The power and the glory (22 page)
Read The power and the glory Online
Authors: Graham Greene
A long sigh came from the window.
" 'No need to have fired another shot. The soul of the young hero had already left its earthly mansion, and the happy smile on the dead face told even those ignorant men where they would find Juan now. One of the men there that day was so moved by his bearing that he secretly soaked his handkerchief in the martyr's blood, and that handkerchief, cut into a hundred relics, found its way into many pious homes.' And now," the mother went rapidly on, clapping her hands, "to bed."
"And that one," the boy said slowly, "they shot today. Was he a hero too?"
"Yes."
"The one who stayed with us that time?"
"Yes. He was one of the martyrs of the Church."
"He had a funny smell," one of the little girls said.
"You must never say that again," the mother said. "He may be one of the saints."
"Shall we pray to him then?"
The mother hesitated. "It would do no harm. Of course, before we know he is a saint, there will have to be miracles..." "Did he call Viva el Cristo Rey?" the boy asked.
"Yes. He was one of the heroes of the faith."
"And a handkerchief soaked in blood?" the boy went on. "Did anyone do that?"
The mother said ponderously: "I have reason to believe..." Señora Jiminez told me... I think if your father will give me a little money, I shall be able to get a relic."
"Does it cost money?"
"How else could it be managed? Everybody can't have a piece."
"No."
He squatted beside the window, staring out, and behind his back came the muffled sound of small girls going to bed. It brought it home to one--to have had a hero in the house, though it had only been for twenty-four hours. And he was the last. There were no more priests and no more heroes. He listened resentfully to the sound of booted feet coming up the pavement. Ordinary life pressed round him. He got down from the window-seat and picked up his candle-Zapata, Villa, Madero, and the rest, they were all dead, and it was people like the man out there who killed them. He felt deceived.
The lieutenant came along the pavement: there was something brisk and stubborn about his walk, as if he were saying at every step: "I have done what I have done." He looked in at the boy holding the candle with a look of indecisive recognition. He said to himself: "I would do much more for him and them, much more, life is never going to be again for them what it was for me," but the dynamic love which used to move his trigger-finger felt flat and dead. Of course, he told himself, it will come back. It was like love of a woman and went in cycles: he had satisfied himself that morning, that was all. This was satiety. He smiled painfully at the child through the window and said: "Buenas noches." The boy was looking at his revolver-holster, and he remembered an incident in the plaza when he had allowed a child to touch his gun-perhaps this boy. He smiled again and touched it too-to show he remembered, and the boy crinkled up his face and spat through the window bars, accurately, so that a little blob of spittle lay on the revolver-butt.
The boy went across the patio to bed. He had a little dark room with an iron bedstead that he shared with his father. He lay next the wall and his father would lie on the outside, so that he could come to bed without waking his son. He took off his shoes and undressed glumly by candlelight: he could hear the whispering of prayers in the other room; he felt cheated and disappointed because he had missed something. Lying on his back in the heat he stared up at the ceiling, and it seemed to him that there was nothing in the world but the store, his mother reading, and silly games in the plaza.
But very soon he went to sleep. He dreamed that the priest whom they had shot that morning was back in the house dressed in the clothes his father had lent him and laid out stiffly for burial. The boy sat beside the bed and his mother read out of a very long book all about how the priest had acted in front of the bishop the part of Julius Caesar: there was a fish basket at her feet, and the fish were bleeding, wrapped in her handkerchief. He was very bored and very tired and somebody was hammering nails into a coffin in the passage. Suddenly the dead priest winked at him-an unmistakable flicker of the eyelid, just like that.
He woke and there was the crack, crack of the knocker on the outer door. His father wasn't in bed and there was complete silence in the other room. Hours must have passed. He lay listening: he was frightened, but after a short interval the knocking began again, and nobody stirred anywhere in the house. Reluctantly, he put his feet on the ground-it might be only his father locked out: he lit the candle and wrapped a blanket round himself and stood listening again. His mother might hear it and go, but he knew very well that it was his duty. He was the only man in the house.
Slowly he made his way across the patio towards the outer door. Suppose it was the lieutenant come back to revenge himself for the spittle.... He unlocked the heavy iron door and swung it open. A stranger stood in the street: a tall pale thin man with a rather sour mouth, who carried a small suitcase. He named the boy's mother and asked if this was the Señora's house. Yes, the boy said, but she was asleep. He began to shut the door, but a pointed shoe got in the way.
The stranger said: "I have only just landed. I came up the river tonight. I thought perhaps... I have an introduction for the Señora from a great friend of hers."
"She is asleep," the boy repeated.
"If you would let me come in," the man said with an odd frightened smile, and suddenly lowering his voice he said to the boy: "I am a priest."
"You?" the boy exclaimed.
"Yes," he said gently. "My name is Father-" But the boy had already swung the door open and put his lips to his hand before the other could give himself a name.
The End