“Will you go with me?”

Benita nodded silently. She was moved and, though ashamed to admit it, she had to acknowledge that she was happy. The years of Manuel’s education had been years of solitude for her. One day each month she rejoiced in his visit; one day each month her tidy spinster’s house was turned upside down by her brother’s presence. And when his day of leave came to an end, Benita kept, like a sacred relic, the ashes the absent boy had carelessly let fall on the bedspread; she lingered over the task of scrubbing the traces of mud left on the doormat.

During that time, Benita had lived in fear that when Manuel completed his studies he would leave for some distant place or would become so important a personage that his humble origins would embarrass him. But, thanks be to God, her fears had been in vain. The Virgen de la Caridad was answering her prayers. Benita and Manuel would never be separated now; Manuel would depend on her totally once more; he would demand care, attention and pampering from her as if he were a child again.

From the doorway (who could go near this forbidding man?) Benita turned to look at her brother, tremulous with expectation and gratitude.

X

CHAPTER X

AFTER DINNER (some boiled beans and a cup of coffee, served in pewter dishes), Padre Manuel Mandujano shut himself up in his bedroom. A task he had been putting off for a week awaited him: writing to Don Alfonso. Manuel knew he had a lot of news to tell, and he knew it was important news, as well. Nevertheless, half an hour later, under the warm and silent glow of the lamp, he had done no more than trace some meaningless arabesques on the paper, trying out flourishes for his signature.

Before now, perplexity had never restrained him in the confrontation with a blank sheet of paper. He had quickly filled in the space with the monotonous, clear and impersonal handwriting taught at the Seminary. Today, he remained suspended. He had dates, figures, facts at his disposal. Everything was scrupulously exact, but he refused to consider it true. Still, when they are written out, incidents adjoin one another so closely that their proximity looks like coherence.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, Padre Mandujano put down his pen. His thoughts dwelled obstinately on one image: that of his predecessor, the last priest of San Juan, a reprobate, drunk, lecher and blasphemer. He had been transformed into that by something worse than isolation: a life shared with those strange, hermetic beings, the Indians.

Padre Manuel’s countenance darkened. Would his fate be as dismal as that man’s?