Monsignor Quixote Read online

  ‘Who does he think I am?’ she demanded. ‘Tidy up while he is at Mass. Haven’t I tidied up for you for twenty years and more? I don’t need him or the bishop to teach me my duty.’

  ‘You really think the bishop is coming?’

  ‘Oh, they are thick as thieves, those two. On the telephone morning, noon and night ever since you left. Always Excellency, Excellency, Excellency. You would think he was talking to God himself.’

  ‘My ancestor,’ Father Quixote said, ‘was at least spared the bishop when the priest brought him home. And I prefer Dr Galván to that stupid barber who told my ancestor all those tales about madmen. How could such stories of madmen have cured him if he had been really mad, which I don’t for a moment believe. Oh well, we must look on the bright side, Teresa. I don’t think they will try to burn my books.’

  ‘Not burn them perhaps, but Father Herrera told me how I was to keep your study locked. He said he didn’t want you tiring your head with books. Anyway, not till after the bishop had been.’

  ‘But you didn’t lock the door, Teresa. You can see I have two books with me.’

  ‘Is it me who would lock you out of your own room, when it hurts me to see that young priest sit there as though it belonged to him? But better hide the books under the sheet when the bishop comes. They are two of a kind, those two.’

  He heard Father Herrera return from Mass: he heard the clatter of plates for the priest’s breakfast – Teresa was making twice the noise in the kitchen that she would have made for him. He turned to Father Caussade who was a more comforting presence to have at his bedside than Father Heribert Jone. He pretended to himself that Father Caussade was sitting beside his bed to hear his confession. Was it four days that had passed or five?

  ‘Father, since my last confession ten days ago . . .’ He was worried again by the laughter which had so nearly come to him, as he watched the film in Valladolid, and by the absence of any kind of desire which would prove him human and give him a sense of shame. Was it possible that he had even picked up in the cinema the vulgar phrase which he had used in talking of the bishop? But there had been no bishop in the film. The obscene words had caused Teresa to laugh and Dr Galván had even repeated them. He said to Father Caussade: ‘If there was a sin in her laughter or in Dr Galván’s counsel, the sin was mine, mine only.’ There was a worse sin. Under the influence of wine he had minimized the importance of the Holy Ghost by comparing it to a half bottle of manchegan. It was certainly a black record with which he had to face the reprobation of the bishop, but it was not really the bishop he feared. He feared himself. He felt as though he had been touched by the wing-tip of the worst sin of all, despair.

  He opened Father Caussade’s Spiritual Letters at random. The first passage he read had no relevance at all as far as he could understand it. ‘In my opinion your too frequent contacts with your many relations and others in the world are a stumbling block to your advancement.’ Father Caussade, it was true, was writing to a nun, but all the same . . . A priest and a nun are closely allied. I never wanted to be advanced, he protested to the empty air, I never wanted to be a monsignor, and I have no relatives except a second cousin in Mexico.

  Without much hope he opened the book a second time, but this time he was rewarded, although the paragraph he had fixed on began discouragingly. ‘Have I ever in my life made a good confession? Has God pardoned me? Am I in a good or a bad state?’ He was tempted to close the book but he read on. ‘I at once reply: God wishes to conceal all that from me, so that I may blindly abandon myself to His mercies. I do not wish to know what He does not wish to show me and I wish to proceed in the midst of whatever darkness He may plunge me into. It is His business to know the state of my progress, mine to occupy myself with Him alone. He will take care of all the rest; I leave it to Him.’

  ‘I leave it to Him,’ Father Quixote repeated aloud and at that moment the door of his room opened and Father Herrera’s voice announced, ‘His Excellency is here.’

  Father Quixote had for a moment the odd impression that Father Herrera had suddenly grown old – the collar was the same blinding white, but the hair was white too and Father Herrera of course did not wear a bishop’s ring or a big cross slung round his neck. But he would in time wear both, he certainly would in time, Father Quixote thought.

