He moved through the crowd to the Spanish Pavilion. The building was small compared to the monumental buildings of the Soviet Union and Germany.
A crowd lingered, appreciating the sculpture next to the entrance, and Father Manuel moved forward to read the plaque. “The Spanish people have a path, it leads to a star,” it read.
Near the door a poster was displayed, but the words were in French. Father Manuel turned to a man standing at the entrance. “Excuse me, señor, can you read that?”
The man peered up through his glasses and cleared his throat. “More than half a million Spaniards are standing ready with their bayonets in the trenches; they will not be walked over. The words come from President Azana.” The man clicked his tongue. “Poor amigos,” the man commented. “I left Spain as a young boy, but my heart is still with her. I’ve been waiting for weeks to see Picasso’s work Guernica.”
“Excuse me,” Father Manuel asked. “What did you say?”
“Guernica. That is the title of his painting, named after the atrocious bombing. Picasso himself has painted her destruction. It is the main attraction.”
Father Manuel pushed ahead without commenting. Entering, he noted people walking around a small fountain. They moved toward a huge canvas that filled the back wall. With eager steps he neared as close as the crowd allowed.
Tears filled his eyes as he noted the faces of the people, the animals, caught in the horror. The disemboweled screaming horse in the centerpiece. The dead woman fallen beneath it. The anguished hands and faces lifted skyward. There were no planes, but the reality of their presence was clear. Though Picasso had painted them in his familiar abstract, cubist style, the horror of the people could not be denied.
“So I see you’ve stayed, after all?”
Father Manuel didn’t need to turn his head. He recognized the voice of the young man who had first helped him when he ’d arrived in France—Berto, the one who’d taken him to Picasso’s loft.
“I had no choice.”
Berto didn’t respond, but simply placed a hand on Father Manuel’s shoulder. Despite himself, the priest shivered at the touch. It was one of compassion and authority, a strange combination, if he said so himself.
“Are you ready to return to Spain?”
“Yes, I believe I am. But . . .” Father Manuel finally turned, meeting the young man’s gaze. “Do you think they will listen? I mean these people—” He swept his arm around the pavilion. “They view, but do they truly see? Do they know? Or have they only come because the name Picasso causes a stir?”
“That is a good question. One I cannot answer.” Berto readjusted the red scarf with the Spanish national flag he had tied around his neck. “We do what we can to show them, to tell them, but in the end each person must make his own decision.”
Father Manuel let out a low sigh. It was the same thing he felt God speaking to his soul. He was not responsible for the response of the people, only for his own actions. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that had always been the case. Even with Christ himself. Christ had offered His body as a sacrifice in obedience to His Father’s will, but He didn’t force any man to listen, to see, to follow. Each man made his own decision. And if Christ obeyed, knowing this, how could a priest do any less?
“Yes, I will share my story the best I can. When do you need me?”
“Tomorrow is fine. I have some work to complete today. My cousin has just arrived in town. But tomorrow I will meet you. I will tell you about the plan for traveling back. We can meet here around this same time, if that suits you?”
Berto made the sign of this cross, then looked toward the back of the building where someone had obviously caught his attention.
Father Manuel looked and saw two men standing there. He wondered if one of them was Berto’s cousin. “Yes, of course. See you then. God be with you.”
With quick steps the young man was gone. Yet even though Father Manuel promised to speak, he still could not shake the nagging feeling that more would be asked of him.
He stood there, feet planted, watching those who moved around him. A man with a camera—an eager tourist—stood a few feet away snapping photographs, excited to see Picasso’s latest.
As Father Manuel watched, an ache filled his chest. More than anything, he wished he could cry out. To force the people to really see and understand. To make them aware that it was more than art—it was life. And death.
But he was a priest, not a madman. So, not knowing what else to do, Father Manuel turned and left the pavilion. He didn’t glance back to see the painting from the distance. The painting, he knew, was already emblazoned on his heart—as were the events, colors, and shapes it represented.
And the images that voiced the people ’s cries.
Shadow of Treason Page 27
