Those perpetual obstacles to the poor, lack of money and dependence on an employer, which even prevented them from publishing a pamphlet, made them turn on society.
‘There has to be a revolution!’ declared Gustavo. ‘Everything must be torn down, everything!’ And his grand sweeping gesture over the table indicated, in one formidable act of social levelling, the destruction of churches, palaces, banks, barracks and buildings owned by the likes of Godinho. ‘Another bottle of red, Osório!’
But Osório did not appear. Gustavo hammered as hard as he could with his knife handle on the table. Furious, he was finally forced to go out to the bar ‘to puncture the belly of that traitor who dared keep a citizen waiting like that’.
He found Osório with his hat off, smiling radiantly and chatting to the Barão de Via-Clara, who, as the elections drew near, had descended on the local taverns to shake hands with his friends. And the Baron looked magnificent in his gold-rimmed spectacles and his patent leather shoes, as he stood there on the tavern’s dirt floor, choking slightly at the acrid smell of boiled oil and sedimented wine.
When he saw him, Gustavo withdrew discreetly into the cubicle.
Finding João Eduardo in despair, his head in his hands, Gustavo called on him not to weaken. What did it matter? He had, after all, escaped marriage to a religious zealot . . .
‘But I want revenge on that villain!’ burst out João Eduardo, pushing his plate away from him.
‘Don’t you worry,’ promised Gustavo solemnly, ‘revenge cannot be far off!’
In a low voice he told him of ‘things being planned in Lisbon’. He had been told of the existence of a republican club whose membership included some very important people – that was in itself, he felt, a guarantee of triumph. The workers were also taking action . . . He himself – and he was so close to João Eduardo, who was now sprawled on the table, that his breath almost touched his face – had been chosen to join a section of the International that a Spaniard in Madrid was organizing; he had never actually seen the Spaniard, who went about in disguise because of the police, and the thing had failed because of a lack of funds . . . But there was a man who owned a butcher’s shop who had promised them a hundred mil réis . . . The army was in on it too: a chap with a big belly had been seen at a meeting and he’d been told on good authority that the man was a Major, and he certainly looked the part . . . All in all, taking all these elements into account, Gustavo was of the opinion that, within a matter of months, the government, the king, the aristocracy, the capitalists, the bishops and all those other monsters would be blown sky high!
‘And then we will be like little kings, my lad! Godinho, Nunes, the whole pack of them will be clapped in jail. I’ll throw Godinho in there myself. We’ll beat the priests into submission. And the people will at last be able to breathe freely!’
‘Yes, but until that happens . . .’ sighed João Eduardo, who was thinking bitterly that by the time the revolution arrived it would be too late to get Amélia back . . .
Osório came into the cubicle with a bottle of wine.
‘And about time too, my noble sir!’ said Gustavo sarcastically.
‘I may not belong to the same class, but at least they treat me with respect,’ Osório retorted, and his satisfaction seemed to make his belly swell.
‘What, for half a dozen votes?’
‘Eighteen in the parish and with hopes for nineteen. Can I get you gentlemen anything else? No? Well, never mind. Drink up!’
And he drew the curtain, leaving the two friends sitting before a full bottle of wine, dreaming of a revolution that would allow one of them to see Miss Amélia again and the other to give Dr Godinho a good drubbing.
It was nearly five o’clock when they finally left the cubicle. Osório, who took an interest in them because they were educated fellows, noticed at once, from the corner of the bar where he was poring over his newspaper, that they were both a bit tipsy, especially João Eduardo, with his hat pulled down and a scowl on his face: a man who couldn’t hold his drink, thought Osório, who did not know him well. But Gustavo, after his three litres of wine, was his usual jubilant self. A great lad! He was the one who was paying the bill and so he swayed over to the bar and clapped his two coins down on the bar.
‘Stick that in your coffers, Fatso!’
‘What a pity there are only two of them, Senhor Gustavo.’
‘Ah, you rascal! Do you imagine that the sweat of the people and their hard-earned cash is intended to fill the bellies of Philistines? Make sure you don’t lose them. For come the great settling of accounts, the man who will have the honour of piercing that great stomach of yours is Bibi here . . . Yes, I am Bibi . . . I am Bibi! Tell them, Joao, tell them who Bibi is . . .’