  ‘I am sorry, Excellency. If you will give me a few minutes grace I will be with you in the study.’

  ‘Stay where you are, monsignor,’ the bishop said. (He rolled out the title monsignor with an obvious bitterness.) He took from his sleeve a white silk handkerchief and dusted the chair beside the bed, looked carefully at the handkerchief to see how far it might have been soiled, lowered himself into the chair and put his hand on the sheet. But as Father Quixote was not in a position in which he could genuflect he thought it was permissible to leave out the kiss and the bishop after a brief pause withdrew his hand. Then the bishop pursed his lips and following a moment’s reflection blew out the monosyllable: ‘Well!’

  Father Herrera was standing in the doorway like a bodyguard. The bishop told him, ‘You can leave me and the monsignor –’ the word seemed to burn his tongue for he made a grimace – ‘to have our little discussion alone.’ Father Herrera withdrew.

  The bishop clutched the cross on his purple pechera as though he were seeking a higher than human wisdom. It seemed an anti-climax to Father Quixote when he said, ‘I trust you are feeling better.’

  ‘I am feeling perfectly well,’ Father Quixote replied. ‘My holiday has done me much good.’

  ‘Not if the reports I have received are true.’

  ‘What reports?’

  ‘The Church always struggles to keep above politics.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘You know very well what I thought of your unfortunate involvement with the organization In Vinculis.’

  ‘It was an impromptu act of charity, Excellency. I admit that I didn’t really think . . . Perhaps with charity one shouldn’t think. Charity like love should be blind.’

  ‘You have been promoted for reasons quite beyond my comprehension to the rank of monsignor. A monsignor should always think. He must guard the dignity of the Church.’

  ‘I did not ask to be a monsignor. I do not like being a monsignor. The dignity of the parish priest of El Toboso is difficult enough to support.’

  ‘I do not pay attention to every rumour, monsignor. The mere fact that a man is a member of Opus Dei does not necessarily make him a reliable witness. I will take your word if you give it to me that you didn’t go into a certain shop in Madrid and ask to buy a cardinal’s hat.’

  ‘That was not me. My friend made a harmless little joke . . .’

  ‘Harmless? That friend of yours, I believe, is a former Mayor of El Toboso. A Communist. You choose very unsuitable friends and travelling companions, monsignor.’

  ‘I don’t need to remind Your Excellency that Our Lord . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. I know what you are going to say. The text about publicans and sinners has always been very carelessly used to justify a lot of imprudence. St Matthew, chosen by Our Lord, was a tax gatherer – a publican, a despised class. True enough, but there’s a whole world of difference between a tax gatherer and a Communist.’

  ‘I suppose in some Eastern countries it’s possible to be both.’

  ‘I would remind you, monsignor, that Our Lord was the Son of God. To Him all things were permissible, but for a poor priest like you and me isn’t it more prudent to walk in the footsteps of St Paul? You know what he wrote to Titus – “There are many rebellious spirits abroad, who talk of their own fantasies and lead men’s minds astray: they must be silenced.”’

  The bishop paused to hear Father Quixote’s response but none came. Perhaps he took this for a good sign, for when he spoke next, he dropped the ‘monsignor’ and used the friendly and companionable ‘father’. ‘Your friend, father,’ he said, ‘had apparently been drinking very heavily when you were both found. He didn’t even wak
e when they spoke to him. Father Herrera noticed too that there was a great deal of wine in your car. I realize that in your nervous condition wine must have proved a serious temptation. Personally, I always leave wine to the Mass. I prefer water. I like to pretend when I take a glass that I am drinking the pure water of Jordan.’

  ‘Perhaps not so pure,’ Father Quixote said.

  ‘What do you mean, father?’

  ‘Well, Excellency, I can’t help thinking of how Naaman, the Syrian, bathed seven times in the Jordan and left all his leprosy behind him in the water.’

