário told me,’ she said. ‘And he is a man who only ever speaks the purest truth. He was considerateness itself with me . . . As soon as he knew, he came to see me at once to ask my advice. So thoughtful . . .’
Carlos reappeared at this point. There was no one in the pharmacy just then (he had barely been able to draw breath all morning!) and he had come up to keep the ladies company.
‘I suppose you’ve heard, Senhor Carlos,’ Dona Josefa said, ‘about this João Eduardo and the article in The District Voice?’
The pharmacist opened large, astonished eyes. What relation could there be between a vile article like that and an apparently honest young man?
‘Honest!’ wailed Dona Josefa. ‘He was the one who wrote it, Senhor Carlos!’
And seeing Carlos bite his lip in surprise, she again launched enthusiastically into the story of the ‘scandal’.
‘What do you think to that, Senhor Carlos?’
The pharmacist gave his opinion in a drawling voice laden with the authority of one possessed of vast knowledge.
‘I would say, as would all decent people, that it brings shame on Leiria. When I first read that article, I remarked then that religion is the basis of society, and to undermine it is, so to speak, to shake the very foundations of that edifice. It is a disgrace that we have living in this town these materialists and republicans, who, as everyone knows, want to destroy everything that exists; they say that men and women should behave as promiscuously as dogs . . . (Forgive me for expressing myself like that, but facts are facts.) They want the right to come into my house and take away my money and the sweat from my brow; they don’t believe in authority and, if you let them, they would spit on the sacred Host itself . . .’
Dona Josefa gave a little shriek and recoiled, shuddering.
‘And those people dare to speak of freedom. I myself am a liberal, though not, to be frank, a fanatical one. Just because a man is a priest, I don’t regard him as a saint, no . . . For example, I could never stand Father Miguéis. He was like a boa constrictor. I’m sorry, Dona Josefa, but he was. I told him so to his face. After all, we do have freedom of speech in this country . . . We spilt our blood in the trenches at Oporto precisely so that we could. I told him to his face. Sir, I said, you are a boa constrictor! Nevertheless, a man in a cassock does, generally speaking, deserve our respect. And that article, as I said, brings shame on Leiria. I’ll say this too: one should show no mercy to these atheists and republicans. I’m a peaceable man – Amparo here can vouch for that – but if I had to make up a prescription for a declared republican, I wouldn’t hesitate, instead of giving him one of those beneficial compounds that are the pride of our profession, I would send him a dose of prussic acid. No, no, I wouldn’t, of course . . . But if I was on a jury I would make sure the full weight of the law fell on him.’
And he swayed for a moment on the tips of his slippered toes, flinging out his arm as if expecting the applause of a district or municipal council in session.
However, the slow chimes of eleven o’clock came from the Cathedral, and Dona Josefa hurriedly wrapped herself up in her shawl in order to go and fetch Amélia, the poor thing, who must be tired of
waiting.
Carlos accompanied her to the door, again doffing his hat, telling her (as if he were sending the Canon some choice gift):
‘Tell the Canon what I had to say on the matter . . . Tell him that as regards that article and attacks on the clergy in general, I am heart and soul behind the clergy. Your servant, Senhora . . . The weather looks like it’s closing in.’
When Dona Josefa went into the church, Amélia was still in the confessional. Dona Josefa coughed loudly, knelt down, and with her hands covering her face, immersed herself in a prayer to Our Lady of the Rosary. The church was utterly still and silent. Then Dona Josefa turned to the confessional, peeping between her fingers; Amélia had not moved, she had her mantilla pulled forward over her face, and the skirt of her black dress trailed on the floor around her. Dona Josefa returned to her prayers. A fine rain was now beating against the windows of one of the side windows. At last, from the confessional came the creak of wood and the rustle of skirts on flagstones, and, turning around, Dona Josefa saw Amélia standing before her, her cheeks aflame and her eyes shining.
‘Have you been waiting long, Dona Josefa?’
‘Not very long. Are you ready, then?’
She got up, crossed herself, and the two women left the Cathedral. The fine rain was still falling, but Artur Couceiro, who had letters to deliver to the district government offices, accompanied them back to Rua da Misericórdia under his umbrella.
XIII
It was growing dark as João Eduardo was about to set off to Rua da Misericórdia with a roll of wallpaper samples under his arm for Amélia to choose from, when he found Ruça outside his door, about to ring the bell.
‘What’s wrong, Ruça?’
‘My mistresses won’t be at home tonight, and this is a letter from Miss Amélia.’
João Eduardo felt his heart contract, and he followed Ruça with wild eyes as she clacked down the street in her clogs. He went over to the lamp post opposite and opened the letter.
Senhor João Eduardo.
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 23