But João Eduardo wasn’t listening; with an angry frown on his face, he was mistrustfully eyeing a drunk seated before an empty litre bottle of wine at a table at the rear; with his chin resting on the palm of one hand and his pipe between his teeth, he was staring at the two friends open-mouthed.
Gustavo dragged João over to the bar.
‘Tell Osório here who Bibi is. Who is Bibi? Take a good look at this lad, Osório. The boy’s got talent and he’s one of the best. I’ll tell you something. He could put a stop to absolute Papal authority with just two strokes of his quill. He’s one of us! And we’re friends for life, we are! Stop working out the bill, my fat friend, and listen to what I’m saying. He’s one of the best. And if he should ever come back here and want two litres of wine on credit, be sure to give it to him . . . Bibi here will take care of everything.’
‘Right,’ began Osório, ‘so it was two fried livers, two salads . . .’
But the drunk had managed to heave himself up from his bench, and, pipe in mouth, belching loudly, he came and stood unsteadily in front of Gustavo and held out his hand.
Gustavo looked down at him with some distaste.
‘What do you want? I bet it was you who shouted out: “Long live Pius IX” a while ago. You traitor . . . Remove your hand!’
Finding himself rejected, the drunk merely grunted, and bumping into João Eduardo, offered him his outstretched hand instead.
‘Go away, you brute!’ said João Eduardo roughly.
‘Just wanna be friends . . .’ mumbled the drunk.
And he did not go away, but stood there still proffering his five fingers and filling the air with his foul breath.
Furious, João Eduardo pushed him hard against the bar.
‘Now, I’ll have no fist-fights in here!’ exclaimed Osório sternly. ‘I want no violence.’
‘Well, he should leave me alone, then,’ growled João Eduardo. ‘I’ll do the same to you if you don’t watch it . . .’
‘Anyone who doesn’t behave himself will be thrown out,’ said Osório very gravely.
‘Who’s going to be thrown out?’ João Eduardo roared, drawing himself up and shaking his fist. ‘Go on, tell me, who? Who do you think you’re talking to?’
Osório did not reply; he was leaning on the bar, revealing the two enormous arms which ensured that his tavern remained a peaceful place.
Gustavo took charge and placed himself between them, declaring that they should both behave like gentlemen. This was no time for arguments and harsh words. It was all right to make fun and to joke with your friends, but always in a gentlemanly fashion. And, after all, they were all of them gentlemen.
He dragged a grumbling, resentful João Eduardo off into a corner.
‘Come on, João!’ he said, gesticulating wildly, ‘that’s no way for an educated man to behave!’
Manners must be maintained! Impulsive, drunken behaviour meant an end to jollity, society and fraternity.
He turned to Osório, speaking to him nervously over his shoulder:
‘I’ll answer for him, Osório. He’s a gentleman, but he’s had a few upsets lately and he’s not used to drinking, that’s all it is! But he’s one of the best . . . really. Please accept my apologies on his behalf.’
He led João Eduardo back to the bar and persuaded him to shake Osório’s hand. Osório declared warmly that he had not wanted to insult him. They shook hands vehemently. To consolidate their reconciliation, Gustavo ordered three white rums. João Eduardo, in a generous mood, ordered a round of brandies too. And with the drinks lined up on the bar, they exchanged friendly words and addressed each other as ‘gentleman’. Meanwhile, forgotten in his corner, sprawled on the table, head on his fists, nose pressed against the wine bottle, the drunk was quietly dribbling, his pipe still clenched between his teeth.
‘That’s what I like to see!’ said Gustavo, whom the brandy had made maudlin. ‘Harmony! I just love harmony. Harmony amongst friends and amongst all humanity. I’d like to see the whole human race sit down to a banquet, with no guns, but with plenty of jokes, and make decisions together on all the important social questions. And that day is not far off, Osório. They’re preparing for it right now in Lisbon. And Osório will supply the wine! A nice little deal, eh? You have to admit I’m a good friend.’
‘Thank you, Senhor Gustavo, thank you . . .’
