Monsignor Quixote Read online

  The Mayor hadn’t the heart to wake him. The hour was too late to take the by-road to Osera now and the Mayor felt it much safer not to return to León. He again found his chosen spot out of sight of Father Quixote and he soon slept, untroubled by any dream.

  When he woke the sun was up and he was no longer in the shade. It was time to be off, he thought, and to seek coffee in the next village. He needed coffee. Vodka never caused him any trouble, but too much wine upset him rather as a tiresome reformist would have done in the Party. He went to wake Father Quixote, but the priest was not in the place where he had left him, although the socks and the shoes which had served as a pillow were still there. He called Father Quixote’s name several times without effect and the sound of his own voice recalled his dream. He sat down and waited, thinking that Father Quixote had probably gone to get rid of the wine in a private place. But he could hardly have taken ten minutes – no bladder could hold that quantity of liquid. Perhaps they were moving in circles and Father Quixote, after draining himself dry, had gone to find his friend’s sleeping place. So the Mayor returned there with the purple socks in his hand and this again brought back his dream in a disquieting way. Father Quixote was nowhere to be seen.

  The Mayor thought: He may have gone to see whether Rocinante is safe. The day before, under the Mayor’s instruction, Father Quixote had driven Rocinante a little way off the road behind a heap of sand left over from some long-ago road repairs, so that she would be almost invisible to any Guardia passing by.

  Father Quixote was not beside the car, but Rocinante had company now – a Renault was parked behind her, and a young couple in blue jeans sat among the rocks with haversacks beside them which they were filling with cups and saucers and plates left over, judging by the débris, from a very good breakfast. The Mayor felt hungry at the sight. They seemed friendly, they greeted him with a smile, and he asked with some hesitation, ‘I wonder if you could spare me a roll?’

  They gazed at him, he thought, nervously. He realized how unshaven he was and that he was still carrying the purple socks. He could tell too that they were foreigners. The man said in an American accent, ‘I am afraid I don’t understand much Spanish. Parlez-vous Français?’

  ‘Un petit peu,’ the Mayor said, ‘‘très petit peu.’

  ‘Comme moi,’ the man said and there was an awkward pause.

  ‘J’ai faim,’ the Mayor said. The quality of his French made him feel like a beggar. ‘J’ai pensé si vous avez fini votre –’ he sought the word in vain – ‘votre desayuno . . .’

  ‘Desayuno?’

  It was astonishing, the Mayor thought, how many foreign tourists went travelling around Spain without even knowing the most essential words.

  ‘Ronald,’ the girl said in her incomprehensible tongue, ‘I’ll go fetch the dictionary from the car.’

  The Mayor noticed when she got up that she had long attractive legs and he touched his cheek – a gesture of sadness for vanished youth. He said, ‘Il faut me pardonner, Señorita . . . Je n’ai pas . . .’ but he realized that he didn’t know the French word for ‘shave’.

  The two men stood facing each other in silence until she returned. Even then conversation was difficult. The Mayor said very slowly with a pause between each important word so that the girl had time to find it in her pocket dictionary, ‘If you have – finished – your breakfast . . .’

  ‘Desayuno means breakfast,’ the girl told her companion with an air of delighted discovery.

  ‘. . . could I have a bollo?’

  ‘Bollo – a penny loaf, it says,’ the girl interpreted, ‘but ours cost a lot more than a penny.’

  ‘Dictionaries are always out of date,’ her companion said. ‘You can’t expect them to keep up with inflation.’

  ‘I am very hungry,’ the Mayor told them, pronouncing the key word carefully.

  The girl flicked her pages over. ‘Ambriento – wasn’t that the word? I can’t find it.’

  ‘Try with an H. I don’t think they pronounce the h’s.’

  ‘Oh then, here it is. “Eager”. But what’s he eager for?’

  ‘Isn’t there another meaning?’

  ‘Oh yes, how crazy of me. “Hungry”. That must be it. He’s hungry for a penny loaf.’

  ‘There are two left. Give him both. And look – give the poor devil this as well,’ and he handed her a hundred-peseta note.

  The Mayor took the loaves and rejected the money. To explain the reason he pointed first at Rocinante and then at himself.

