Of Love and Shadows (27 page)

Francisco watched his mother leave the room, setting the door ajar so she could hear him if he called her; he felt the same tenderness he had known as a child when she sat on his bed and patted him gently until he fell asleep. Many years had gone by since then, but she still treated him with the same impertinent solicitude, ignoring the fact he was a grown man who often had to shave twice a day, who had a doctorate in psychology, and who could have lifted her off the ground with one hand. He teased her, but did nothing to change the habit of that uninhibited affection. He felt he was especially privileged, and he intended to enjoy it as long as he could. Their relationship, begun in the womb and strengthened by recognition of their mutual defects and virtues, was a precious gift they both hoped would last beyond life itself. The rest of the night Francisco slept soundly, and when he awoke he did not remember his dreams. He took a long, hot shower, ate his breakfast, draining the last of the imported coffee, and, with the photographs in his backpack, left for his brother's neighborhood.

José Leal, when not working as a plumber with blowtorch or monkey wrench, was kept busy with countless activities in the poor community where he had chosen to live in accordance with his incurable passion for serving his fellow man. He lived in a large, densely populated neighborhood that was invisible from the road, hidden behind walls and a row of poplar trees with naked branches stretching toward the sky—a place where not even vegetation thrived. Behind that discreet screen lay dirt streets and torrid heat in summer; mud and rain in winter; shacks constructed from discarded materials; garbage; clotheslines; dogfights. Idle men passed their hours in little groups on street corners, while children played with bits of junk and women struggled to prevent bad from deteriorating into worse. It was a world of deprivation and penury in which the only consolation was solidarity. Here no one dies of hunger, José said, in explanation of the communal stewpots, because before that last desperate step is taken, someone holds out a helping hand. Neighbors formed groups and contributed whatever each could scavenge for the soup shared by all. Distant relatives moved in with those who at least had a roof over their heads. In the soup kitchens the Church had set up for the children, a daily ration of food was apportioned to the youngest. Even after many years, the priest's heart still melted when he saw the freshly bathed and combed children standing in line for their turn to enter the shed where rows of aluminum plates of food waited on huge tables, while their brothers and sisters, too old now to be fed by charity, loitered around, hoping for scraps. Two or three women cooked the food the priests obtained by means of pleas and spiritual threats. Besides serving the food, the women watched to see that the children ate all their portions, because many hid food and bread to take home to a family that had nothing to put in the cooking pot but a few vegetables picked up on the rubbish heap behind the market and a bone that more than once had been boiled to lend a hint of flavor to the broth.

José lived in a wooden shack similar to many others, although his was larger because it also served as an office to minister to the temporal and spiritual needs of his disconsolate flock. Francisco, along with a lawyer and a doctor, took his turn treating the inhabitants in their disputes, illnesses, and depressions; all of them frequently felt totally useless, knowing there were no solutions to the mass of tragic problems confronting their patients.

Francisco found his brother ready to go out, dressed in his workman's overalls and carrying the heavy bag containing his plumber's tools. After making sure that they were alone, Francisco opened his pack. While the priest, turning paler and paler, looked at the photographs, Francisco told him the story, beginning with Evangelina Ranquileo and her attacks of saintliness—José had known something of this when he helped them look for her in the Morgue—and ending at the moment when the remains in the photographs lay at their feet in the mine. Francisco omitted nothing but the name of Irene Beltrán, in order to keep her safe from any possible consequences.

José Leal listened to the end, then sat in an attitude of silent meditation, staring at the floor. His brother guessed that he was struggling to gain control of his emotions. When he was young, any form of abuse, injustice, or evil had sent a searing electric current through him, blinding him with rage. His years in the priesthood and a gradual mellowing of his character had given him the strength to control these fits of anger and—with the methodical discipline of humility—to accept the world as an imperfect work where God puts souls to the test. Finally he looked up. His face was once again serene and his voice sounded calm.

“I will speak with the Cardinal,” he said.