‘That’s just between you and me, eh, gentlemen’s agreement and all that. And as for him,’ he embraced João Eduardo, ‘he’s like a brother to me! Friends for life, we are! Enough of being sad, boy. We’ve got that pamphlet to write. Godinho and Nunes . . .’
‘That Nunes, just let me at him!’ yelled João Eduardo who, after drinking the rum toasts, seemed in a more sombre mood.
Two soldiers came in, and Gustavo judged that it was time he was getting back to the printing press. Otherwise, they’d be there all day, for the rest of their lives! But work is duty, work is virtue.
After shaking hands once more with Osório, they finally left. At the door, Gustavo again swore his brotherly loyalty to João Eduardo, made a gift to him of his tobacco pouch, then, hat pushed back on his head, he disappeared round the corner, singing ‘The Hymn to Work’.
Left alone, João Eduardo immediately set off to Rua da Misericórdia. When he reached São Joaneira’s door, he carefully stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe, then tugged fiercely at the rope on the door bell.
Ruça came running down.
‘Where’s Amélia? I want to talk to her.’
‘The ladies have gone out,’ said Ruça, alarmed by Senhor João’s manner.
‘You’re lying, you hussy!’
Terrified, the girl slammed the door shut.
João Eduardo went and leaned against the wall opposite, arms folded, watching the house; the windows were closed, as were the curtains; two of the Canon’s snuff handkerchiefs were drying on the balcony.
He returned to the front door and knocked gently this time. Then he again rang the bell furiously. No one came, and so he stalked off to the Cathedral.
As he emerged into the square in front of the church, he stopped and looked around him, frowning; but the square seemed empty; a small boy sitting on the front step outside Carlos’ pharmacy was holding the bridle of a mule laden with grass; chickens wandered about here and there pecking voraciously at the ground; the door of the church was closed, and all one could hear was the sound of hammering from a nearby house undergoing renovations.
João Eduardo was just about to walk on down to the Alameda when, from the sacristy side of the church appeared Father Silvério and Father Amaro, engaged in quiet conversation.
The clock struck the quarter hour, and Father Silvério paused to check his watch. Then the two priests both looked knowingly up at the administrator’s open window, where, in the shadows, they could make out the figure of the administrator with his binoculars trained on the house of Teles the tailor. They went down the Cathedral steps, shoulder to shoulder, laughing, amused by that passion which was the talk of Leiria.
Just then Father Amaro saw João Eduardo standing in the middle of the square. He turned, doubtless intending to go back into the Cathedral in order to avoid the encounter, but seeing that the door was shut, he decided to continue on, eyes lowered, beside Father Silvério, who was calmly taking out his box of snuff. Without a word, João Eduardo leaped forward and dealt Father Amaro a forceful blow on the shoulder.
Stunned, Father Amaro feebly brandished his umbrella.
‘Help!’ shouted Father Silvério, stepping back, his arms in the air. ‘Help!’
A man came running over from the municipal council offices and grabbed João Eduardo’s collar.
‘I’ve got him!’ he roared. ‘I’ve got him!’
‘Help! Help!’ shouted Father Silvério from a safe distance.
Windows round the square were flung open. A startled Amparo wearing a white petticoat appeared on the balcony above the pharmacy; Carlos, still in his slippers, rushed out from his laboratory; and the administrator gesticulated from his window, binoculars in hand.
Then Domingos, the notary, emerged from the municipal council building, looking very sombre, still with his oversleeves on, and he and a policeman led a pale, unresisting João Eduardo back into the office.
Carlos was quick to usher Father Amaro into the pharmacy; he made a great fuss about mixing up some orange flower and ether, shouted up to his wife to prepare a bed . . . He wanted to examine Father Amaro’s shoulder, was there any swelling?
‘Thank you, it’s nothing,’ said Amaro, who was very white. ‘It’s nothing, just a scratch. A drink of water will be fine . . .’
Amparo, however, thought a glass of port would do him more good, and she ran upstairs to fetch it, saying repeatedly ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’, tripping over the children who were clinging to her skirts, and explaining on the stairs to the maid that someone had tried to kill the parish priest!
