Monsignor Quixote (22 page)

‘And they know that we are foreigners. They think we will believe anything.'

‘What have they told you?'

‘They pretended to be very solicitous about the wine. They argued among themselves about three vineyards – the white was better in one, the red in another, and their last words were a warning – they pretended to be very earnest about it. They took me for a fool because I was a foreigner. The insularity of these Galicians! You will find the best wine in Spain, they told me, as though our manchegan was just horses' piss.'

‘But what was the warning?'

‘One of the vineyards was near a place called Learig. They said, “Keep away from that one. The Mexicans are everywhere.” These were their last words to me. They shouted them after me. “Stay away from the land of the Mexicans. Their priests spoil even the wine.”'

‘Mexicans! Are you sure you heard right?'

‘I'm not deaf.'

‘What could they possibly mean?'

‘I suppose Pancho Villa has risen from the dead and is sacking Galicia.'

Another half an hour and they had entered the land of wine. On their right hand the southern slopes were green with vines, and on their left a decrepit village lay, like an abandoned corpse, along a cliffside, a house here and there in ruins, a mouth of broken teeth.

The Mayor said, ‘We don't take the road to the village. We go fifty yards on and leave the car and take a path up.'

‘Up to where?'

‘They called him Señor Diego. In the end those fools agreed that his was the best wine. “The Mexicans haven't got there yet,” they said.'

‘The Mexicans again. I begin to be a little nervous, Sancho.'

‘Courage, father. You were not daunted by the windmills, why be daunted by a few Mexicans? That must be the path, so we leave the car here.' They parked Rocinante behind a Mercedes which had already usurped the best place.

As they began to climb the path a stout man who wore a smart suit and a startling striped tie came hurrying down it. He was muttering angry words to himself. They narrowly avoided a collision when he stopped abruptly and blocked their way. ‘Are you going up there to buy wine?' he snapped at them.

‘Yes.'

‘Give it up,' the man said. ‘He's mad.'

‘Who's mad?' the Mayor asked.

‘Señor Diego, of course. Who else? He's got a cellar full of good wine up there and he won't let me try a single glass, though I was ready to take a dozen cases. He said he didn't like my tie.'

‘There could be a difference of opinion about your tie,' the Mayor said with caution.

‘I'm a business man myself, and I tell you it's not the way to do business. But now it's too late to get the wine elsewhere.'

‘Why all the hurry?'

‘Because I promised the priest. I always keep a promise. It's good business to keep a promise. I promised the priest to get the wine. It's a promise to the Church.'

‘What does the Church want with a dozen cases of wine?'

‘It's not only my promise. I may lose my place in the procession. Unless the priest will accept cash instead. He won't take cheques. Get out of my way, please. I can't stay here talking, but I wanted to warn you . . .'

‘I don't understand what's going on,' Father Quixote said.

‘Nor do I.'

At the head of the path there was a house much in need of repair and a table under a fig tree on which lay the remains of a meal. A young man in blue jeans came hurriedly towards them. He said, ‘Señor Diego will see nobody today.'

‘We have only come to buy a little wine,' the Mayor said.

‘I'm afraid that's not possible. Not today. And there's no use telling me about the feast. Señor Diego will have nothing to do with the feast.'

‘We don't want it for any feast. We are simple travellers and we've run out of wine.'

‘You are not Mexicans?'

‘No, we are not Mexicans,' Father Quixote said with a note of conviction. ‘Of your charity, father . . . Just a few bottles of wine. We are on our way to the Trappists of Osera.'

‘The Trappists . . .? How do you know I am a priest?'

‘When you have been a priest as long as I have you will recognize a colleague. Even without his collar.'

‘This is Monsignor Quixote of El Toboso,' the Mayor said.

‘A monsignor?'

‘Forget the monsignor, father. A parish priest, as I suspect you are.'

The young man ran towards the house. He called, ‘Señor Diego, Señor Diego. Come quickly. A monsignor. We have a monsignor here.'

‘Is it so rare to see a monsignor in this place?' the Mayor asked.

