Amaro said in stammering, rapturous tones:
‘Oh, my love, you’re even lovelier than Our Lady!’
She gave a quick glance at the mirror. Yes, she was beautiful, though not as beautiful as Our Lady . . . But with her red lips and with her brown skin lit by her dark, shining eyes, if she had been placed on the altar, with the organ playing and the murmur of mass being said around her, she would certainly have made the hearts of the faithful beat faster . . .
Amaro came up behind her, folded his arms over her chest and clasped her to him, then he leaned over and placed his lips on hers in a long, silent kiss. Amélia closed her eyes and her head lolled back, heavy with desire. Amaro’s lips remained avidly pressed to hers, sucking out her soul. Her breathing quickened, her legs shook, and with a moan she fainted on Amaro’s shoulder, white and overwhelmed with pleasure.
She came to at once and looked at Amaro, blinking as if summoned from some far distant place; then a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks:
‘Oh, Amaro, how dreadful, how sinful!’
‘Don’t be silly!’ he said.
But she was already taking off the cloak, in great distress.
‘Take it off, take it off!’ she cried as if the silk were burning her.
Then Amaro grew very serious. One really should not play with sacred things.
‘But it hasn’t been blessed yet, honestly,’ he said.
He carefully folded up the cloak, wrapped it in a white sheet and silently replaced it in the drawer. Amélia was watching him, petrified, her pale lips moving in prayer.
When he said to her that it was time to be going to the sexton’s house, she drew back, as if he were the Devil calling to her.
‘No, not today!’ she said imploringly.
He insisted. This really was taking piety too far. She knew it wasn’t a sin when the things had not yet been blessed. She was being very narrow-minded. What the devil did it matter, it would only be half an hour, or even a quarter of an hour!
She said nothing, moving towards the door.
‘So you don’t want to, then?’
She turned and looked at him with supplicant eyes:
‘No, not today!’
Amaro shrugged. And Amélia walked quickly back through the church, her head down, her eyes fixed on the flagstones, as if she were running a gauntlet of threatening looks from the indignant saints.
The following morning, as soon as São Joaneira, who was in the dining room, heard the Canon come panting up the stairs, she went out to meet him and closeted herself with him in the downstairs parlour.
She wanted to tell him about the worrying incident that had taken place early that morning. Amélia had woken up screaming that Our Lady was standing with her foot on her throat and was trying to suffocate her, that Totó was standing behind her, burning her, and that the flames from the fires of Hell reached higher than the towers of the Cathedral. Absolutely terrible. She had gone in to find Amélia running about the room like a mad thing. Then she had collapsed in hysteria. The whole house had been in an uproar. The poor child was in bed now and had only had a spoonful of broth all morning.
‘Just nightmares,’ said the Canon. ‘Caused by indigestion!’
‘No, Canon, that’s not what it is!’ exclaimed São Joaneira, who was sitting opposite him, perched on the edge of a chair, looking exhausted. ‘It’s something else. It’s those wretched visits to the sexton’s daughter!’
And then she unburdened herself with the effusiveness of one opening the floodgates of a long accumulated discontent. She had never wanted to say anything before because, after all, it was a great work of charity, but, ever since it had begun, Amélia had been a different person. She had been so moody lately. One moment, she was happy for no apparent reason, the next she looked miserable enough to make the furniture feel depressed. She would hear her pacing about until late at night and opening the windows . . . Sometimes she had felt quite afraid of the strange look in her eyes. Whenever she came back from the sexton’s house, she was as white as chalk and almost faint with hunger, so much so that she always had to have a bowl of broth as soon as she arrived home. Well, people did say that Totó was possessed by the Devil. And the precentor, the one who had died (may he rest in peace) used to say that the two things in this world that women were most prone to were tuberculosis and demonic possession. She felt that she could not allow Amélia to continue visiting the sexton’s house, not until she was sure that it wasn’t doing any harm to her health or to her soul. What she wanted, in short, was for someone with good judgement and experience to go and examine Totó . . .