*  *  *

“May God watch over us in the battle we are about to undertake,” said the Cardinal.

“Amen,” seconded José Leal.

Once more the prelate reviewed the photographs, holding them gingerly with his fingertips, studying the stained and ragged clothing, the empty eye sockets, the rigid hands. To anyone who did not know him, the Cardinal was always a surprise. At a distance performing his public duties, on the television screen, or officiating at mass in the Cathedral in his gold-and-silver-embroidered vestments and surrounded by his court of acolytes, the Cardinal looked slim and elegant. In fact, he was a short, muscular man with a farmer's large hands, who spoke very little, and almost always in a brusque tone—more from shyness than discourtesy. Although he was notoriously taciturn in the presence of women and at social gatherings, he displayed little reticence while performing his responsibilities. He had few close friends, for experience had taught him that to one in his position, reserve is an indispensable virtue. Those few persons who had penetrated his inner circle testified that he had the affable nature typical of country people. Indeed, he had come from a large provincial family. Of his parents' home, he treasured the memory of splendid noon meals, of the enormous table where he sat with a dozen brothers and sisters, of the wines bottled in their patio and stored for years in wine cellars. He had never lost his taste for succulent vegetable soups, corn cakes, chicken stews, highly spiced seafood chowder, and, above all, homemade desserts. The nuns responsible for maintaining the Cardinal's residence took great pains to copy his mother's recipes and send to his dining table the dishes he had enjoyed as a boy. Although José Leal did not claim to be the Cardinal's friend, he knew him through his work in the Vicariate, where often they worked side by side, united in their compassionate desire to bring human solidarity where divine love seemed to be lacking. In the Cardinal's presence, José always relived the faint bewilderment he had felt at their first meeting, for in his mind he carried the image of a man of distinguished bearing quite different from this stocky old man who looked more like a villager than a Prince of the Church. José felt a deep admiration for the prelate but he was careful not to show it, because his superior would not tolerate any form of flattery. Long before the rest of the country was aware of the true dimensions of the man, José Leal had seen proof of the courage, good will, and astuteness that the Cardinal would later demonstrate in dealing with the dictatorship. Neither the campaign of hostilities, nor priests and nuns in prison, nor warnings from Rome could deflect him from his purpose. This leader of the Church took upon his own shoulders the burden of defending the victims of the new order, placing his formidable organization at the service of the persecuted. If the situation became dangerous, he changed his strategy, backed by two thousand years of prudence and acquaintance with power. He avoided open confrontation between the representatives of the Church and those of the General. On occasion he gave the impression of retreat, but soon it was apparent that this was merely an emergency tactical maneuver. He did not deviate one iota from his task of sheltering widows and orphans, ministering to prisoners, keeping count of the dead, and substituting charity for justice if that became necessary. For these and many other reasons, José considered him to be their only hope in unearthing the secret of Los Riscos.

But now they were in the Cardinal's office. The photographs on the massive antique desk were starkly lighted by the sun streaming through the windowpanes. From his chair, the visitor could see the clear blue sky of spring and the tops of the century-old trees in the street outside. The room was simply furnished with dark furniture and book-lined shelves. The walls were bare except for a cross of barbed wire, a gift from prisoners in a concentration camp. A teacart held large white china cups and quantities of pastry and marmalade provided by the Carmelite nuns. José Leal drank his last sip of tea and picked up the photographs, returning them to his plumber's bag. The Cardinal pressed a bell and his secretary answered immediately.

“Please, I want to see the people on this list . . . today!” he directed, handing the secretary a list of names he had written in his perfect script. The secretary left the room and the Cardinal turned toward José. “How did you learn of this story, Father Leal?”

“I told you, Your Eminence. It's a secret of the confessional,” José said, smiling and indicating that he did not want to talk about it.

“If the police decide to interrogate you, they will not accept that answer.”

“I'll take that risk.”

“I hope it will not be necessary. I understand you have already been arrested—twice, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“You should not call attention to yourself. I would prefer that for the present, at least, you not go to that mine.”