‘Rare? It certainly is. The priests round here – they are all friends of the Mexicans.'

‘That man we met on the path – was he a Mexican?'

‘Of course he was. One of the bad Mexicans. That's why Señor Diego wouldn't sell him any wine.'

‘I thought perhaps it was because of his tie.'

An old man with great dignity came out on to the terrace. He had the sad and weary face of a man who has seen too much of life for far too long. He hesitated a moment between the Mayor and Father Quixote before, holding out both hands towards the Mayor, he made the wrong choice. ‘Welcome, monsignor, to my house.'

‘No, no,' the young priest exclaimed, ‘the other one.'

Señor Diego turned his hands first and then his eyes towards Father Quixote. ‘Forgive me,' he said, ‘my sight is not what it was. I see badly, very badly. I was walking with this grandson of mine only this morning in the vineyard and it was always he who spotted the weeds – not me. Sit down, please, both of you, and I will bring you some food and wine.'

‘They are going to Osera to the Trappists.'

‘The Trappists are good men, but their wine, I believe, is less good and as for the liqueur they make . . . You must take a case of wine for them, and for yourselves too, of course. I've never had a monsignor here under my fig tree before.'

‘Sit down with them, Señor Diego,' the young priest said, ‘and I will fetch the ham and the wine.'

‘The white and the red – and bowls for all of us. We will have a better feast than the Mexicans.' When the priest was out of hearing he said, ‘If all the priests here were like my grandson . . . I could trust him even with the vineyard. If only he had not chosen to be a priest. It was all his mother's fault. My son would never have allowed it. If he hadn't died . . . I saw José today pulling up the weeds, but I couldn't see them clearly any longer and I thought, “It is time for me and the vineyard to go.”'

‘Is this your grandson's parish?' Father Quixote asked.

‘Oh no, no. He lives forty kilometres away. The priests here have driven him from his old parish. He was a danger to them. The poor people loved him because he refused to take money and say the Responses when anyone died. Responses, what nonsense! To gabble a few words and ask a thousand pesetas. So the priests wrote to the bishop and even though there were good Mexicans who defended him he was sent away. You would understand, if you stayed here a little while; you would see how greedy the priests are for the money the Mexicans have brought to these poor parts.'

‘Mexicans, Mexicans. But who are these Mexicans?'

The young priest came back to the fig tree carrying a tray with plates of ham, four large earthenware bowls and bottles of red and white wine. He filled the bowls with wine. ‘Start with the white,' he said. ‘Make yourselves at home. Señor Diego and I had eaten before the Mexican arrived. Help yourselves to the ham – it is a good ham, home cured. You will not get such ham with the Trappists.'

‘But these Mexicans . . . please explain, father.'

‘Oh, they come here and build rich houses and the priests are corrupted by the sight of money. They even think they can buy Our Lady. Don't let's talk about them. There are better things to speak of.'

‘But who are these Mexicans . . .?'

‘Oh, there are good men among them. I don't deny it. Many good men, but all the same . . . I just don't understand. They have too much money and they have been away too long.'

‘Too long away from Mexico?'

‘Too long away from Galicia. You are not taking any ham, monsignor. Please . . .'

‘I am very happy,' Señor Diego said, ‘to welcome under this fig tree Monsignor . . . Monsignor . . .'

‘Quixote,' the Mayor said.

‘Quixote? Not surely . . .'

‘An unworthy descendant,' Father Quixote interrupted him.

‘And your friend?'

‘As for myself,' the Mayor said, ‘I cannot claim to be a true descendant of Sancho Panza. Sancho and I have a family name in common, that's all, but I can assure you that Monsignor Quixote and I have had some curious adventures. Even if they are not worthy to be compared . . .'

‘This is a very good wine,' Señor Diego said, ‘but, José, go and fetch from the second barrel on the left . . . you know the one . . . only the very best is worthy of Monsignor Quixote and his friend Señor Sancho. And it is only in the best wine of all that we should toast damnation to the priests here.'

