Never an Empire (31 page)

‘She is your housekeeper. She came with you the first time you came. What happened?'

Father Enrique didn't answer, he couldn't, no words would come. He looked from face to face at the two men who were waiting and then down at Maria. Her dead eyes looked up at him.

Suddenly he knew what to say and do. He knelt down.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.'

Only the mother answered.

‘Amen.'

Father Enrique raised his hand in blessing and began the words.

‘Ego te absolve … I absolve you …'

He carried on with the words of absolution by which the soul was freed from the penalties of its sins. She was dead but the soul could linger and as long as the soul was present mercy and forgiveness were possible. Maria had said she would willingly die for the general, now she had. So had others if not so willingly: Carmen, the paho seller, the young man. Death waited for everyone, your whole life was no more than a preparation for when it came. How soon, he wondered, would it come for him?

Chapter Thirty-nine

Father Enrique sat with the lieutenant and the head man. Maria's body had been taken into the bedroom. The lieutenant's mother had taken his daughter with her to a neighbour and the people had been told to go back to their huts. From somewhere a bottle of the rough, locally brewed spirit, arrack, had been brought and all three men had a cup before them. The lieutenant explained to the head man what had happened.

‘It was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy.' He turned to Father Enrique. ‘She was your housekeeper, Father?' Father Enrique nodded. ‘And she followed you here?' Another silent nod. ‘Why, Father, why did she follow you?' The lieutenant waited but Father Enrique sat, silent. The lieutenant tried again. ‘Was there anything wrong with her? Had she been behaving strangely?' He waited. What the hell was the matter with the priest? He knew what to say, why didn't he say it? ‘She had a knife.'

That at least got a response.

‘Yes, she had a knife. She killed someone with it.'

Thank God he's come alive, thought the lieutenant, but now he's got to say the right thing.

‘No, Father, she didn't kill anyone, she tried, she would have killed you but I stopped her.' He paused again but Father Enrique gazed at the cup before him with eyes that seemed far away so the lieutenant pressed on. ‘It was as if she was mad, Father, insane. Had she behaved like that before? Had you seen any signs of madness? Had you been worried about her, Father?' There, that was as far as he could go without putting the words into his mouth. Father Enrique picked up his cup and took a drink. Neither of the other two men had drunk anything, yet he was on his second cup. He put the cup down and looked at the bottle. The lieutenant tried again. ‘I said, had you been worried about her?'

Father Enrique raised his eyes from the bottle.

‘Yes, I worried about her. I never thought she would kill anyone. She was a good woman, a strong woman, and loyal, loyal to the general and to her country.'

Then he reached forward and poured some more arrack into his cup.

What the priest had finally managed to say wasn't what he wanted but the lieutenant decided it was the best he was going to get.

‘Yes, Father, but her mind must have become confused. Such things can happen. I arrived and heard the shouting. I heard what she said. That you were a traitor, that I was going to betray the general.'

‘Yes, she said that.'

And he took another drink.

The lieutenant turned to the head man.

‘You can see, Father Enrique is distressed, who wouldn't be?'

‘Yes, it seems to have affected him badly.'

‘He needs rest. He will stay here and my mother will look after him. Tomorrow you will send someone with him and he must go back to San Juan. He needs to see a doctor. Do you not agree?'

‘If you say so, Lieutenant.'

‘A terrible thing has happened, a tragedy, but we can do nothing about it. The woman was mad and now she is dead. It must end there. Father Enrique brought me a message for the general. We must talk and then I must return to the army.'

The head man picked up his cup and took a thoughtful drink.

‘It is, as you say, Lieutenant, a terrible tragedy but what am I to tell the village? There has been a killing. The whole village knows it and knows what the woman said.' The head man was afraid of the lieutenant but he was no fool. The show he had just witnessed was put on for his benefit, to give him a something to tell the people. But the priest was unwilling or unable to play his part properly: only an idiot would have been taken in. Of course there was nothing he could say outright, but there was also no reason to simply agree to whatever the lieutenant said. ‘She said the priest was a traitor.'

