Then Natário appeared, looking radiant. He first vigorously shook everyone’s hand, then burst out in triumph:
‘You’ve heard then? The scoundrel and murderer has been driven away like a dog! Nunes has thrown him out, and Dr Godinho told me just now that he won’t let him set foot in the district government offices. So that’s him, dead and buried! It’s a relief to all decent people!’
‘And we owe it all to you, Father Natário!’ cried Dona Josefa Dias.
Everyone agreed. It had been his skill and cunning that had uncovered João Eduardo’s treachery and saved Amélia, Leiria and Society.
‘Whichever way the scoundrel turns, I’ll be there to block his path. I won’t let go of him as long as he’s in Leiria. What did I tell you, ladies? I said I would crush him and I have!’
His sallow face glowed. He leaned back in his armchair, taking a much-deserved rest after a difficult victory. Then turning to Amélia, he said:
‘Anyway, what’s done is done. All I can say is that you’ve rid yourself of an utter scoundrel!’
Then the congratulatory comments – which had been repeated over and over at length ever since she broke off her engagement to ‘the scoundrel’ – began with renewed enthusiasm.
‘It was the most virtuous thing you’ve done in your whole life!’
‘You were touched by the grace of God!’
‘You’re in a state of grace, child!’
‘Oh, so it’s St Amélia now, is it?’ said the Canon, getting up, bored with all this glorification. ‘I think we’ve talked about the scoundrel long enough. What about ordering the tea, eh?’
Amélia had said nothing, but was sewing rapidly, occasionally glancing anxiously up at Amaro; she was thinking about João Eduardo and about Natário’s threats; and she imagined João Eduardo gaunt with hunger, exiled, sleeping in doorways . . . And while the ladies were settling around the tea table, chatting, she managed to say quietly to Amaro:
‘I can’t bear the idea of him suffering. I know he’s acted wrongly, but . . . It’s like a thorn inside me. It makes me unhappy just to think of it.’
Father Amaro, revealing himself to be superior to the injury inflicted, said very kindly and in a lofty spirit of Christian charity:
‘My dear child, that’s nonsense. The man won’t die of hunger. No one dies of hunger in Portugal. He’s a healthy young man and not unintelligent; he’ll sort something out for himself. Don’t worry about it. That’s just bluster on Father Natário’s part. The man is sure to leave Leiria, and then we’ll hear no more about him. He’ll find a job somewhere. As for me, I’ve forgiven him and I’m sure God will bear that in mind.’
These generous words spoken in a low voice and accompanied by a loving look succeeded in reassuring her completely. Father Amaro’s clemency and charity seemed to her better than anything she had heard or read about in the lives of saints and pious monks.
After tea, over lotto, she sat next to him. She felt suffused by a sense of delicious happiness. Everything that had bothered and frightened her up until then: João Eduardo, marriage, duty, had finally disappeared from her life. João Eduardo would go away and find a job somewhere, and Father Amaro was there, entirely hers, utterly in love with her. Sometimes, beneath the table, their knees would tremulously touch; at one point, everyone protested loudly against Artur Couceiro, who had won for the third time running and was brandishing his winning card, and their hands met caressingly; their chests lifted with a slight simultaneous sigh, drowned out by the old ladies’ cackling; and they sat out the rest of the night, silently marking their cards, their faces ablaze, under the terrible pressure of a shared desire.
While the ladies were putting on their coats, Amélia went over to the piano and ran her fingers over the keys, and Amaro managed to murmur in her ear:
‘Oh, my dear, I love you so much . . . if only we could be alone together . . .’
She was about to reply when Natário, who was standing by the sideboard putting on his cloak, said in harsh, booming tones:
‘Why, I’m surprised you ladies allow such a book in the house!’
Surprised, everyone turned to look at the large bound volume that Natário was pointing at with the tip of his umbrella, as if at something truly abominable. Eyes glinting, Dona Maria da Assunção immediately came closer, imagining that it must be one of those novels she had heard about, describing immoral goings-on. Amélia joined her and, amazed at Natário’s reproving words, said:
‘But it’s a copy of Panorama, it’s an educational magazine . . .’
‘I can see that,’ said Natário sharply. ‘But I can see this too.’ And he opened the volume at the first blank page and read out loud: ‘“This book belongs to me, João Eduardo Barbosa, and helps to fill my leisure hours.” You don’t understand, do you? It’s quite simple really. You obviously don’t realise that ever since that man laid hands on a priest, he is ipso facto excommunicated, as are all the things that belong to him.’
