When the girls left the men at table, Alberuque at once moved down next to Adam and buttonholed him. In spite of his sudden and instinctive dislike of the Monsignor, the man’s mind was so lively and his interest in Adam so evident that it would have been churlish not to respond pleasantly.
To begin with he questioned Adam about his books, his other interests, his early life and, with urbane tact, his religion. To the last Adam replied that he had been brought up as a Presbyterian, then took a slightly cynical pleasure in repeating what he had said to Chela about the Roman Catholic Church keeping its followers in ignorance in order to retain its power over them.
Alberuque shook his massive head. ‘You are wrong about that, my friend. All through the Dark Ages in Europe it was the Church alone that kept the flame of learning alight. And if we do not allow our people to question the tenets of the Church that is for their own good. And, religion apart, the Church has played a part unrivalled by any other body as a civilising influence.’
Greedily picking a couple of muscat grapes from a nearby dish, he popped them in his thin-lipped mouth, chewed them and went on, ‘Here in Mexico the Church has saved the people from generations of suffering. The Dominican Fathers, who were the first to arrive here, fought the Conquistadores tooth and nail to prevent them from exploiting the Indians. In those times priests were the only lawyers. The Dominicans controlled the Council of the Indies and they appointed the three members of the Audiencia, the Supreme Court here, which had powers even greater than those of the Viceroys. The Fathers’ object was to erect a ‘City of God’ in which all men, irrespective of their colour, would be free and able to secure justice. It was the Church that forced through the laws restricting the encomiendas.’
‘What were they?’ Adam enquired.
‘Soon after the Conquest, the Spaniards divided the country into districts, making themselves feudal lords on the same pattern as the nobles in Europe. They looked on the Indians on their great estates as serfs, and compelled them to give their labour without payment. The Church could not altogether abolish these encomiendas, as they were called, but it did persuade the King of Spain to agree to a law that after “two lives” the exploiters should have to surrender their right to use the Indians as slave labour.
‘Of course, there were evasions. Many of the Spaniards continued to exploit the simple Indians by selling them goods at exorbitant prices for which they could not pay, then making them continue to work against debts that they could never hope to wipe off; so the encomiendas were not finally abolished until Mexico achieved independence. Even so, the law did result, two generations later, in great numbers of Indians becoming paid workers instead of slaves.
‘Then there came the Franciscan friars. They did not concern themselves with the law but were simple missionaries and, like all missionaries, they were aware that the quickest way to convert the heathen was to work for his health and happiness. Three of them walked barefoot all the way from Vera Cruz to Mexico City, and that made an immense impression. Later the Franciscans spread all over the country, often penetrating to places in which no other white man had ever been. They led frugal, pious lives, teaching the Indians such arts as they knew, and acting as righteous judges in all local and family disputes, so that they became greatly revered.
‘As in Spain, these friars organised their parishioners into guilds, each with a devotion to a certain saint. On the Saint’s day his guild put on a play in which angels and devils, knights and Moors fought battles, always, of course, ending in the triumph of Christianity. To be given a part in these spectacles was thought a great honour and to be debarred from participating in them a terrible disgrace. They became the most important thing in village life and in that way the friars were able to exercise great influence for good over the social as well as the religious lives of the people.’
Snatching another couple of grapes, Alberuque ate them quickly, spat out the pips and, before Adam could think of any remark, resumed:
‘Before the coming of the Spaniards, the peasants had enjoyed a form of Communism, by which the land surrounding each village was held in common and plots were allotted to families in relation to their capacity to work them. The Church insisted on the maintenance of that system and forbade white men or half-castes to live permanently in the villages, to prevent their setting up shops and tempting the Indians to impoverish their food supply by exchanging produce for tawdry goods. It was such measures that caused those who lived in the villages to give absolute obedience to the friars; not because they feared them, but because they really looked on them as representatives on earth of a benign God.
‘The health of the people was also cared for, both individually by the secular priests and nationally by the Church. For example, as Mexico is such a mountainous country a great difference exists between the climate and the density of the air at different levels. On average the temperature in Mexico City is twenty-five degrees lower than that at Vera Cruz. In consequence, it was found that if Indians were taken from the highlands to work in the lowlands, and vice-versa, great numbers of them died from respiratory diseases. The Spanish settlers were interested only in getting cheap labour, but the Church insisted on strict laws being passed to prevent the transfer of workers from their own districts. Of course, in those days, and for several centuries, the Church here was virtually the State. Her power was paramount. It was always exercised for the good of the people, and it still is.’
Adam nodded. ‘From all you tell me, I appreciate that the Church must have done a lot of good in the old days. But today I imagine it is almost moribund, as it lost all its power when Mexico became independent.’
‘By no means,’ Alberuque replied quickly. ‘There have been periods when it has suffered persecution under atheist governments; but the people have always realised that it is their only protection against exploitation and so remained loyal to it. Do you realise that Miguel Hidalgo, the first man to lead a serious revolution, was a priest?
