Father Ferrão turned pale when he saw him: the doctor had no tie on and his collar was in shreds; the buttons on his waistcoat had come off, and the cuffs of his rolled back shirtsleeves were all stained with blood.
‘What’s happened, Doctor?’
The doctor did not reply, looking rapidly around the room for his medical bag, his face flushed as if by the heat of battle. He was just about to go out again with his bag when he remembered Father Ferrão’s anxious question:
‘She’s having convulsions,’ he said.
Father Ferrão stopped him at the door and very gravely, with great dignity said:
‘Doctor, if there is any danger, I ask you to remember that a Christian soul is dying in there, and that I am here.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Father Ferrão was once more left alone, waiting. Everything in the house was asleep, Dona Josefa, the tenant farmers, the farm and the fields round about. In the dining room, a huge, sinister-looking grandfather clock that would have looked more at home in an ancient castle, and which had a large sun on its face and the carved figure of a pensive owl on top, struck first midnight, then one o’clock. Father Ferrão kept going out into the corridor from where he could hear either the same sound of scuffling feet or black silence. He returned then to his breviary. He thought about the poor girl who, there in her room, had perhaps reached the moment that would determine her eternity: she had beside her neither her mother nor her women friends; her terrified memory was doubtless filled with visions of sin; the sad face of an offended God would appear before her clouded eyes; her wretched body would be contorted by pain; and in the darkness into which she was plunging, she would feel already the burning breath of Satan as he approached. A dreadful end to both time and flesh! He prayed fervently for her.
He thought of the man who was the other half of her sin, and who was safe in his bed in Leiria, snoring peacefully. And he prayed for him too.
He had a small crucifix on his breviary. And he contemplated it lovingly, thinking tenderly of the certainty of its strength, against which all the doctor’s science and all the vanities of reason were as nothing! Philosophies, ideas, profane glories, generations and empires all pass; they are like the ephemeral sighs of human effort; only the cross remains and will remain – the hope of mankind, the comfort of the despairing, the shelter of the fragile, the refuge of the vanquished, the force majeure of humanity: crux triumphus adversus demonios, crux oppugnatorum murus . . .
At that point, the doctor returned to the room, his face still scarlet, still shaken by the tremendous battle he was waging against death; he had come for another bottle of medicine, but, without a word, he opened the window and took a deep breath of fresh air.
‘How is she?’ asked Father Ferrão.
‘Bad,’ said the doctor, going out again.
Father Ferrão knelt down and mumbled the prayer of St Fulgentius:
‘Father, give her first patience and then mercy . . .’
And there he stayed, his face in his hands, resting on the edge of the table.
At the sound of footsteps, he looked up. It was Dionísia, who sighed as she ransacked the sideboard drawers for napkins.
‘What’s happening, Dionísia?’ asked Father Ferrão.
‘I think we’ve lost her, Father. She had the most terrible convulsions and now she’s fallen into that sleep which is the sleep of the dead.’
Then looking around her as if to make sure they were alone, she said in agitated tones:
‘I didn’t want to say anything because the doctor has such a temper, but to bleed the girl in that state is tantamount to killing her. It’s true she didn’t lose much blood, but you never bleed someone when they’re in that state. Never!’
‘The doctor is a man of science . . .’
‘He may have all the science he likes . . . but I’m no fool either. I’ve had twenty years’ experience and no one ever died in my hands, Father. Bleed someone when they’re having convulsions? It’s disgusting.’
She was highly indignant. The doctor had tortured the poor creature. He had even wanted to give her chloroform . . .
But the doctor’s voice was bellowing for her from the far end of the corridor, and she rushed off with her bundle of napkins.
The fearsome clock, with its pensive owl, struck two, then three. Father Ferrão occasionally gave in now to an old man’s weariness and closed his eyes for a moment. But he would quickly open them again and go and breathe in the heavy night air and look out at the darkness covering the village; then he would go back and sit down, head bowed, his hands in prayer, to murmur over his breviary.
‘Lord, turn your merciful eyes on that bed of pain . . .’