‘She was mad, it doesn't matter what she said.'

‘Perhaps so, but why is the priest here at all? Who would use a priest as a messenger? It is almost as if someone wanted the police to see what is going on. Why is your wife not here as before? Strange things are happening, Lieutenant, things I don't understand. They worry me.' He took another sip. ‘Perhaps if I came with you and saw the general.'

And there he let it lie. He had said enough. Now it was up to the lieutenant.

Now it was the lieutenant who took a slow sip. The head man could see he was thinking it over.

‘Very well. Once Father Enrique has given me my message, had some rest, and goes on his way you can come with me and see the general in person. You can tell him everything, everything you've seen and heard, not only today but ever since the priest first came. It is only a day's journey if we travel fast, but you will need a horse. Do you have a horse?'

‘No.'

The head man was worried, the Lieutenant could see it.

‘Well, no matter. I will ride and you can run at my side. I will take it as easy as I can but I hope you are stronger than you look. Such a journey for a man like you could be too much. Who knows, it might even prove fatal. But if you want to speak to the general, if you are worried about what has been going on, if you have the slightest doubt that what the woman said were no more than the ravings of a lunatic then of course your duty is clear.' He raised his cup. ‘I salute you for your dedication.'

‘Oh no, Lieutenant, I have no doubts, none at all.' He had made his bid and lost and was in no doubt that if he was mad enough to make the journey to the general he would not survive it. He stood up. ‘It was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, as you said. The woman was mad, what she said was all in her mind. We will bury her this afternoon. Father will say a prayer. It is all very sad, very sad, two deaths on the same day.'

‘Two?'

‘Last night, an old woman. She was sick. Father was at her bedside.'

The lieutenant poured himself another arrack.

‘I see, but life goes on. I will do my duty and you will do yours.' He turned to Father Enrique. ‘You will say prayers at your housekeeper's graveside, Father, as the head man wishes?' He saw that there were tears on Father Enrique's cheeks. He was quietly crying. He turned back to the head man. ‘You see how it is? How distressed Father Enrique is? He will come if he can but you see how it is.'

‘I see.'

‘Then leave us. If he is well he will say the prayers. If not,' he shrugged, ‘then you can say them. I doubt it will make much difference to the housekeeper or the old woman.'

‘Very well.'

The head man left and the lieutenant turned back to Father Enrique. He took up the arrack bottle, leaned over, and poured some into Father Enrique's cup.

‘Go on, Father, it will help. Drink some more then you can sleep.'

‘Yes, I would like to sleep.'

Father Enrique picked up the cup and took a sip. He had been afraid, very afraid. ‘Fear not those who can kill the body but are not able to kill the soul.' The words from Matthew's Gospel had come back to him as he knelt over Maria's body with the lieutenant looking on. Before all this terror started he had said them often and believed them, felt sure that he had valued his soul infinitely more than his body. But that was before he had seen Carmen lying in her own blood in his kitchen, before Maria had been shot down, before he had seen the knife in her hands as she came to kill him. Now he feared very much those who could kill the body; as for the soul, well, that was God's business. He took another drink. It was rough, fiery, but it helped, it took away the worst of the pain of fear. He felt dazed, adrift, but not quite so afraid now and he was grateful. The lieutenant watched him.

‘Do you think you can tell me now what happened to my wife, Father?'

‘Your wife?'

‘Carmen. You said she was dead, that your housekeeper killed her?'

‘Yes, Maria killed her.'

‘Why?'

‘Because she was going to betray the general, that both of you were betraying him to the Americans and then going to America.'

The lieutenant glanced round nervously at the doorway. He saw no one.

‘Speak quietly, Father, this is private business, not for the ears of curious villagers.'

‘Yes, I understand, not for villagers.'

He lifted his cup but the lieutenant quickly reached across and put his hand on his arm.