‘For just on three hundred years Mexico had been the milch cow of Spain. The greater part of the silver coinage of today came originally from Mexico. Over four billion dollars’ worth of it was sent to Europe. But the Spaniards were not content with that. Thousands of them came here to make fortunes, then went home again. They were known as gachupines—wearers of spurs—and they were given all the most lucrative jobs, both in the government and in the Church. The Creoles—that is, Spaniards who had been born in Mexico—they regarded with contempt, and the Indians as cattle.
‘Miguel Hidalgo was a Creole. Owing to that he had no hope of ever becoming a Bishop and he intensely resented the privileges that the Spaniards enjoyed. To protect Spanish interests the inhabitants of New Spain were not allowed to cultivate grapes or olives or to deal in salt or tobacco, or in the ice brought down from the mountains. The Indians were not even permitted to ride a horse, carry arms or work in specialised crafts. But Hidalgo was a born rebel. He did many of these illegal things, read forbidden books and, as the shining light of the Literary Society of Querétaro, he brought to its members the doctrines of the French Revolution. Then, with the cry of “Mexico for the Mexicans”, he urged his parishioners to revolt.’
‘I’ve read about that,’ Adam put in. ‘But in the rebellion he led he made a hopeless mess of things and he countenanced an appalling massacre of government troops who had surrendered at Alhóndiga.’
‘It is true that he was no general; that in the end he was defeated, captured and executed. But the fact remains that all over the country people rose in their thousands to support him; and the reason for that was not only a political one. It was largely because he took as his banner that of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and it is this small-town priest whom all Mexicans now honour as the Father of Independence.’
‘But that was way back in 1810. Religion was still a great force everywhere.’
‘In Mexico it has remained so. Of course, there have been periods when the Church has suffered severely at the hands of her ene
mies. Under the Constitution brought in by Benito Juárez in 1857, the Church was deprived of all her immense properties, the privileges of the clergy were abolished; priests and nuns were permitted to renounce their vows and education was taken out of the hands of the Church to be conducted by atheist schoolmasters. But persecution only strengthened the ardour of the faithful and their numbers were so great that for three years there was civil war in which they put up a desperate resistance.
‘The war disrupted the whole country to such an extent that Porfirio Díaz, who afterwards ruled Mexico for so long, had to make peace with the Church and again allow her to acquire property.
‘The Presidents who succeeded Díaz were again of the Left and endeavoured to force their atheism on the country, especially by the new Communist-inspired Constitution of 1917. With the Pope’s blessing, our Archbishop repudiated the Constitution. The government retaliated by expelling all foreign-born priests and nuns, and again closed the parish schools. The Church fought back by ceasing to hold religious services for three years. By 1928 the masses became so desperate at being denied the consolations of religion that they again rose in revolt. The rebellion was called the War of the Cristeros, because the insurgents went into battle against the forces of the atheist President Calles with the cry of “Long live Christ the King”.
‘Six Bishops were exiled and the government troops carried out a brutal scorched-earth policy in the western provinces where the Cristero rebellion had originated. But the country continued to be in such a state of anarchy that Alvaro Obregón, who was running as Calles’s successor, got himself elected only by promising to amend the Constitution in favour of the Church.
‘Most unfortunately, before he could take office he was shot by a fanatic. That resulted in a wave of anti-clericalism and further persecutions. But the Catholic faith was so widespread and so strong that the atheists found it impossible to suppress. For over ten years a struggle for the restoration of the Church continued; then, at last, in the 1940s, President Camacho publicly admitted that he was a Catholic and brought about a compromise.
‘There are still anti-clerical laws in force which enable the provinces to limit the number of priests in them, forbid the wearing of clerical garb in public, curtail Catholic education and activities, and no member of the Cabinet is allowed to attend Mass while holding office. But the government recognises the P.A.N.—that is, the Partido Acción Nacional—a Catholic party that sends to the legislature delegates who are allowed to put the views of the Church to the Assembly. And ninety-five per cent of the people are still practising Catholics.
‘So, you see, you are quite mistaken in thinking that the Church has lost her power. An overwhelming majority of the people would obey their priests if another Miguel Hidalgo appeared and called on them to take up arms against the government.’
At this point Bernadino, who had been talking to his son and the two younger men, broke up the party. When they went upstairs to join the girls, Adam saw that the servants had cleared the drawing room of most of its furniture. A hi-fi radio was turned on, to which they danced. There was more champagne and at one o’clock silver salvers of split rolls appeared, upon which had been spread lavish portions of imported foie gras, caviare and smoked salmon. At dinner none of them had drunk more than one glass of each of the wines but, with the cocktails that had preceded the meal and champagne afterwards, they had all consumed enough to make them carefree and merry. A little before two o’clock they gaily exchanged good-nights and went happily to bed.
It had been a much longer day than Adam was accustomed to; but, even so, he could not get to sleep. His mind was filled with mental pictures of Chela—swimming, dancing, gravely consulting with Don Alberuque, laughing with her friends, and eavesdropping under the bridge.