The women instinctively drew back from the sideboard on which the fatal copy of Panorama lay open, huddling together with a shudder of fear at the idea of excommunication, which they imagined to be an unleashing of catastrophes, a shower of thunderbolts hurled from the hands of a vengeful God; and there they stood, dumbstruck, in a terrified semicircle around Natário, who, with his cloak over his shoulders and his arms folded, was enjoying the effect of his revelation.
Then São Joaneira, despite her fear, ventured to ask:
‘Are you serious, Father Natário?’
Natário grew indignant:
‘Am I serious? Please, São Joaneira! Would I joke about a case of excommunication, Senhora? Ask the Canon if I’m joking.’
All eyes turned on the Canon, that inexhaustible fount of all ecclesiastical knowledge.
Adopting the pedagogical air of his seminary days, which he always adopted when he spoke of doctrinal matters, he declared that Natário was absolutely right. Anyone who struck a priest, knowing that he was a priest, was ipso facto excommunicated. It is accepted doctrine. It is what is called automatic excommunication; it does not require a declaration from the Pope or from the bishop nor any ceremony for it to be considered valid and for all the faithful to consider the offender as excommunicated. They should, therefore, treat him as such, avoiding him and everything that belongs to him. Indeed, the Canon continued in sombre tones, this matter of laying sacrilegious hands on a priest was considered so special that the bull issued by Pope Martin V, which was intended to limit the number of cases of tacit excommunication, preserves it for anyone ill-treating a priest. He cited further papal bulls, the Constitutions of Innocence IX and of Alexander VII, the Apostolic Constitution, and other terrifying bits of legislation; he muttered Latin phrases that struck fear into the ladies’ hearts.
‘That is doctrine,’ he concluded, ‘but I think it might be best not to make too much of a fuss about it . . .’
Dona Josefa Dias said at once:
‘But we cannot put our souls at risk by coming across excommunicated objects on the tops of tables.’
‘We must destroy them!’ exclaimed Dona Maria da Assunção. ‘We must burn them, burn them!’
Dona Joaquina Gansoso dragged Amélia over to the window, asking if she had anything else belonging to the man. Amélia, confused, said that somewhere, though she couldn’t quite remember where, she did have a handkerchief, a single glove and a raffia cigarette case.
‘Onto the fire with them!’ shouted Dona Joaquina, greatly agitated.
The room echoed now with the shrill cries of the women, in the grip of a holy fury. Dona Josefa Dias and Dona Maria da Assunção, filled by an inquisitorial desire for an act of devout extermination, spoke eagerly about ‘the fire’, rolling the words around in their mouths. Amélia and Dona Joaquina were in Amélia’s bedroom hunting through drawers, through underwear, ribbons and bloomers for the ‘excommunicated items’. And São Joaneira was a frightened and astonished witness to this call for an auto-da-f�
� that had suddenly rung out in her own peaceful living room, and she clung to the Canon, who, after muttering something about ‘a private Inquisition’, had sunk back comfortably into his armchair.
‘I just want to make them aware that no one who shows disrespect for a priest goes unpunished,’ said Natário quietly to Amaro.
Amaro nodded silently, contented with that pious rage which was the noisy affirmation of the ladies’ love for him.
But Dona Josefa was growing impatient. She was holding the copy of Panorama with the corners of her shawl so as to avoid contagion, and she called into the bedroom, where the furious search through drawers was continuing:
‘Have you found them yet?’
‘Here they are!’
Dona Joaquina emerged triumphant, bearing the cigarette case, the old glove and the cotton handkerchief.
The clamouring women raced into the kitchen. Even São Joaneira followed them, as a good hostess, to watch over the bonfire.
Left alone, the three priests looked at each other and laughed.
‘Women are the very devil,’ said the Canon philosophically.
‘No, Father,’ said Natário, growing suddenly serious. ‘I’m laughing because although, seen from outside, it may look ridiculous, the sentiment behind it is good. It proves their true devotion to the priesthood, their horror of impiety. And that, after all, is an admirable sentiment.’
‘Oh, admirable,’ agreed Amaro, equally seriously.
The Canon got up.
‘And if they got hold of the man himself, they would be capable of burning him as well. I’m not joking; my sister has it in her to do that . . . She’s a veritable Grand Inquisitor in skirts that one.’
‘Yes, you’re right there,’ said Natário.
‘I can’t resist going to watch the execution,’ exclaimed the Canon. ‘I want to see it with my own eyes.’