‘Wait, not yet. We need to talk a little first then you can drink and sleep.'

Father Enrique lowered his cup.

‘Yes, I would like to sleep.'

‘Do you know if your housekeeper told anyone else?'

‘No; I don't see how she could have. She was still inside cooking my meal when I found Carmen on the floor. It was a terrible sight.'

‘So you think no one else has been told.'

‘I told the American but he already knew. He knew we had put Carmen's body in the church, that Maria had killed her and I had helped her put the body in a tomb in the crypt. He knew all about it, that is why I had to come. He said if I came we would not be arrested and hanged, so I came.'

He raised his cup and the lieutenant waited. The priest was in a bad way. It was probably best he drink the rest of the bottle and then sleep; that way there was no danger of him speaking to anyone.

‘Did you have a message for me from the American?'

‘Yes, that your wife was dead.'

‘Nothing more?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes, but I think he expected you to have a message for him.'

‘Did he say that?'

‘In a way.'

‘And you were to carry the message?'

‘Yes.'

‘I see.' He picked up the bottle and poured what little was left some into the cup. There was nothing he could do with the priest now. After he had slept he would be able to give him the message. Now he just wanted him silent. He watched as Father Enrique drank from his cup. ‘Are you tired, Father?' The priest nodded. ‘Fold your arms on the table and put down your head. I will watch and make sure nobody disturbs you.'

Father Enrique pushed his cup to one side with his forearm; it tipped over, rolled, and fell to the floor. He ignored it, folded his arms, and lay down his head. He was asleep almost at once.

Chapter Forty

Father Enrique wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He lay on the bed sweating; his mouth was dry and he felt sick. He knew he had slept for several hours because the sun had gone down and a bright moonlight came through the window. He suddenly felt an overwhelming nausea, leaned over the edge of the bed, and retched. Apart from a little bile and spittle nothing came up. With an effort he pulled himself back and lay still. The lieutenant came into the bedroom and stood over him.

‘I won't ask you how you feel; I can see for myself. The local arrack is something you need to get used to. If you're not used to it too much of it at one sitting can kill you.'

A look of fear came into Father Enrique's eyes.

‘Am I going to die?'

The lieutenant laughed.

‘No, I made sure you had enough to make you sleep but not enough to do any harm, except the usual effects of course. Do you think you can get up? You won't believe me but I promise you'll feel better when you get start moving around. Besides, we still need to talk.'

‘Talk?'

‘Yes, you were in a bad way when the head man came. It was natural I suppose, shock and fear. You're a priest, not a soldier. To see death like that close up, to have someone try to kill you, these are terrible things. The arrack was the only thing that could settle you.'

‘Yes, I remember now. Maria, she had a knife. You killed her.'

‘Or she would have killed you.'

‘She was a good woman, loyal to her cause. To her I was a traitor. Maybe she was right, maybe I am.' He lay on his back facing the dark roof, talking into the blackness. Now he turned his head to the lieutenant. ‘Perhaps you should have let her kill me. I have no loyalty: not to a country, not to my faith, not to a person. All I have is fear, fear of dying.'

The lieutenant bent down and took hold of an arm.

‘Come on, Father, get up. You don't mean what you say, it's just the arrack: it will pass.'

Father Enrique allowed himself to be helped into a sitting position and at once the nausea returned; he leant forward and retched. This time nothing came. He felt the lieutenant's hand.

‘Stand up, Father, we'll go next door and sit down. I'll give you a drink of water. It will help.'

At the mention of drinking anything the nausea returned and Father Enrique, who had been halfway to standing, fell back and sat on the bed. But this time the nausea passed without any retching. After a moment he held out his arm and the lieutenant helped him to his feet.

Once they were seated at the table the lieutenant poured some water from a jug into a cup and handed it across. Father Enrique sipped it. If nothing else it was cooling. He waited to see if his stomach would accept it. It did, so he took another sip. He still felt terrible, but not quite so terrible as before.