Good Offices

I

He has a terrible fear of being an animal, especially on Thursdays, at lunchtime. “I have this fear,” he says to himself, and glimpses his hump reflected in the window. His eyes wander over his eyes: he does not recognize himself. What an other! he thinks. What an other! And examines his face. “On Thursdays,” and then, “this Thursday, especially, when it’s the old people’s turn.” Tuesdays for the blind, Mondays for the whores, Fridays for families, Wednesdays for the street kids, Saturdays and Sundays for God, or so says the priest. “To rest the spirits,” the Father asks him — or as good as asks him — to pray and swing the censer. Mass, Mass, Mass. There may be Mass every day — the Word of God — but every weekday lunchtime the parish church becomes a living hell. With midday meals like these, there is no eating in peace. They have their lunches. He has to keep an eye on things, take charge, from the outset. On Thursdays, especially, when he has a terrible fear of being an animal. At 10:00 in the morning, crowds of old people start pouring in from the four corners of the city, Bogotá spitting them out by the dozen. They form an impatient line, leaning against the church wall by the side door that leads to the dining hall and that only opens at 12:00 on the dot, come blazing sun or lashing hail like knife pricks. The old people cannot bear any kind of weather or tolerate the fact that the metal door opens only at midday: the line moans, grumbles, and curses. They are the only ones who forget that their lunch is another of Father Almida’s acts of charity. They protest as if outside a restaurant, as if they were paying customers. They act as though they were respected clients and he the maître d’, their waiter. “I’ll complain to your superior,” they yell. “We’ve come a long way,” “I want my soup; it’s getting late,” “I’m sick,” “I’m hungry,” “Open up, open up, I’m dying,” “Open up, I’m already dead.” And they do die, as a matter of fact: eleven old people have died in the three years since they began offering Father Almida’s Community Meals. They have died in the line or while eating, and Tancredo’s dreadful fear of being an animal redoubles: he has to telephone places where no one ever answers — doctors, police, the institutions and foundations with which the Father has an arrangement to provide support in such cases, worthy and charitable individuals who, if they do answer the telephone, become absent-minded just when they are most needed. “We’re on our way,” they say. “We’ll be there in no time.” “Just a minute.” But he must wait with the body for hours, in the same hall where the meals are served, he and the corpse similarly inert, each in his chair, the only guests at a table littered with leftovers, a funeral feast which the rest of the old people, despite one of their number having died, carry on eating, even mocking the deceased, helping themselves to the remains of his meal — “It’s no use to you now” — and stripping him of a hat, a scarf, a handkerchief or his shoes. Luckily for Tancredo, an old person does not die every Thursday. But this does not diminish his fear of becoming an animal. He is always afraid, he has this terrible fear, especially on Thursdays when the meal is over and he has to clear the hall. “Father Almida will expect you next week,” he says, and battle commences. A disconsolate din rattles the table, the plates, the cutlery. They are like stunned children. They implore him as if he were a relative, a memory: they call him extraordinary names, names he will dream of later and be unable to believe are real: Ehich, Schekinah, Ajin, Haytfadik. “You can’t possibly throw me out,” they say. Then the protests begin. Whimpering. Pleading. Whining. “I don’t want to leave. Where can I hide?” He must lift them up out of their chairs, all of them lethargic, most of them asleep, their stomachs full of soup and shredded pork: their food is served in the form of mush; they have no teeth, much less false ones, and on top of that they eat so slowly, on purpose, as if they never want to finish. Their meals are eternal. But they do finish, in spite of themselves; they finish and he must rouse them by shouting, round them up like reluctant cattle, even pick them up and carry them bodily from the hall, scare them away by clapping his hands and shoving them out of the church. “We’ll call Father Almida,” protest the ones who are most awake. “We’ll complain.” He pushes them out, one after the other, forced to play executioner; the old women try to bite him, hang on his neck, clutch at his hair, beg to see Father Almida, because they are his grandmothers, they say, his aunts, his mamás, his friends; they offer to work as servants in the church, as cooks or gardeners or seamstresses; some of them hide under the table, crouching and bristling like fiends, threatening with their fingernails; he has to get down on all fours, hunt them, pursue them, corner them, flush them out. And still his work is not done because even though most of the old people accept that they have to be gone until the following Thursday, there are always two or three dotted about the hall who pretend to be dead, or dying, and some have tricked him; sometimes they manage to confuse him and convince him. “We’ve died,” say the most guileless, giving themselves away. “I’m dead, leave me alone.” Others remain stock-still, stretched out on the cold brick floor — a pool of spilled soup and rice — eyes rolled back, limbs stiff. Tancredo puts his ear to their chests; he cannot hear their hearts, it always seems, so he resorts to ruses to unmask them, invoking the patience of Job; he tickles them, their dirty ears, their eyelashes, their stinking armpits and the soles of their feet, which smell a thousand times worse, poking his fingers into ancient shoes brimming with ants, damp with sweat, the leather cracked, the soles worn through by the years, shoes that are never taken off, like their socks — if they have any — and when he manages to reach skin it feels slippery, an icy cold that gives him gooseflesh, and he scratches at it roughly, hurriedly. Only if there is no response does he pinch them, and pinch again, and go on pinching — it is the ultimate test — until they moan, smile, laugh, softly at first, in distress, cry out, then shout, and then: “Leave me in peace, I died already,” and they insist: “Don’t touch me, I’m dead, I died, can’t you see?” and in the end become angry: “You killed me,” and insult him: “You damned hunchback bastard,” and this is when rage boils up in the pit of his stomach, and he fears becoming an animal and gnashing, biting, finishing off all these skeletons of men and women, who knows if they are children or old people, who knows if they are good or wicked, who knows what they are, but they harbour within them the world’s vilest evils. Father Almida says yet again: “Resign yourself, Tancredo,” and tells him that nothing is worse than old age, nothing more wretched or pitiable. “It is God’s last great test,” he says, and that is true, but there is nothing more dreadful than discovering whether they are dead or not, or more terrible than Tancredo’s fear of being an animal, because it falls to him to find them out, because he alone has to take charge of their meals, take charge of all the lunches, but most of all the old people’s meals, the elderly who become more numerous each time, the insolent old ones who pretend to be dead in order to enter the heaven of the parish church, and they exasperate him, they drive him crazy, they demoralize and crush him, because the worst thing is when an old person really has died and he has had to subject them — or rather, subject himself — to this insane, absurd, unavoidable test of tickling and pinching.