It was then that Gertrudes came into the room, looking greatly upset. The doctor had sent her downstairs to wake up the boy and tell him to hitch the mare to the carriage.
‘The poor little thing, Father. She was doing so well and suddenly this . . . It was because they took the baby from her. I don’t know who the father is, but I know that there’s some sin, some crime behind all this.’
Father Ferrão did not reply, praying quietly for Father Amaro.
Then the doctor returned, carrying his bag.
‘You can go in if you like, Father,’ he said.
But Father Ferrão did not rush off, looking instead at the doctor, with a question hovering on his half-open lips, which he shyly refrained from asking; at last, he could keep it in no longer and he said fearfully:
‘Have you done everything you could, Doctor? Is there nothing more to be done?’
‘No.’
‘Doctor, it’s just that only in extreme circumstances are we supposed to go to a woman who has given birth to an illegitimate child . . .’
‘These are extreme circumstances, Father,’ said the doctor, putting on his overcoat.
Father Ferrão then picked up his breviary and the crucifix, but, before leaving the room, judging it to be his duty to place before the rationalist doctor the certain truth of the mystical eternity implicit in the moment of death, he murmured:
‘It is at this moment that one experiences the fear of God and the futility of human pride . . .’
The doctor said nothing, busy buckling up his bag.
The priest went out, but when he was only half-way down the corridor, he turned back and said in rather troubled tones:
‘Forgive me, Doctor . . . but sometimes, with the aid of religion, the dying do, by virtue of a special grace, come back to life . . . The presence of a doctor might then be useful.’
‘I’m not leaving just yet, don’t worry,’ said the doctor, smiling involuntarily to see the presence of Medicine invoked to help the efficacy of Grace.
He went downstairs to see if the carriage was ready.
When he went back to Amélia’s room, Dionísia and Gertrudes were both kneeling by the bed, praying. The bed and the whole room looked like a battlefield. The two candles had almost burned down. Amélia lay motionless, her arms stiff, her clenched fists a dark purple colour, and her face was the same colour, only darker.
Bent over her, crucifix in hand, Father Ferrão was saying in an urgent voice:
‘Jesu, Jesu, Jesu! Remember the grace of God! Have faith in divine mercy! Repent in the bosom of our Lord. Jesu, Jesu, Jesu!’
At last, realising that she was dead, he knelt down and murmured the Miserere. The doctor, who had been standing at the door, withdrew slowly, tiptoed down the corridor and went out into the street where the boy was holding the horse, now harnessed.
‘It looks like rain, Doctor,’ said the boy, yawning sleepily.
Dr Gouveia turned up his coat collar, placed his bag on the seat beside him and, a moment later, beneath the first heavy drops of rain, the cabriolet was rumbling down the road, the red glow of its two lanterns cutting through the darkness of the night.
XXIV
The following morning, from seven o’clock onwards, Father Amaro sat at home by his open window, wai
ting for Dionísia to come, his eyes fixed on the street corner, not even noticing the fine rain beating against his face. But Dionísia did not come. Feeling sad and ill, he had to go to the Cathedral to baptise Guedes’ son.
It was a real torment to him to see all those happy people filling the sombre atmosphere of the Cathedral, even more sombre on that dark December day, with the barely contained buzz of domestic joy and fatherly celebration; Guedes was resplendent in jacket and white tie; the earnest godfather was wearing a large camellia in his buttonhole; the ladies were all in their Sunday best; and the plump midwife strutted about carrying a bundle of starched lace and blue ribbons amongst which one could just make out two rosy cheeks. Standing at the back of the church, his thoughts far off in Ricoça and Barrosa, Amaro rapidly mumbled his way through the ceremony, breathing on the brow, mouth and breast of the little baby in order to drive out the Devil that already inhabited that tender flesh, placing salt on his mouth so that he would for ever after hate the bitter taste of sin and find nourishment only in the divine truth, putting saliva on his ears and nose so that he would never listen to the solicitations of the flesh and never breathe in earthly perfumes. And around them, bearing tall candles, the godparents and the guests, bored with that jumble of Latin words, were only concerned lest the baby respond with some impudent outburst to the tremendous exhortations of the Mother Church.