  ‘An old Jewish legend from a very long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Excellency, but still – after all, it may be a true history – and leprosy is a mysterious disease. How many good Jewish lepers may have followed the example of Naaman? Of course I agree with you that St Paul is a reliable guide and you will certainly remember that he also wrote to Titus – no, I am wrong, it was to Timothy: “Do not confine thyself to water any longer: take a little wine to relieve thy stomach.”’

  A period of silence descended on the bedroom. Father Quixote thought that perhaps the bishop was seeking another quotation from St Paul, but he was wrong. The pause represented a change of subject rather than of mood. ‘What I don’t understand, monsignor, is that the Guardia found that you had exchanged clothes with this – this ex-Mayor, the Communist.’

  ‘There was not an exchange of clothes, Excellency, only of a collar.’

  The bishop closed his eyes. Impatience? Or he might have been praying for understanding.

  ‘Why even a collar?’

  ‘He thought I must be suffering from the heat in that kind of collar, so I gave it to him to try. I didn’t want him to think I was claiming any special merit . . . A military uniform or even a Guardia’s must be more difficult to endure in the heat than a collar. We are the lucky ones, Excellency.’

  ‘A story came to the ears of the parish priest in Valladolid that a bishop – or a monsignor – had been seen coming out of a scandalous film there – you know the kind of films which are shown now since the Generalissimo died . . .’

  ‘Perhaps the poor monsignor did not know the kind of film he was attending. Sometimes titles are misleading.’

  ‘What was so shocking in the story is that – the bishop or the monsignor, you know how people can be confused by the pechera which you and I both wear – was seen coming out of this disreputable cinema laughing.’

  ‘Not laughing, Excellency. Perhaps smiling.’

  ‘I don’t understand your presence at such a film.’

  ‘I was deceived by the innocence of the title.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A Maiden’s Prayer.’

  The bishop gave a deep sigh. ‘I sometimes wish,’ he said, ‘that the title of maiden were confined to Our Lady – and perhaps to members of religious orders. I realize you have been leading a very retired life in El Toboso, and you do not realize that the word “maiden” used in our great cities in its purely temporary sense is often an incitement to lust.’

  ‘I admit, Excellency, that it had not occurred to me.’

  ‘Of course these are very minor matters in the eyes of the Guardia Civil, however scandalous they may appear in the eyes of the Church. But I and my colleague at Avila have had very great difficulty in persuading them to shut their eyes for what was a grave criminal offence. We had to approach a high authority in the Ministry of the Interior – luckily a member of Opus Dei . . .’

  ‘And a cousin, I believe, of Dr Galván?’

  ‘That is hardly relevant. He saw at once that it would do the Church untold harm if a monsignor appeared in the dock charged with helping a murderer to escape . . .’

  ‘Not a murderer, Excellency. He missed.’

  ‘A bank robber.’

  ‘No, no. It was a self-service store.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me with petty details. The Guardia in León found the man in possession of your shoes clearly marked inside with your name.’

  ‘It’s a stupid habit of Teresa’s. Poor thing, she means well, but she never trusts the cobbler to give the right pair back when he resoles them.’

  ‘I don’t know whether it’s deliberate, monsignor, but you always seem to bring into our serious discussion quite trivial and irrelevant details.’

  ‘I am sorry – it wasn’t my intention – I thought it might seem odd to you, my shoes being marked that way.’

  ‘What seems odd to me is your helping this criminal to escape the law.’

  ‘He did have a gun – but of course he would not have used it. Shooting us would hardly have helped him.’

  ‘The Guardia in the end accepted that explanation, although the man had got rid of the gun and denied ever having had one. All the same, they seem to have established that first you had hidden the man in the boot of your car and lied to a Guardia. You can’t have done that under threat.’