“It is your cross to bear,” the Father tells him, “and also your redemption. Resign yourself, Tancredo.”

At long last they set off into the streets in different directions, a decimated army, each with his or her bundle, a bag of scraps prudently tucked away, and he doesn’t know where they will go, where they will sleep that night or the next, or where they will eat tomorrow — perhaps in another church, he thinks, convincing himself of this in order to soothe his conscience. The shouts and shoves with which he thrust them from the church … others will help them, he thinks, and closes the door, but, as he does so, awaiting him, unwelcome, in the other tiny doorway that leads into the church itself, as if placed there by an invisible hand, lean the scrubbing brushes and the broom, the three pails of water, the cloths and the disinfectant soap, the endless work: the floor and walls must be left spick-and-span, the glass in the only window sparkling; the crucifixes adorning the walls must shine; the enormous, rough rectangular cedar table has to gleam, utterly spotless, as if for the Last Supper; and the chairs for the following day, exactly ninety-nine of them, must be made suitably immaculate and arranged in precise formation. Because tomorrow is Family Friday, the only meal attended by the Father, over which he presides accompanied by his household: the three Lilias, Machado the sacristan, his goddaughter, Sabina Cruz, and he himself, the acolyte, he himself, Tancredo, he himself, the hunchback.

What an other, what an other.

Tancredo averts his examining gaze from the window: forsaken.