  ‘My goodness,’ the girl said, ‘it’s his car and we go and offer him a hundred pesetas.’ She put both hands together and raised them in a rather Eastern gesture. The Mayor smiled. He realized that it was an apology.

  The young man said sullenly, ‘How was I to know?’

  The Mayor began to eat one of the rolls. The girl searched in the dictionary. ‘Mantequilla?’ she asked.

  ‘Man take what?’ her companion demanded in a disagreeable tone.

  ‘I’m asking if he’d like some butter.’

  ‘I’ve finished it. It wasn’t worth keeping.’

  The Mayor shook his head and finished the roll. He put the other one in his pocket, ‘Para mi amigo,’ he explained.

  ‘Why! I understood that,’ the girl said with delight. ‘It’s for his girl. Don’t you remember in Latin – amo I love, amas you love? I’ve forgotten how it goes on. I bet they’ve been making out in the bush like us.’

  The Mayor put his hand to his mouth and shouted again, but there was no reply.

  ‘How can you tell it’s a girl?’ the man asked. He was determined to be difficult. ‘In Spanish it’s probably like in French. An ami can be any sex unless you see it written.’

  ‘Oh goodness,’ the girl said, ‘do you think it could be that corpse we saw them carrying . . .?’

  ‘We don’t know it was a corpse. If it was a corpse why is he keeping that roll?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘How can I? You’ve got the dictionary.’

  The Mayor tried shouting again. Only a faint echo answered.

  ‘It certainly looked like a corpse,’ the girl said.

  ‘They may have been just taking him to hospital.’

  ‘You always have such uninteresting explanations of everything. Anyway, he wouldn’t need a roll in hospital.’

  ‘In underdeveloped countries the relations often have to bring food to the patient.’

  ‘Spain isn’t an underdeveloped country.’

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  They seemed to be quarrelling about something and the Mayor wandered back to Father Quixote’s sleeping place. The mystery of the disappearance and the memory of his dream weighed on the Mayor’s spirits, and he returned to Rocinante.

  In his absence they had consulted the dictionary to some effect. ‘Camilla,’ the girl said, pronouncing it rather oddly so that the Mayor didn’t at first catch the meaning.

  ‘Are you sure that you’ve got it right?’ the man asked. ‘It sounds more like a girl’s name than a stretcher. I don’t see why you looked up stretcher anyway. They hadn’t got a stretcher.’

  ‘But don’t you see it conveys the meaning?’ the girl insisted. ‘Can you find one word in the dictionary which would describe someone being carried past us by the head and feet?’

  ‘What about simply “carried”?’

  ‘The dictionary only gives the infinitive of verbs, but I’ll try if you like. Transportar,’ she said, ‘camilla.’ The Mayor suddenly understood what she was trying to say, but it was all he did understand.

  ‘Dónde?’ he asked with a sense of despair. ‘Dónde?’

  ‘I think he means “where”,’ the man said, and he became suddenly an inspired communicator. He strode to his car, he opened the door, he bent double and appeared to shovel something heavy inside. Then he waved his arms in the direction of León and said, ‘Gone with the wind.’

  The Mayor sat abruptly down on a rock. What could have happened? Ha
d the Guardia tracked them down? But surely the Guardia would have waited to catch Father Quixote’s companion? And why should they carry Father Quixote off on a stretcher? Had they shot him and then taken fright at what they had done? His head was bowed under the pressure of his thoughts.

  ‘Poor man,’ the girl whispered, ‘he’s mourning for his dead friend. I think we’d better go away quietly.’

  They picked up their knapsacks and tiptoed to their car.

  ‘It’s sort of exciting,’ the girl said as she settled herself down, ‘but it’s terribly, terribly sad, of course. I feel like I was in church.’

  PART TWO

  I

  MONSIGNOR QUIXOTE

  ENCOUNTERS THE BISHOP

  1

  When Father Quixote opened his eyes he was surprised to see that the countryside was in rapid motion on either side, while he lay quietly in almost the same position as the one in which he had fallen asleep. Trees pelted past him and then a house. He supposed his vision had been affected by the wine which he had drunk and with a sigh at his lack of wisdom and a resolve to be more restrained in future he closed them and was immediately asleep again.