Then, lightly touching the white bonnet, Amaro demanded that the baby, there in the Cathedral, should renounce for ever Satan and all his pomp and all his works. The sacristan Matias, who gave the ritual responses in Latin, made the renunciation on the baby’s behalf, while the poor little creature opened his mouth in search of his mother’s breast. Finally, Amaro went over to the baptismal font followed by all the family, by the devout old ladies who had joined them, and by the boys who were hoping that a few coins might be distributed afterwards. But it was a terrible business trying to do the anointing: the midwife was too overcome to undo the ribbons on the baby’s christening robe in order to uncover the child’s shoulders and chest; the godmother tried to help, but dropped her candle and poured molten wax over the dress of one of Guedes’ neighbours, who fell into an angry sulk.
‘Franciscus, credis?’ asked Amaro.
Matias hurriedly confirmed on behalf of Francisco:
‘Credo.’
‘Franciscus, vis baptisari?’
And Matias:
‘Volo.’
Then the baptismal water fell on the little head, as round as a tender melon; the child was now angrily kicking its legs.
‘Ego te baptiso, Franciscus, in nomine Patris . . . et Filiis . . . et Spiritus Sancti . . .’
At last, it was over. Amaro ran to the sacristy to divest himself, while, to the pealing of bells, the grave midwife, Guedes, the proud father, the tearful ladies, the devout old ladies and the boys all left the Cathedral and, huddled beneath umbrellas, splashing through the mud, triumphantly bore away with them Francisco, the new Christian.
Amaro raced up the stairs of his house feeling sure that he would find Dionísia there.
Indeed she was, sitting in his room waiting for him, crumpled and begrimed after the previous night’s battle and from the mud on the road; and as soon as she saw him, she burst into tears.
‘What is it, Dionísia?’
She sobbed loudly, unable to reply.
‘Dead?’ exclaimed Amaro.
‘We did everything we could, Father, everything!’ she cried.
Amaro collapsed beside the bed, as if he too had died.
Dionísia called for the maid. They splashed his face with water and vinegar. He recovered slightly, but looked very pale; he silently indicated to them with one hand that they should leave, then threw himself face down on the pillow, weeping desperately, while the two bewildered women withdrew to the kitchen.
‘He was obviously very fond of the girl,’ said Escolástica, speaking as softly as if someone in the house were dying.
‘He often goes to the house. And he was a lodger there for a while . . . They were like brother and sister,’ said Dionísia, still tearful.
They then discussed heart conditions, because Dionísia had told Escolástica that the poor girl had died of a burst aneurism. Escolástica had a heart problem too, but in her case it was more fainting fits from the beatings her husband gave her. She too had her misfortunes.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Senhora Dionísia?’
‘To be honest, Senhora Escolástica, what I really need is a drop of brandy.’
Escolástica ran to the inn at the end of the road and brought back the brandy in a pint pot which she concealed beneath her apron; and as they sat at the table, one dipping bread in her coffee, the other gulping down her brandy, they both agreed with a sigh that this world has nothing to offer but calamities and tears.
The clock struck eleven, and Escolástica was thinking of taking a bowl of broth to Father Amaro, when he called for her from his room. He was wearing a tall hat, had his jacket buttoned, and his eyes were red as coals.
‘Escolástica, go to the Cruz inn and get them to send me a horse, will you? Quickly!’
Then he summoned Dionísia and, sitting beside her, so that they were almost knee to knee, his face stiff and pale as marble, he listened in silence to her description of the night’s events – the sudden convulsions, so strong that she, Gertrudes and the doctor could barely hold Amélia down! The blood, the state of prostration into which she fell! Then the terrible asphyxia that had made her turn as purple as the tunic on a holy image . . .
But the boy from the inn had arrived with the horse. Amaro took a small crucifix out of a drawer, from amongst his linen, and gave it to Dionísia, who was about to go back to Ricoça to assist in the laying out.