  ‘I didn’t lie, Excellency. Perhaps – well, I indulged in a little equivocation. The Guardia never directly asked whether he was in the boot. Of course I could plead a “broad mental restriction”. Father Heribert Jone points out that an accused criminal – I was, legalistically speaking, a criminal – may plead “not guilty” which is only a conventional way of saying, “I am not guilty before law until I am proved guilty.” He even allows the criminal to say that the accusation is a calumny and to offer proofs for his pretended innocence – but there I think Father Heribert Jone goes a little too far.’

  ‘Who on earth is Father Heribert Jone?’

  ‘A distinguished German moral theologian.’

  ‘I thank God that he’s not a Spaniard.’

  ‘Father Herrera has a great respect for him.’

  ‘Anyway, I haven’t come here to talk about Moral Theology.’

  ‘I have always found it a very confusing subject, Excellency. For instance I can’t help wondering now about the concept of Natural Law . . .’

  ‘Nor have I come to talk about Natural Law. You have a remarkable talent, monsignor, for straying from the real subject.’

  ‘Which is, Excellency?’

  ‘The scandals you have been causing.’

  ‘But if I am accused of lies . . . surely we are somewhere in the realm of Moral Theology?’

  ‘I am trying very, very hard to believe –’ and the bishop gave another prolonged sigh which made Father Quixote wonder with pity and not with satisfaction whether the bishop might possibly be suffering from asthma – ‘I repeat very hard, that you are too ill to realize what a dangerous situation you are in.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that applies to all of us.’

  ‘To all of us?’

  ‘When we begin to think, I mean.’

  The bishop gave a curious sound – it reminded Father Quixote of one of Teresa’s hens laying an egg. ‘Ah,’ the bishop said, ‘I was coming to that. Dangerous thought. Your Communist companion no doubt led you to think in ways . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t that he led me, Excellency. He gave me the opportunity. You know, in El Toboso – I’m very fond of the garagist (he looks after Rocinante so well), the butcher is a bit of a scoundrel – I don’t mean that there’s anything profoundly wrong in scoundrels, and of course there are the nuns who do make excellent cakes, but on this holiday I have felt a freedom . . .’

  ‘A very dangerous freedom it seems to have been.’

  ‘But He gave it to us, didn’t He – freedom? That was why they crucified Him.’

  ‘Freedom,’ the bishop said. It was like an explosion. ‘Freedom to break the law? You, a monsignor? Freedom to go to pornographic films? Help murderers?’

  ‘No, no, I told you that he missed.’

  ‘And your companion – a Communist. Talking politics . . .’

  ‘No, no. We’ve discussed much more serious things than politics. Though I admit I hadn’t realized that Marx had so nobly defended the Church.’

  ‘Marx?’

  ‘A much misunderstood ma
n, Excellency. I promise you.’

  ‘What books have you been reading on this – extraordinary – expedition?’

  ‘I always take with me St Francis de Sales. To please Father Herrera I took Father Heribert Jone with me too. And my friend lent me The Communist Manifesto – no, no, Excellency, it’s not at all what you think it is. Of course I cannot agree with all his ideas, but there is a most moving tribute to religion – he speaks of “the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour”.’

  ‘I cannot sit here any longer and listen to the ravings of a sick mind,’ the bishop said and rose.

  ‘I have kept you here far too long, Excellency. It was a great act of charity on your part to come to see me in El Toboso. Dr Galván will assure you that I am quite well.’

  ‘In the body perhaps. I think you need a different kind of doctor. I shall consult Dr Galván, of course, before I write to the archbishop. And I shall pray.’

  ‘I am very grateful for your prayers,’ Father Quixote said. He noticed that the bishop did not offer him his ring before leaving. Father Quixote reproached himself for having spoken too freely. I have upset the poor man, he thought. Bishops, just like the very poor and the uneducated, should be treated with a special prudence.

  Whispers were to be heard from the passage outside his door. Then the key turned in the lock. So I am a prisoner, he thought, like Cervantes.

  II

  MONSIGNOR QUIXOTE’S