‘In a word,’ said the Canon, who had listened to this somewhat tearful outpouring with his eyes closed, ‘you want me to go and see Totó and find out exactly what is going on.’
‘It would be such a relief if you could, my sweet!’
The Canon was touched by this endearment, which São Joaneira, given her grave matronly state, normally reserved for the intimacy of the siesta. He stroked São Joaneira’s plump neck and promised kindly that he would look into the matter.
‘Tomorrow, when Totó will be on her own,’ said São Joaneira.
But the Canon preferred Amélia to be present. He could then see how the two of them got on, and if there was any evidence of the Evil Spirit’s presence . . .
‘But I’m only doing this to please you, you know . . . I’ve got quite enough troubles of my own without getting mixed up in the Devil’s affairs.’
São Joaneira rewarded him with a resounding kiss.
‘Ah, you women are such sirens!’ said the Canon philosophically.
He did not like this particular assignment at all. It meant disrupting his habits, it meant ruining a whole morning; and having to exercise his judgement was bound to prove tiring; apart from that, he hated the sight of sick people or anything to do with death. However, true to his word, a few days later, on the morning that Amélia was due to visit Totó, he reluctantly dragged himself off to Carlos’ pharmacy and installed himself there, with one eye on the newspaper and the other on the door, waiting for Amélia to cross the Cathedral square. His friend Carlos was not there; Senhor Augusto was filling in time seated at his desk, head on his hand, poring over the sentimental poetry of Soares de Passos; outside, the already hot late April sun was making the stones in the square glitter; no one was about; the only sound to break the silence was the hammering from the work being done on Dr Pereira’s house. Amélia was late. And the Canon, having considered for a long time, with the newspaper fallen open on his knees, the enormous sacrifice he was making for São Joaneira, was just beginning to feel his eyelids droop, in the grip of that fatigue that can so easily overwhelm one in the quiet of noon, when another cleric came into the pharmacy.
‘Father Ferrão, what are you doing in town?’ exclaimed the Canon, roused from his exhaustion.
‘Oh, just a flying visit, Canon,’ said Ferrão, carefully setting down on a chair two large tomes tied together with string.
Then he turned and respectfully doffed his hat to Senhor Augusto.
Father Ferrão’s hair was completely white; he must have been over sixty, but he was a robust man with bright, sparkling eyes and magnificent teeth, which his iron constitution ensured remained in good condition; his one disfigurement was his enormous nose.
He asked the Canon in a kindly way if he was there on a visit or, alas, for reasons of ill health.
‘No, I’m just waiting for someone. I’m on a special mission, my friend.’
‘Ah,’ said Ferrão discreetly. And while he was methodically removing from a thick file of papers a prescription to give to Senhor Augusto, he told the Canon the latest parish news. The Canon’s farm, Ricoça, was in Ferrão’s parish of Poiais. Father Ferrão had passed the house that morning and been surprised to see that the outside was being painted. Was the Canon considering spending the summer there?
No, not at all. But since he had been having some decorating work done inside and the front
was a disgrace, he had told them to give that a lick of paint too. Well, one had to keep up appearances, especially when one’s house was passed each day by the heir to the Poiais estate, a braggart who imagined that his was the only decent house for ten leagues around . . . He was only doing it to annoy that atheist . . . ‘A good idea, don’t you think, Father?’
Father Ferrão, who was just thinking to himself how regrettable it was to find such feelings of vanity in a priest, hastily agreed, out of Christian charity and so as not to annoy his colleague:
‘Of course, of course. Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all . . .’
The Canon, spotting a dress and shawl crossing the square, went to the door to see if it was Amélia. It was not. He came back, conscious once more of his immediate concerns, and when Senhor Augusto went out to the back, to the dispensary, he whispered to Ferrão:
‘Yes, I’m on a very special mission indeed! I’m going to see a case of demonic possession!’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Ferrão, grave-faced at the thought of such a responsibility.