Suddenly he caught himself thinking of asking her to become his wife. He thrust the idea aside as absurd; yet it brought home to him how completely he was fascinated by her. He recalled his former resolution—not to become embroiled with any woman again until, much later in life, he really felt like settling down; now he was contemplating marrying one whom he had met barely a week before.
There was, of course, her intangible resemblance to Mirolitlit, which had convinced him that she was a reincarnation of the long-dead Chichimec beauty. But he had seen Mirolitlit only twice and had exchanged no more than a dozen words with her and, although he had now spent several days in Chela’s company, he knew about her only that she was a bundle of contradictions: a devout Christian who held Communist views; a rich man’s daughter who indulged herself in every extravagance in spite of the distress she displayed at the poverty of the Indians; a Roman Catholic who connived at the Mexican country folk continuing to worship their pagan gods; apparently a playgirl concerned, apart from her religious activities, only with the social round, yet so interested in political secrets that she would play the spy in her own family. What, he wondered, really went on behind the big, blue eyes in that narrow, but splendid, aquiline Aztec head?
As had been the case with Mirolitlit, Chela’s physical attraction for him had proved so strong that he had at once felt a craving to possess her; but, still influenced by the rigid morality of his Scottish upbringing, he had instinctively assumed that an unmarried girl of her class would still be a virgin. Again, his thoughts turned to asking her to marry him. That she was attracted to him both mentally and physically he felt sure. But, even if she was willing, what about her father? By British standards, Adam was now very well off, but the money he earned was a pittance compared to the great wealth of Bernadino Enriquez. He would almost certainly expect his only daughter to marry another millionaire. And even if to please her he consented to the match, Adam was plagued with doubts about whether he could make Chela happy for long. She was accustomed to so much. Her clothes alone must cost a fortune and he could not count on his present success continuing. To an industrialist or the owner of a chain of shops many ways were open by which he could retain a large part of the profits in his business, but that did not apply to authors. If they had a bumper year they were allowed to spread their royalties for tax purposes over two years, but no more; so the government took the lion’s share earned by any single best-seller. Then, if future books flopped, the author could find himself back earning less than a lorry driver. If that happened, how could he possibly maintain a wife like Chela?
Turning from side to side in the big, canopied bed, he wrestled with the problem, then endeavoured to think of other things. The conversation he had overheard between Ramón and his father had been most intriguing. Had the F.B.I. stumbled on a mare’s nest or was a revolution really brewing?
If so, what section of the people was planning to attempt a coup d’état? Certainly not the Army or the, traditionally Liberal, white-collar workers. Both were too pampered to desire a change. Then it must be either the peasants or the capitalists. The former, neglected and half starved, had abundant reason to desire a different state of things; the latter bitterly resented the Socialist restrictions that prevented them from amassing still more wealth. Yet a peasant jacquerie was hardly possible. The Indians formed a brainless mass and, without leaders to inspire them, must remain impotent. The capitalists, on the other hand, had the brains to plan and the money secretly to import weapons with which to arm their workers who, promised sufficient inducements, might form a formidable army. Bernadino had warmly expressed his appreciation of the news his son had brought him and had spoken of warning ‘certain people’ that they should guard against possible trouble. Those ‘people’ must be other big industrialists and key men in his employ who were in the plot and prepared to lead the workers when he gave the word.
That seemed to be the answer, but it was no concern of Adam’s. His concern was Chela and again his mind became absorbed by thoughts of her.
The night was thundery and the atmosphere heavy. The window of his room was wide open, but he still could not get enough air. His throat was parched and, owing to the rich spices with which som
e of the dishes he had eaten at dinner had been seasoned, he felt thirsty. He thought of going into the bathroom to get a drink of water, but decided not to, in case the tap water there was not safe to drink. It then occurred to him that if he went downstairs to the dining room there were several half-filled decanters on the sideboard; so he could quench his thirst with a glass of wine. Afterwards he could take a walk round the garden, which would clear his head and later give him a better chance of getting off to sleep.
Throwing back the bedclothes, he rolled out of bed, put on his dressing gown and, moving very quietly so as not to disturb other people who were asleep, tiptoed down to the ground floor. Strong moonlight coming through the tall windows enabled him to see his way without difficulty. At the bottom of the staircase he was about to turn left towards the dining room when he caught sight of a streak of light coming from a slightly ajar doorway on his right.
The door led, he knew, to a small library and for a moment he thought that the light must have been left on by mistake; so he moved in that direction to switch it off. Then he heard low voices coming from the room. His curiosity aroused about who could be there in the middle of the night, he tiptoed forward. His soft bedroom slippers made no sound on the polished parquet. Holding his breath he advanced to the door. Turning sideways he squinted through the narrow opening between the door and the wall. In a mirror he could now see that the occupants of the room were Monsignor Don Alberuque and Chela.
They were standing near the centre table. On it there was a briefcase which Adam recognised as the one that Ramón had brought with him. It was open, so it seemed obvious that Chela had purloined it and that they had either picked or forced its lock.
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