Generally, it is 5:00 in the afternoon by the time he finishes clearing up, and only then does one of the Lilias appear in the tiny doorway, carrying his lunch on a heavy tray. He has lunch alone, dishevelled, sweaty from cleaning, smelling of rags, of disinfectant, his head bent over the plate, at times almost fearful. Fearful because sooner or later he raises his head and it seems he is still in the company of all those faces with their toothless, drooling mouths, which open ever wider and swallow him up, one arm after the other, one leg after the other; they gulp down his head at a single go. They do not devour him with their mouths alone: they devour him with their eyes, those eyes, dead eyes. He slams his fist on the table, but they do not disappear. “I am the meals,” he cries to himself — “I am the meal, I’m still their meal” — and with a racket like that made by the old people fleeing through the streets he lets out one last rasping sigh. “It is your cross,” the Father tells him. “It is your cross.” Closing his eyes, Tancredo sees more eyes, those eyes. Then he has a dreadful fear of being an animal, but an animal alone, an animal inside itself, devouring itself from within.

This particular Thursday, however, the presence of another of the Lilias saves him from his fear. It is strange: he has not yet finished his lunch when the Lilia appears on the threshold, her ancient voice full of echoes that whisper damply, urgently: “Father Almida needs you. He is in the office.” It is the youngest of the Lilias: shivering with cold, framed in the doorway, she wipes her hands on her apron and sighs deeply. Everything to do with the Father stirs her, even makes her stutter; she is attentive to the point of delirium; her eyes shine as if with fear; behind her small, bent frame Tancredo sees part of the presbytery garden, the willow trees, the great, round, yellow stone fountain, the violet afternoon darkening. “Go right now, I’ll look after your lunch,” she says, wrapped in her black shawl, and makes for the tray, arms outstretched. “I’ll reheat it for you later. You can have it in your room.”

It is strange because never before, in three years of Community Meals, has Father Almida ordered them to interrupt Tancredo’s lunch, his repose, his rest. The Father’s orders concerning this were categorical: “You must not bother Tancredo when he is having his lunch.” On one of the Tuesdays for the blind he became upset with the three Lilias because they had begged Tancredo, when he had barely finished his work, to help them in the kitchen: they wanted him to move the refrigerator, they wanted to clean out the coal stove, they wanted help pulling out the four electric cookers so they could sweep behind them and, while they were at it, get rid of a mouse’s nest that not one of the presbytery’s six cats had been able to reach. “Tancredo can help you in the morning,” the Father told them. “Any morning, but not after the Meals. He must have his own lunch, he must rest, and then he has to study before bed.” He also told them: “Ask nothing of Tancredo after the Meals, unless he and I agree otherwise.”

The three Lilias never asked for Tancredo’s help with their chores again, except those they had shared since he was a boy: accompanying them to market every Saturday, carrying the shopping, stacking it in the pantry, checking the cookers, repairing any electrical faults, hammering in or pulling out nails — undemanding domestic tasks. His work, over the last three years since he had finished night school, had revolved exclusively around the Community Meals and his private studies, directed and overseen by Father Almida himself: annotated Bible-reading, learning Latin.

His own work will have to wait now, he supposes, along with his shower and a change of clothes. He will have to go to the office, a sort of study where the Father attends to earthly matters and where he is waiting, wanting to see him — he needs me, Tancredo thinks, as the smallest of the Lilias said urgently.

Reverend Father Juan Pablo Almida was not alone. Seated at the oblong table with him was the sacristan. Pale as a sheet, Sacristan Celeste Machado gazed at the hunchback, astonished, as if he had only just met him. The sacristan was an obscure man, a shadow like the Lilias, and not just because he dressed all in black, but because of his deep reserve, a ring of blackness like a pit. Partially deaf besides, he roamed the place like any other shadow, looming up like the walls. Mute and dark. Stony. His inner gloom could freeze you. His eyes and facial expression screamed hatred and disgust, a secret repugnance that seemed exacerbated by proximity to the Lilias, who fled from him, or the presence of Tancredo, whom he ignored. He conversed — or his harsh voice rang out — solely with the Father or with Sabina, his goddaughter, and only when necessary.