‘Would you like to come with me? It’s just near here.’
Ferrão excused himself politely. He had been to see the vicar general, then gone to visit Silvério to ask him for the two books, had then come here to sort out a prescription for one of his older parishioners, and he had to be back in Poiais at the stroke of two.
The Canon pressed him; it would only take a moment and it did seem a most curious case . . .
Ferrão then confessed to his dear colleague that he preferred not to examine such matters. He approached them with a sceptical mind, with distrust and suspicion, and was therefore far from impartial.
‘But miracles do happen!’ said the Canon. Despite his own doubts, he disliked the fact that Ferrão should be unconvinced about a supernatural phenomenon in which he, Canon Dias, was interested. He said rather abruptly: ‘I have some experience myself, and I know that miracles happen.’
‘Of course they do,’ said Ferrão. ‘To deny that God or the Queen of Heaven could appear to a child goes against the very doctrine of the Church. To deny that the Devil can inhabit the body of a man would be a grave error. It happened to Job, for example, and to Sara’s family. Of course miracles happen. But how rare they are, Canon!’
He fell silent for a moment, watching the Canon, who was quietly taking some snuff, then he went on in a low voice, his eyes bright and intelligent:
‘Have you ever noticed that it always happens to women? Miracles only ever happen to women, who are so astute even Solomon could not resist them, and whose temperament is so highly-strung and so contradictory that not even doctors can understand them. Have you ever heard of Our Lady appearing to a respectable notary public? Have you ever heard of a worthy judge being possessed by the Evil Spirit? No. That gives me pause for thought, and I conclude that it’s just malice, illusion, imagination, sickness, etc. Don’t you think so? My rule in these cases is to treat them as lightly and with as much indifference as I can muster.’
But the Canon, who was watching the door, suddenly brandished his parasol and called out:
‘Hey! Hey there!’
It was Amélia. She stopped at once, annoyed by an encounter that would only delay her further. Father Amaro must already be getting worried.
‘So,’ said the Canon, standing at the door opening his parasol, ‘as soon as you smell a miracle . . .’
‘I immediately suspect a scandal.’
The Canon looked at him for a moment with new respect.
‘You, Ferrão, could outdo Solomon himself in prudence!’
‘Please, Canon!’ cried Ferrão offended by that injustice done to Solomon’s incomparable wisdom.
‘Yes, Solomon himself!’ said the Canon from the street.
He had concocted a clever story to justify his visit to Totó, but during his conversation with Ferrão it had completely slipped his mind, as did everything that he left for a moment in the reserves of his memory; and so he simply said to Amélia:
‘Come along then, I want to see this Totó girl as well.’
Amélia froze. Father Amaro would already be there. But her protectress, Our Lady of Sorrows, to whom she immediately turned in that moment of affliction, did not desert her. And the Canon, who was walking beside her, was surprised to hear her say with a smile:
‘Well, this is obviously Totó’s day for visitors. Father Amaro told me that he might visit today too. Indeed, he may already be there.’
‘Ah, our friend Amaro too! Good, very good. We’ll have a consultation with Totó.’
Pleased by her own guile, Amélia chattered on about Totó. The Canon would see for himself . . . She was utterly incomprehensible . . . She hadn’t wanted to say anything at home, but lately Totó had taken against her. And she said odd things, talked about dogs and animals; it quite made her shudder. It was a task that was beginning to weigh on her. The girl didn’t listen to the lessons or the prayers or any advice. She was little better than a wild beast.
‘What a terrible smell!’ grumbled the Canon as they went in.
What did he expect? The girl was a pig and it was impossible to clean her up. Her father was a sloven too.
‘It’s through here, Canon,’ she said, opening the door to the bedroom, which, in obedience to Father Amaro’s orders, Esguelhas always left shut.