People had gathered round the pharmacy door to gawp; one of the carpenters who was working nearby said that it had definitely been a knife attack; and an old lady at the back was pushing and shoving and craning her neck in order to see the blood. Finally, at the request of Father Amaro, who feared a scandal, Carlos went over to the door and said majestically that he did not want a riot outside his premises. Father Amaro was feeling better. It had merely been a punch, a scratch . . . He would take care of him.
And when the mule outside began to bray, Carlos turned indignantly to the small boy looking after it and said:
‘Aren’t you ashamed after a distressing incident like this – distressing for the whole town – to be sitting there with a creature that does nothing but bray? Go away, you insolent boy, go away!’
He advised the two priests to go upstairs to the sitting room, away from ‘the prying eyes of the populace’. And Amparo soon appeared with two glasses of port, one for Father Amaro, the other for Father Silvério, who flopped down on one end of the sofa, still terrified and emotionally exhausted.
‘I’m fifty-five years old,’ he said, having drained the last drop of port from his glass, ‘and this is the first time I have ever been involved in a fracas.’
Father Amaro, who was feeling calmer now, put on a brave front and said jokingly to Father Silvério:
‘Oh, it wasn’t such a tragedy, my friend . . . And I don’t know about it being your first time either . . . Everyone knows that once you came to blows with Father Natário.’
‘Ah, yes,’ exclaimed Silvério, ‘but that was between priests, my friend!’
Amparo, who was still shaking, refilled Father Amaro’s glass and wanted to know ‘the details, all the details’.
‘There are no details, Senhora, I was walking along with my colleague, chatting, and the man came over to me, caught me unawares, and punched me on the shoulder.’
‘But why? Why?’ exclaimed Amparo, clasping her hands in amazement.
Then Carlos gave his opinion. Only a matter of days ago, he had said, in the presence of Amparo and Dona Josefa, the excellent Canon Dias’ sister, that all these materialistic, atheistic ideas were leading young people to dangerous extremes . . . Little had he known then how prophetic his words would prove to be!
‘Look at t
his young man, for example! He begins by forgetting all Christian duty (so Dona Josefa told us), he associates with ne’er-do-wells, he sits in bars and makes fun of dogma, he publishes abject attacks on religion in the newspapers . . . Finally, in an atheistic rage, at the very doors of the Cathedral, he hurls himself upon an exemplary priest (and I’m not just saying that because you’re here, Father) and tries to murder him! Now what, I ask, lies at the bottom of all this? Hatred, pure hatred for the religion of our fathers!’
‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s the truth of the matter,’ sighed Father Silvério.
But Amparo, who was indifferent to the philosophical causes of the crime, was burning with curiosity to know what would be going on at the municipal council buildings, what João Eduardo would say, whether they would have put him in irons . . . Carlos immediately offered to go and find out.
Besides, he said, it was his duty as a man of science to explain to the magistrate the possible consequences of a blow to the delicate clavicle area (although, God be praised, there appeared to have been no fracture or swelling), and he wanted, above all, to assure the authorities, so that they could take appropriate action, that the attempted beating was not an act of personal revenge. What could Father Amaro possibly have done to Nunes’ clerk? It was the result of a vast conspiracy of atheists and republicans against the priesthood of Christ!
‘Seconded! Seconded!’ said the two priests gravely.
‘And that is what I intend to prove to the administrator.’
In his zeal as indignant conservative, he was about to set off in the slippers and jacket he wore in the laboratory, but Amparo caught up with him in the corridor.
‘At least put your frock coat on; you know how formal the administrator is!’
She herself helped him on with it, while Carlos, his imagination working furiously (that wretched imagination of his which, as he himself said, often gave him headaches), prepared his statement, which would cause an enormous stir in the town. He would stand up to speak. The room in the municipal council building would be crammed with the paraphernalia of justice; the administrator would be sitting gravely at his desk, the personification of Order; around him would be the amanuenses busy with official papers; and the prisoner would be standing opposite them in the traditional attitude of all political prisoners, arms folded, head held high, defying death. Then he, Carlos, would enter and say to the administrator: ‘I have come here spontaneously to place myself at the service of social justice!’
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 27