And the three priests went to the kitchen door. There the ladies were, standing round the fire, still in their heavy outdoor clothes, caught in the violent light of the flames, in eerie silhouette. Ruça was on her knees, blowing feebly into the flames. They had used a large knife to slit the binding of the magazine, and the curled and blackened pages crackled and flew up the chimney, borne aloft on pale tongues of fire. Only the kid glove refused to burn. In vain they used tongs to push it into the hottest part of the fire: the flames merely charred it, reducing it to a shapeless, scorched lump, but it would not burn. Its resistance to the fire terrified the ladies.
‘It’s because it belonged to the very hand with which he committed the offence!’ declared Dona Maria da Assunção angrily.
‘Blow on it, girl, blow on it!’ advised the Canon from the doorway, vastly amused.
‘Please don’t make mock of serious things!’ cried Dona Josefa.
‘Sister, are you trying to give advice to a priest on burning a heretic? What arrogance! I’m telling you that you have to blow!’
Then, trusting in the Canon’s superior knowledge, Dona Joaquina and Dona Maria da Assunção crouched down and blew on the flames. The other women watched, silently smiling, their eyes shining and cruel, enjoying the sight of that extermination so pleasing in the eyes of the Lord. The fire, full of elegant energy, crackled and leapt, glorying in its old job as purifier of sins. Until at last, amongst the burning logs, nothing remained of the heretic’s copy of Panorama, the handkerchief or the glove.
At that same hour, the heretic, João Eduardo, was in his room, sitting at the foot of his bed, sobbing, his face bathed in tears, thinking about Amélia and the happy evenings spent in Rua da Misericórdia, about the city he was bound for, about the clothes he would have to pawn, and wondering vainly why they were doing this to him, when he had always been so hardworking, had never intended to harm anyone and so utterly adored Amélia.
XV
There was a sung mass at the Cathedral the following Sunday, and São Joaneira and Amélia walked across the square to fetch Dona Maria da Assunção, who never went out alone on market days or when there were a lot of ‘working people’ about, for fear that they might steal her jewels or insult her chastity.
On that morning, large crowds had indeed come in from the villages and were filling the square: serious-looking men with close-shaven faces and with their jackets slung over their shoulders stood around in groups, blocking the street; there were women in pairs, wearing a fortune in gold chains and gold hearts on their plump bosoms, and in the shops, the assistants bustled about behind counters laden with linen goods and fabrics; coarse voices emerged from the packed taverns; endless haggling went on in the market, amongst the sacks of flour, the piles of china and the baskets of corn bread; crowds of people flocked around the stalls that glinted with small round mirrors and overflowed with bunches of rosaries; old women sitting by trays of cakes cried their wares; and on street corners, the poor of the parish said mournful paternosters.
Ladies were already heading for mass, grave-faced and all dressed in silk, and the arcade was full of gentlemen, very erect in their new cashmere suits, smoking expensive cigarettes and enjoying their Sunday.
Amélia drew everyone’s eyes: the tax-collector’s bold son, who was with a group of friends, even said out loud: ‘Ah, she’s stolen my heart!’ As the two ladies were hurrying on down Rua do Correio, they saw Libaninho, wearing black gloves and a carnation in his buttonhole. He had not seen them since the ‘disgraceful incident outside the Cathedral’ and he immediately burst out in exclamations: Ladies, how terrible! That wicked clerk! He himself had been so busy that he had only been able to offer his commiserations to Father Amaro that very morning; the saintly creature had been putting on his vestments, but had received him with such kindness; he had asked to see Father Amaro’s shoulder and, praise God, there was not even a mark on it . . . And if only they could have seen for themselves what delicate flesh the Father has, such white skin . . . the skin of an archangel!
‘But do you know, ladies, I found him greatly upset.’
The two ladies were much alarmed. Why, Libaninho?
His maid Vicência had not been feeling well for some days and had been admitted into hospital early that morning with a high fever.
‘And there he is with no maid, nothing. Imagine! He’s all right today, because he’s having lunch with the Canon (I saw him today as well – what a saint!), but what about tomorrow and the day after? Vicência’s sister, Dionísia, is there at the moment, but I mean, Dionísia, really! That’s what I said to him: Dionísia could be a saint for all I know, but her reputation . . . the worst in Leiria. A shameless hussy who never sets foot in church. I’m sure the precentor wouldn’t approve.’
The two ladies agreed that Dionísia (a woman who ignored all the Church’s teachings and who had even performed in amateur theatricals) was definitely not a suitable maid for the parish priest . . .