When Father José had gone, Señor Diego added with a note of deep sadness, ‘I never expected a grandson of mine to be a priest.' Father Quixote saw that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Oh, I am not running down the priesthood, monsignor, how could I do that? We have a good Pope, but what a suffering it must be at Mass every day even for him if he has to drink such bad wine as José's old priest buys.'

‘One takes the merest drop,' Father Quixote said, ‘you hardly notice the taste. It's no worse than the wine that you get dolled up with a fancy label in a restaurant.'

‘Yes, you are quite right there, monsignor. Oh, every week there are scoundrels who come here to buy my wine so that they can mix it with other wine and they call it Rioja and advertise it along all the roads of Spain to deceive the poor foreigners who don't know a good wine from a bad.'

‘How can you tell the scoundrels from the honest men?'

‘By the quantity they want to buy and because they often don't even ask for a glass first to taste it.' He added, ‘If only José had married and had had a son. I started teaching José about the vineyard when he was six years old and now he knows nearly as much as I do and his eyesight is so much better than mine. Soon he would have been teaching
his
son . . .'

‘Can't you find a good manager, Señor Diego?' the Mayor asked.

‘That's a foolish question, Señor Sancho – one I would expect a Communist to ask.'

‘I am a Communist.'

‘Forgive me, I am not saying anything against Communists in their proper place, but their proper place is not a vineyard. You Communists could put managers in all the cement works of Spain if you liked. You could have managers over your brickworks and your armament firms, you could put them in charge of your gas and electricity, but you can't let them manage a vineyard.'

‘Why, Señor Diego?'

‘A vine is alive like a flower or a bird. It is not something made by man – man can only help it to live – or to die,' he added with a deep melancholy, so that his face lost all expression. He had shut his face, as a man shuts a book which he finds he doesn't wish to read.

‘Here is the best wine of all,' Father José said – they had not heard him approach – and he began to pour into their bowls from a large jug.

‘You are sure you took from the right barrel?' Señor Diego demanded.

‘Of course I did. The second on the left.'

‘Then now we can drink damnation to the priests of these parts.'

‘Perhaps – I am really very thirsty – you would allow me to drink a little of this good wine before we decide on the toast?'

‘Of course, monsignor. And let us have another toast first. To the Holy Father?'

‘To the Holy Father and his intentions,' Father Quixote said, making a slight amendment. ‘This is a truly magnificent wine, Señor Diego. I have to admit that our cooperative in El Toboso cannot produce its equal, though ours is an honest wine. But yours is more than honest – it is beautiful.'

‘I notice,' Señor Diego said, ‘that your friend did not join in our toast. Surely even a Communist can toast the Holy Father's intentions?'

‘Would you have toasted Stalin's intentions?' the Mayor demanded. ‘One can't know a man's intentions and one can't toast them. Do you think that the monsignor's ancestor really represented the chivalry of Spain? Oh, it may have been his intention, but we all make cruel parodies of what we intend.' There was a note of sadness and regret in his voice which surprised Father Quixote. He had been accustomed to aggression from the Mayor: an aggression which was only perhaps a form of self-defence, but regret was surely a form of despair, of surrender, even perhaps of change. He thought for the first time: Where will this voyage of ours finally end?

Señor Diego said to his grandson, ‘Tell them who the Mexicans are. I thought all Spain knew of them.'

‘We haven't heard of them in El Toboso.'

‘The Mexicans,' Father José said, ‘have come from Mexico, but they were all born here. They left Galicia to escape poverty and escape it they did. They wanted money and they found money and they have come back to spend money. They give money to the priests here and they think they are giving to the Church. The priests have grown greedy for more – they prey on the poor and they prey on the superstition of the rich. They are worse than the Mexicans. Perhaps some of the Mexicans really believe they can buy their way into Heaven. But whose fault is that? Their priests know better and they sell Our Lady. You should see the feast they are celebrating in a town near here today. The priest puts Our Lady up to auction. The four Mexicans who pay the most will carry her in the procession.'