Juan Pablo Almida, robust, exuding strength and health from every pore at sixty years of age — looking more like fifty — was at the head of both the table and the conversation. He had just said something his hunchbacked acolyte could not make out, but which — he sensed — referred to him: they were talking about him. The sacristan continued to examine him as though confronted by some ghastly hallucination. Why so surprised? Tancredo thought. Any self-respecting church needs its hunchback; they should know that better than anyone. Or were they astounded by the vast size of his head, the wisdom in his eyes — as Father Almida, describing him, had once put it — his stature, too tall for a hunchback, the extraordinary musculature God had seen fit to bestow on him, without being asked? Tancredo shrugged, resigned, and decided to let them admire him as much as they wished to for a few seconds. Almida and the sacristan were drinking the hazelnut liqueur that the parish lavished on its most distinguished guests or most unexpected visitors. Father Almida waved Tancredo to a chair on his right. As he sat down, he sensed the current of heat emanating from Sabina Cruz at the far end of the office, bent over the black writing-desk, unobtrusively tapping at the typewriter. She was wearing her blue headscarf; she didn’t even turn to look at him.

“My right-hand man has arrived,” Father Almida said, without taking his eyes off Tancredo. The sacristan inclined his head briefly, cupping his hand around one ear so as not to miss a word, a characteristic gesture that obliged him to turn his face to one side and stretch out his neck, and, as a result, look at his interlocutors out of the corner of his eye, as if spying on them.

Almida got straight to the point, explaining to the hunchback that our sacristan here was exceedingly interested in knowing more about the Community Meals. Those were his words: exceedingly interested.

“Tancredo,” Almida said in a confidential tone, “today was the meal for the elderly, was it not? How was attendance? Did many come along?”

“Only three empty seats, Father.”

“And there are ninety-nine seats.” Almida sipped his drink, visibly satisfied.

The sacristan nodded approvingly. Resting his immense, pale, watery eyes on Tancredo, he forced an incredulous smile.

“Is it always like that, the attendance?” he asked.

His eyes drilled into Tancredo. Scrutinizing not just him, but his reply as well. There was an uncertain silence. It seemed to Tancredo a surprising moment to begin such an interrogation. Besides, he felt worn out, exhausted: after the old people crawling around the hall, over and under the table, bathed in soup, steeped in filth and saliva, like a Roman orgy or a witches’ Sabbath, to have to face the sacristan’s inquisition infuriated him. Once again he experienced the dreadful fear of being an animal, or the desire to be one, which was worse. He imagined himself dashing that table against the ceiling; kicking over the chairs of the Church’s two representatives; tipping out their occupants, pissing on their sacred heads; pursuing Sabina, pulling up her heavy lay sister’s skirt, ripping into the apparent innocence of her blouse, buttoned up to the neck, pawing her breasts, pinching her belly button, her thighs, her backside. Truly, he thought, aghast, he needed to confess to the Father about his dreadful fear of being an animal, and the sooner the better. He had to reveal his inner turmoil or he would suffocate. His palms sweaty, his knees knocked together beneath the table.

But Father Juan Pablo Almida urged him on. “Tell us about your experiences, Tancredo, your conclusions. We were talking about the Community Meals while waiting for you to finish your work.”

The hunchback turned to the sacristan.

“It depends,” he said, with considerable effort. “There are days when attendance is lower. I mean, it varies. This year hasn’t been the same as last year. You are aware of this, I think.” That was his rather general reply to the question.

The sacristan was not satisfied.

“Bear in mind that I am not well informed,” he said. “Does attendance vary according to the day of the week?”

“That’s right.” Tancredo could not help but agree.

“According to the day of the week, more than anything else.” Father Almida’s voice, his apparent composure, persuaded Tancredo to divulge his information all at once.

“Yes,” he said, “In the case of the elderly, there is almost full attendance. Not so with the street children. Their numbers are going down. Nineteen last time. They complain that the police keep an eye on them here, and in a way they’re right. . Last week they caught two of them; perhaps they had charges pending. They didn’t even let them finish their lunch. .”