‘Ask them to place this crucifix on her chest; it was a gift from her to me.’
Then he went downstairs and mounted up, and as soon as he reached the Barrosa road, he set off at a gallop. The rain had stopped now, and from amongst the dark clouds the odd ray of weak December sun glinted on the grass and on the wet stones.
When he reached the blocked well, from where he could see Carlota’s house, he had to wait to let a large flock of sheep pass by; and the shepherd, with a goatskin about his shoulders and a wineskin about his neck, suddenly reminded him of Feirão and of his life there, which returned to him in fragments – the landscapes drowned in grey mountain mists; Joana giggling as she pulled the bell rope; the roast kid suppers with the parish priest in Gralheira, sitting by the fireside, where the green wood crackled and spat; the long despairing days spent in his gloomy priest’s house, watching the snow falling endlessly outside . . . And he suddenly felt an intense longing for that mountain solitude, for that wolf-like existence, far from men and from cities, buried up there along with his passion.
Carlota’s door was closed. He knocked, walked round the house, calling out to the pens and the courtyard where he could hear the cockerels crowing. No one answered. He followed the road into the village, leading his mare by the halter; he stopped at the inn, where a fat woman was seated by the door, knitting. Inside, in the darkness of the inn, two men, their pint pots by their side, were slamming down their cards on the table, watched morosely by a young woman, her skin yellow with fever, and a scarf tied round her head.
The woman had just that minute seen Senhora Carlota, who had even stopped to buy a pint of oil. She must be at Micaela’s house, near the cemetery. She called inside; a squint-eyed little girl appeared from amongst the shadows of the barrels.
‘Go to Micaela’s house and tell Senhora Carlota that a gentleman from town is here.’
Amaro returned to Carlota’s house and waited, sitting on a stone, still holding the horse’s reins. But that closed and silent house terrified him. He put his ear to the keyhole, hoping to hear a baby’s complaining cry. Inside reigned the silence of an empty cave. But he was consoled by the thought that Carlota must have taken the baby with her to Micaela’s. He really shou
ld have asked the woman at the inn if Carlota had had a baby with her. And he looked at the brightly whitewashed house, at the window above with its cotton curtains, a luxury unknown in these poor parishes; he remembered how tidy it was inside, remembered the gleaming china in the kitchen . . . The baby’s cradle would doubtless be equally spotless.
Ah, he must have been mad the previous evening, when he had placed on the kitchen table four gold libras, payment in advance for a year’s care, and when he had said coldly to the dwarf: ‘I’m relying on you!’ Poor babe! But last night in Ricoça, Carlota had seen that he wanted his son to live and to be raised tenderly! No, he would not leave him there now, beneath the dwarf’s bloodshot gaze. He would take him that night to Joana Carreira in Poiais . . .
Dionísia’s sinister stories about the ‘weaver of angels’ were surely just ridiculous tales. The child was probably sitting contentedly in Micaela’s house, suckling at Carlota’s healthy breast. And then he even had the idea of leaving Leiria and going and burying himself in Feirão, taking Escolástica with him and bringing up the child there as his nephew, and through him reliving at leisure all the emotions he had experienced during the extraordinary events of the past two years; and there he would live in melancholy peace, thinking of Amélia, until, like his predecessor, Father Gustavo, who had also brought up a nephew in Feirão, he was laid to rest for ever in the little cemetery, beneath the flowers in summer and beneath the white snow in winter.
Then Carlota appeared; astonished to see Amaro there, she stood with furrowed brow, a look of great seriousness on her handsome face, and did not at first come through the gate.
‘Where’s the child?’ cried Amaro.
After a moment, without a flicker of feeling, she answered.
‘You know, I’m so upset, I can hardly bear to talk about it . . . It happened yesterday, just a couple of hours after I got him home. The poor little angel started going purple in the face and he died right before my eyes.’
‘You’re lying!’ yelled Amaro. ‘I want to see him.’
‘Well, if you want to see him, you’d better come in.’
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 48