They found Totó propped up in bed, her face ablaze with curiosity at the Canon’s unfamiliar voice.
‘How are you, Senhora Totó?’ he said from the door, without actually going in.
‘Go on, say hello to the Canon,’ said Amélia, immediately beginning, with unaccustomed kindness, to straighten the bedclothes and tidy the room. ‘Tell him how you are . . . Now don’t sulk!’
But as Totó scrutinised that fat, grizzled priest, so different from the parish priest, she remained as silent as the image of St Bento that stood above her bed. And her eyes, which grew brighter each day as her face grew gaunter, glanced, as they always did, from the man to Amélia, eager to understand why she had brought him there, that fat old man, and wondering if Amélia would go upstairs with him too.
Amélia was trembling now. What if Father Amaro came in, and, right there, in front of the Canon, Totó burst out into her frenzied shouting and started calling them ‘dogs’ again? On the pretext of putting something away, she went to the kitchen to watch the courtyard. She would signal to Father Amaro from the window, as soon as he appeared.
And the Canon, alone in Totó’s bedroom, preparing to make his observations, was about to ask her how many people formed the Holy Trinity, when she leaned forward and said in a voice as subtle as a sigh:
‘Where’s the other one?’
The Canon did not understand. Speak up! What was she trying to say?
‘The other man who comes with her.’
The Canon drew nearer, ears straining with curiosity.
‘Which other man?’
‘The handsome one. The one who goes upstairs with her to the room. The one who pinches her . . .’
But Amélia came back into the room at that point, and Totó immediately fell silent and lay absolutely still, her eyes closed, breathing easily as if she had received sudden relief from her suffering. The Canon, immobilised by shock, had remained where he was, bent over the bed in order to hear what Totó was saying. He finally straightened up, huffing and puffing as if it were a hot day in August, took a large pinch of snuff and stood there with the box open in his hand, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Totó’s bed.
‘So, Canon, what do you think of my patient?’ asked Amélia.
Without looking at her, he said:
‘Hm, fine. Yes, she’s seems fine. Odd, though . . . Anyway, I’d better be going. Goodbye.’
He left, muttering something about having things to do, and went straight back to the pharmacy.
‘Give me a glass of water!’ he exclaimed, collapsing on a chair.
Carlos, who had returned, bustled over with some orange-flower water, ask
ing if the Canon was unwell.
‘No, just worn out,’ he said.
He picked up the newspaper from the table and sat there, motionless, absorbed in his reading. Carlos tried to discuss the politics of the day, events in Spain, the danger of revolution threatening Society, the deficiencies of the municipal council of which he was now a fierce adversary . . . All in vain. The Canon merely grunted a few gloomy monosyllables. In the end, Carlos withdrew in shocked silence, and with an inner disdain that traced sarcastic lines around his mouth, he compared the glum obtuseness of that priest with the inspired words of a Lacordaire or a Malhão. That was why in Leiria, as in all of Portugal, materialism was raising its Hydra head.
The tower clock was striking one when the Canon, who was keeping a weather eye open on the square, saw Amélia walk past; he threw down the paper, left the pharmacy without a word and strode off to Esguelhas’ house as swiftly as his large body would allow. Totó shook with fear to see that bulbous figure reappear at her bedroom door. But the Canon smiled and called her Totozinha and promised her some money to buy cakes with; and he even sat down with a delighted ‘Ah!’ at the foot of her bed, saying:
‘Now we’re going to have a talk, my little friend. This is your bad leg, isn’t it? Poor thing. You’ll get better one day. I’ll pray to God . . . You leave it to me.’
She turned first white and then red, glancing anxiously from side to side, embarrassed to be alone with this man, who was sitting so close she could smell his sour breath.
‘Now, listen,’ he said, leaning towards her, making the bed creak beneath his weight. ‘Who is this other man? Who is it who comes here with Amélia?’
She replied immediately, in one breath:
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 35