The Father and the sacristan exchanged solemn glances.

“It puts them off coming,” Tancredo said. He didn’t want to say anything more, hoping they would free him from the conversation. Let him go to the library, to be alone, far from the dreadful fear of being an animal.

But that is not what happened.

“How old are the street children?” the sacristan asked.

“All different ages,” the hunchback answered carelessly. And then: “Well, from four to fifteen.”

“Four!” The sacristan was astounded. Raising his head, he contemplated the ceiling as if in prayer. Only after a minute had passed, an almost celestial interlude, did he rouse himself. His blue eyes blinked. His voice sounded concerned. “And the attendance levels of the blind?”

Tancredo would have liked to reply: The same as the attendance levels of the angels. But he stopped himself in time, remaining silent for a few seconds. He thought of the blind, the most delightful of diners, or at least the most peaceful, the most thoughtful and always agreeable — with him and with each other. Unlike the street children, they never griped about the menu, and they accepted the end of every meal with seemly resignation, without protest.

The impatience of Father Almida, who was drumming his fingers on the table, spurred Tancredo on.

“As for the blind,” he said, “numbers are stable: thirty or forty every Tuesday.”

His listeners’ expectant silence convinced him to go on.

“The number of prostitutes is going down,” he said. “Six last Monday.”

There was another silence. Father Almida’s curiosity shifted away from the Meals.

“I was reminding Celeste that you are a secondary-school graduate,” he said.

“That’s right, Father.”

“The parish expects to be paying for his studies in philosophy and theology in the not too distant future,” Almida said, without looking at anyone. He had been saying the same thing for the three years they had been offering the Community Meals. The hunchback no longer cared about going to university, but it did irritate him, irredeemably so, that Almida should bring up the plan for him to study philosophy and theology at the slightest opportunity, in front of Celeste Machado.

“Tancredo,” Almida asked with evident smugness, “what book are we reading?”

Tancredo felt like a trained beast, on show.

“Augustine’s Confessions,” he replied.

“You mean Saint Augustine.” The sacristan corrected him immediately. And added, sipping his liqueur: “We must not disregard saintliness in a Doctor of the Church. Inescapable, transcendent saintliness, which makes it all the greater.”

“That’s true,” Tancredo was obliged to concede. “Saint Augustine.”

“I simply meant to suggest,” Father Almida yielded, “that Tan-credo does not neglect his studies, even if they aren’t officially recognized by the university.”

Once more, the sacristan gave the shadow of a nod, this time somewhat forced and unenthusiastic. Juan Pablo Almida was making the hunchback uncomfortable. He must have some hidden agenda to insist so on Tancredo’s education.

“We can speak in Latin, if you wish,” Almida said.

The sacristan raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“That will not be necessary,” he replied.

Who knows whether he said this to protect the hunchback from such a test. As for Tancredo, he was ready, any time. The long hours spent studying at an arid desk, with no other life to live, had not been in vain.

“We can,” Father Almida insisted.

Naturally we can, thought the hunchback. We will prove the existence of God in ten ways. And then — Or ten whacks.

“Of course,” the sacristan said. “We do not doubt it, Father, if you say so.”

He continued to look fixedly at the hunchback.

“How time flies.” Glancing at the clock, Almida seemed to be excusing himself. “There is always so much to do,” he said.

“Seven o’clock Mass,” the sacristan said.

“There is time.” Father Almida consulted his watch as well. “There is time.”

It was almost 6:00 in the evening and darkness was falling. Part of the garden could be seen from the office. Like hands, the branches of a willow were waving goodbye. A cat half hid in the stone fountain. The wind, gentle and cold, crept along the walls.