  He was half woken a second time by a strange jolting motion that ceased abruptly and he felt his body sag and come to rest on what seemed like a cold sheet instead of the rather prickly ground on which he had been lying. It was all very odd. He put his hand behind his head to adjust the pillow. A woman’s voice said with indignation, ‘And what in the name of the blessed Virgin have you done to the poor father?’

  Another voice said, ‘Don’t worry, woman. He’ll wake up in a minute. Go and make him a good strong cup of coffee.’

  ‘It’s tea he always takes.’

  ‘Tea, then, and make it strong. I’ll stay here till he wakes and so will . . .’ But Father Quixote slid again into the peace and the pleasure of sleep. He dreamt of the three balloons which he had inflated and released into the air: two were big and one was small. This worried him. He wanted to catch the small one and blow it up to match the others. He woke again, blinked twice and realized quite clearly that he was home in El Toboso lying on his old bed. Fingers felt his pulse.

  ‘Dr Galván,’ he exclaimed. ‘You! What are you doing in El Toboso?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said soothingly. ‘You will soon be yourself again.’

  ‘Where is Sancho?’

  ‘Sancho?’

  ‘The Mayor.’

  ‘We left the fellow in his drunken sleep.’

  ‘Rocinante?’

  ‘Your car? No doubt he’ll bring it back. Unless, of course, he slips across the border.’

  ‘How did I come here?’

  ‘I thought it best to give you a little injection. To calm you.’

  ‘Wasn’t I calm?’

  ‘You were asleep, but I thought that in the circumstances your reaction to our coming might make you – excitable.’

  ‘Who was the other?’

  ‘What do you mean – the other?’

  ‘You said “our coming”.’

  ‘Oh, your good friend, Father Herrera, was with me, of course.’

  ‘And you brought me here – against my will?’

  ‘This is your home, my old friend – El Toboso. Where better could you stay and rest awhile?’

  ‘I don’t need any rest. You’ve even undressed me.’

  ‘We took off your outer things, that’s all.’

  ‘My trousers!’

  ‘You mustn’t get excited. It’s bad for you. Trust me – you need a short period of repose. The bishop himself appealed to Father Herrera to find you and bring you home before things went too far. Father Herrera telephoned me in Ciudad Real. Teresa gave him my name and as I have a cousin in the Ministry of the Interior the Guardia were very understanding and helpful. It was so lucky that you telephoned Teresa from León.’

  Teresa came into the room carrying a cup of tea. ‘Father, father,’ she said, ‘what a blessed thing it is to see you alive and well . . .’

  ‘Not quite well yet, Teresa,’ Dr Galván corrected her, ‘but after a few weeks of quiet . . .’

  ‘Weeks of quiet indeed. I shall get up at once.’ He made an effort and sank down again on the bed.

  ‘A bit giddy, eh? Don’t worry. That merely comes from the injections. I had to give you two more on the road.’

  There was the gleam of a white collar catching the sun and Father Herrera stood in the doorway. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Getting along nicely, nicely.’

  ‘You two have been guilty,’ Father Quixote said, ‘of a criminal action. Abduction, medical treatment without the patient’s consent . . .’

  ‘I had clear instructions from the bishop,’ Father Herrera replied, ‘to bring you home.’

  ‘Que le den por el saco al obispo,’ Father Quixote said, and a deathly silence followed his words. Even Father Quixote was shocked at himself. Where on earth could he have learnt such a phrase, how was it that it came so quickly and unexpectedly to his tongue? From what remote memory? Then the silence was broken by a giggle. It was the first time Father Quixote had ever heard Teresa laugh. He said, ‘I must get up. At once. Where are my trousers?’

  ‘I have them in my care,’ Father Herrera said. ‘The words you have just used . . . I could never bring myself to repeat them . . . such words in the mouth of a priest, a monsignor . . .’

  Father Quixote felt a wild temptation to use the same unrepeatable phrase about his title of monsignor, but he resisted it. ‘Bring me my trousers at once,’ he said, ‘I want to get up.’

  ‘An obscene expression like that proves that you are not in your right mind.’

  ‘I told you to bring me my trousers.’

  ‘Patience, patience,’ Dr Galván said. ‘In a few days. Now you need to rest. Above all, no excitement.’