‘Now, São Joaneira,’ said Libaninho, ‘do you know what I think? I’ve already said as much to Father Amaro . . . I think he should move back in with you. That way he will be somewhere comfortable with people who care about him, who will look after his clothes, who know his tastes and where he will be surrounded by virtue. Now, he didn’t say no and he didn’t say yes. But I could tell from his face that he was dying to do just that. You ought to talk to him yourself, São Joaneira!’
Amélia turned as red as her Indian silk scarf. And São Joaneira merely said ambiguously:
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t mention it . . . I’m very discreet in such matters . . . I’m sure you understand . . .’
‘But it would be like having a saint living in your house,’ urged Libaninho. ‘Just think of that! And it would suit everyone. I’m sure that even Our Lord would be happy to see it. Anyway, ladies, I must rush. Don’t delay now, it’s nearly time for mass.’
The two ladies walked on in silence to Dona Maria da Assunção’s house. Neither of them wanted to risk being the first to speak about the grave and unexpected possibility of Father Amaro returning to Rua da Misericórdia. It
was only when they had stopped and São Joaneira was ringing the doorbell, that she said:
‘Father Amaro really can’t have Dionísia as his housekeeper . . .’
‘No, just the thought of it is horrific!’
And that was exactly what Dona Maria da Assunção said when they told her briefly about Vicência’s illness and Dionísia’s temporary installation as housekeeper: horrific!
‘Not that I’ve met her, of course,’ said the excellent lady. ‘I’d even rather like to, because they say she is encrusted in sin from head to toe!’
São Joaneira then mentioned ‘Libaninho’s idea’. Dona Maria da Assunção said at once that it was an inspiration from Our Lord Himself, that Father Amaro should never have left Rua da Misericórdia! It was almost as if, as soon as he left, God had withdrawn His grace from the household . . . There had been nothing but problems – the article in The District Voice, the Canon’s stomach ache, the death of São Joaneira’s sister, that unfortunate marriage (which, oh horror, so very nearly took place), the incident outside the Cathedral . . . It was as if the house had been bewitched! And it was almost a sin to allow that sainted man to live amongst such disorder with that filthy woman Vicência, who didn’t even know how to darn a sock!
‘The best possible place for him is in your house. He has everything he needs there. And it’s a real honour for you, like being in state of grace with God. As I’ve always said, if I wasn’t on my own, I’d have him here as my lodger. This is the place for him . . . what a room, eh?’
And her eyes shone as she gazed around at her precious things.
The room was indeed crammed with a vast collection of holy objects and pious bric-a-brac: the tops of the two copper-hinged rosewood sideboards were crowded with Our Ladies dressed in blue silk, either protected under glass domes or poised on pedestals, as well as with curly-headed Baby Jesuses with fat bellies and one hand raised in blessing, St Anthonies in their habits, St Sebastians bristling with arrows, and bearded St Josephs. There were exotic saints, who were her pride and joy, and which she had had specially made in Alcobaça – St Paschal Baylon, St Didacus, St Chrysolius, St Gorislano . . . Then there were the scapulars, the rosaries made out of metal or olive stones and coloured beads, yellowing lace from ancient albs, hearts made from scarlet glass, cushions with the initials J.M. embroidered in sequins, palms from Palm Sunday, martyrs’ palms, packets of incense. The walls were entirely covered by pictures of Virgins of every devotion – balanced on orbs, kneeling at the foot of crosses or pierced by swords. And hearts dripping blood or on fire, hearts from which lightning sprang forth; framed prayers for certain much-loved festivals – ‘The Marriage of Our Lady’, ‘The Invention of the Holy Cross’, ‘The Stigmata of St Francis’, and, above all, ‘The Holy Virgin’s Confinement’, the most holy of all, which was suitable for Ember Days. The tables were full of small oil lamps ready lit so that they could be placed immediately in front of a particular saint when the good lady had a bout of sciatica or her catarrh got worse or she suffered from cramp. She herself tidied, dusted and polished that holy, heavenly population, that pious arsenal, which was barely enough for the salvation of her soul and the relief of any aches and pains. Her main concern was the positioning of the different saints; she was constantly changing them around because sometimes, for example, she sensed that St Eleutherius did not like being next to St Justin, and so she would hang his picture in a spot where he was in more sympathetic company. And there was a hierarchy amongst them too (drawn up according to the precepts of the ritual explained to her by her confessor) which bestowed on each of them different degrees of devotion, with less respect being due to St Joseph II than to St Joseph I. Such wealth was the envy of her friends and an edifying experience for curious visitors, and whenever Libaninho came to visit, he would cast a languorous look around the room and say: ‘Oh, my dear, it’s like the Kingdom of Heaven!’
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 29