“But I have a strong interest in this matter and, with your permission, I would like to see it through to the end,” José replied, flushing.

The prelate looked at José inquisitively, pondering his deepest motives. He had worked with José for years and considered him to be a bulwark of the Vicariate, which required strong, brave men of generous heart like this man dressed in workingman's clothes and holding on his knees a plumber's bag containing evidence of unspeakable evil. The priest's honest gaze convinced the Cardinal that he was not acting from curiosity or pride, but from a desire to learn the truth.

“Be cautious, Father Leal, not only for your sake but for the sake of the Church. We want no war with the government, you understand?”

“Perfectly, Your Eminence.”

“Come this evening to the meeting I called. If God wills it, tomorrow you will open that mine.”

The Cardinal rose from his chair and accompanied his visitor to the door, walking slowly, with one hand on the muscular arm of this man who, like himself, had elected the difficult challenge of loving his neighbor more than himself.

“Go with God” was the elderly Cardinal's farewell, accompanied by a firm handshake that cut short José's move to bow and kiss his ring.

At dusk a group of carefully chosen individuals gathered in the office of the Cardinal. The event did not go unnoticed by the Political Police and the State Security Corps, both of which reported to the General personally but had not dared to interfere because of specific orders to avoid confrontation with the Church: Bloody hell! Those damned priests stick their noses in where no one asks them—why don't they attend to the soul and leave the governing to us? But don't interfere with them. We don't want to get into another fracas there, said the General, fuming; but find out what the hell they're plotting so we can put a cork in it before the genie gets loose, before those bastards begin shooting off their mouths from the pulpit, fucking up the whole country, and leave us no choice but to teach them a lesson—though I would certainly not take any great pleasure from that, being an apostolic, Roman, practicing Catholic. I'm not planning any fight with God.

They did not learn what was spoken that night, however, in spite of sensitive listening devices purchased in Biblical lands, instruments that could capture the sighing and panting of lovers in a hotel three blocks away; in spite of all the telephones tapped in an effort to hear every intent whispered throughout the vast prison of the nation; in spite of agents who had infiltrated the residence of the Cardinal himself, dressed as exterminators, deliverymen, gardeners, even the lame, blind, and epileptic who had stationed themselves at the door asking for alms and benedictions from the passing cassocks. The Security Corps used every tactic at their command but could ascertain only: for a number of hours the persons on this list remained behind closed doors, General, sir, and then went from the office to the dining room, where they were served a seafood bisque, roast beef with parsley potatoes, and, for dessert, a— Get down to brass tacks, Colonel, I don't want menus, I want to know what they said! No idea, General, sir, but if you want we can interrogate the secretary. Don't be an ass, Colonel!

At midnight the invited guests said good night at the door of the Cardinal's residence before the vigilant eyes of the police openly stationed in the street outside. Everyone knew that from that moment their lives were in danger, but none hesitated: they had grown accustomed to walking on the edge of an abyss. They had worked for the Church for many years. Except for José Leal, all were laypersons and some were unbelievers who had had no contact at all with religion until the military coup, after which they had banded together in an inevitable pledge to resist in the shadows. Once he was alone, the Cardinal turned out the lights and went to his room. He had dismissed his secretary early, and all his staff, because they did not approve of his late hours. As he grew older, he needed less sleep and he liked spending his wakeful hours working in his office. He walked through the house, making sure the doors were locked and the shutters closed; after the latest bomb explosion in his garden he had taken simple precautions. He had flatly rejected the General's offer to provide him with a team of bodyguards, and had refused a similar offer from a group of young Catholic volunteers who wanted to protect him. He was convinced that he would live until his appointed hour, not a second more or a second less. Besides, he said, representatives of the Church cannot go around in bulletproof cars and anti-flak jackets like politicians, mafiosi, and tyrants. If any of the attempts against his person should be successful, within a very short time another priest would take his place to carry on his work. That knowledge gave him enormous peace of mind.