  ‘My trousers!’

  ‘They will remain in my care until you are better,’ Father Herrera said.

  ‘Teresa!’ Father Quixote appealed to his only friend.

  ‘He’s locked them up in a drawer. God forgive me, father. I didn’t know what he intended.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do, lying here in bed?’

  ‘A little meditation would not be amiss,’ Father Herrera said. ‘You have been behaving in a very curious way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Guardia at Avila reported that you had exchanged clothes with your companion and given a false address.’

  ‘A total misunderstanding.’

  ‘A bank robber arrested in León said that you gave him your shoes and hid him in your car.’

  ‘He wasn’t a bank robber. It was only a self-service store.’

  ‘His Excellency and I had a lot of trouble persuading the Guardia to take no action. The bishop even had to telephone His Excellency at Avila to intercede. Dr Galván’s cousin was of great help also. And Dr Galván too, of course. We were able at least to convince them that you were suffering from a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘It’s the most charitable explanation possible for your conduct. Anyway, we have narrowly avoided a great scandal in the Church.’ He qualified his statement. ‘So far at least.’

  ‘And now sleep a little,’ Dr Galván told Father Quixote. ‘A little soup at midday,’ he instructed Teresa, ‘and perhaps an omelette in the evening. No wine for the moment. I’ll drop in this evening and see how our patient is doing, but don’t wake him up if he is asleep.’

  ‘And mind,’ Father Herrera told her, ‘to tidy up the sitting-room while I am at Mass tomorrow morning. I don’t know at what hour the bishop will be arriving.’

  ‘The bishop?’ Teresa exclaimed and her question was echoed by Father Quixote.

  Father Herrera did not bother to reply. He went out, closing the door not with a bang, but with what one might perhaps describe as a snap. Father Quixote turned his head on the pillow towards Dr Galván. ‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘you are an old
friend. You remember that time when I had pneumonia?’

  ‘Of course I do. Let me think. It must have been nearly thirty years ago.’

  ‘Yes, I was very afraid to die in those days. I had so much on my conscience. I expect you’ve forgotten what you said to me.’

  ‘I suppose I told you to drink as much water as you could.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that.’ He searched in his memory, but the exact words wouldn’t come. ‘You said something like this – think of the millions who are dying between one tick of the clock and the next – thugs and thieves and swindlers and schoolmasters and good fathers and mothers, bank managers and doctors, chemists and butchers – do you really believe He has the time to bother or to condemn?’

  ‘Did I really say that?’

  ‘More or less. You didn’t know what a great comfort it was to me. Now you have heard Father Herrera – it’s not God but the bishop who’s coming to see me. I wish you had a word of comfort for his visit.’

  ‘That’s altogether a more difficult problem,’ Dr Galván said, ‘but perhaps you have already said it. “Bugger the bishop.”’

  2

  Father Quixote strictly obeyed the advice of Dr Galván. He slept as much as he could, he drank soup at midday, he ate half his omelette in the evening. He thought how much better cheese had tasted in the open air with a bottle of manchegan wine.

  He woke automatically in the morning at a quarter past five (for more than thirty years he had said Mass at six in the almost empty church). Now he lay in bed and listened for the sound of a door closing which would signal the departure of Father Herrera but it was nearly seven before the clap came. Father Herrera had obviously altered the time of Mass. The pain this gave him he knew was quite unreasonable. Father Herrera in doing that might even add two or three to the congregation.

  Father Quixote waited five minutes (for Father Herrera might possibly have forgotten something – a handkerchief perhaps) and then he stole on tiptoe to the living-room. A sheet had been neatly folded on the armchair underneath a pillow. Father Herrera certainly had the virtue of tidiness if tidiness be a virtue. Father Quixote looked along his bookshelves. Alas! He had left his favourite reading in the care of Rocinante. St Francis de Sales, his usual comforter, was off somewhere on the roads of Spain. He picked out the Confessions of St Augustine and the Spiritual Letters of the eighteenth-century Jesuit, Father Caussade, which he had sometimes found consoling when he was a seminarian, and returned to bed. Teresa had heard his movements and brought him a cup of tea with a roll and butter. She was in a very bad mood.