Like the dining hall and the office, the sacristy, connected to a passage leading to the interior of the church, was situated on the ground floor on one side of the garden. Beyond the garden, along a little path intersected by an adobe wall, was the back patio: here were the kitchen, the ironing room, the laundry, the shared bathroom, the three Lilias’ bedroom and the hunchback’s room, as well as the garage where the Father’s old Volkswagen was kept. The bedrooms belonging to the Father, to Sacristan Machado and to his goddaughter, Sabina Cruz — each with its own private bathroom — were on the first floor of the presbytery, overlooking the garden; from the garden you could see their wide oak doors along the passage adorned with flowers and vines, as well as the little library where, along with the books, was the improvised altar of a small black-and-white television, which was switched on only for the news, or when religious festivals or papal messages were broadcast live. Deep stone steps covered with creepers led from the garden to the presbytery’s first floor.

The church — its three naves, its bell tower, its chapel dedicated to Saint Gertrude with its oratory and confessional, its lofty vestibule and the cruciform violet stained-glass window presiding over it, its choir stalls and its apse — took up three quarters of the property. Nevertheless, the living space was extensive, and the immense room that had been intended for games — with its six ping-pong tables — and had then been used for the Young Christians’ theatrical performances, for the games, raffles, collections and bazaars organized by the elderly ladies of the Neighborhood Civic Association, and for chats between clergy and parishioners, was finally turned into the dining hall for the Community Meals. This was Tancredo’s disgrace, or his final destination: with secondary school behind him, he could no longer dream of university.

A bird sang outside, and its song came in like a balm, washing over them. The slender hand of Sabina Cruz, meanwhile, poured more hazelnut liqueur into the gold-rimmed glasses. She served Tancredo too, without a greeting, without a glance. This time she left the bottle on the table.

“Hazelnut liqueur.” Father Almida read from the label. Some-thing, a faint irony, seemed to inflect his tone.

“Exquisite,” the sacristan said, drinking again. “It is sweet and comforting. Thank you, thank you very much.”

His light-colored eyes quickly took in the pale, round face of Sabina Cruz, his goddaughter, much paler than his own: a freckled, immutable face. No expression, no emotion animated it.

“It is sweet,” Father Almida conceded, continuing to examine the label. “But it’s 25 per cent proof: twice as strong as wine.”

God only knew, the hunchback thought, what hidden agenda those two representatives of the Church were pursuing, what their obscure purpose had been for calling him in to enquire about the Meals. A cat regarded them attentively from the very top of the shelves. Everyone in the office seemed to have been waiting for the sacristan’s goddaughter to finish replenishing the glasses.

Although not albino, Sabina Cruz’s hair and complexion gave the impression that she was. Her skin was so white it seemed pink, and her silvery-blonde hair gave off a sort of dim radiance, the light of an agonizing flame. Slight and fragile in appearance, her head bent, she was even younger than Tancredo, but would soon enough look like one of the Lilias. With that blue scarf on her head, she was a nun without a habit. They waited until she was seated behind the distant writing-desk before resuming their conversation. All the same, it was pointless to pretend that the sacristan’s goddaughter was not a participant in it, at least as a witness.

“So,” the sacristan continued, and now his ironic eyes bored into the hunchback, “you impart the Word of God to stray sheep by way of the Meals.”

He said this as though unable to credit it: a hunchback in the service of God.

“Stray?” Tancredo was astonished. And his astonishment was sincere. His listeners’ air of expectancy obliged him to explain. “I would say ‘to the hungry sheep’.”

He immediately regretted his words, not even entirely agreeing with what he had said. The sacristan instantly turned red. But he recovered quickly.

“That’s the trouble,” he retorted. “We cannot limit the Meals to just being meals.” And then, flapping his long, bony fingers: “Nothing more than meals. Meals upon meals.”

He too must have his fears, thought Tancredo. Because the sacristan seemed to be exploding: he even ground his teeth for a second. His eyes brightened, as though he was on the point of tears. He prayed silently, or asked for help. Meanwhile Almida appeared to be ignoring his parlous state. Or pretending to ignore it.

The sacristan drew strength from somewhere, from the cold pouring in from the garden.

“Any meeting with God’s people,” he said, as if imparting a definitive lesson, the first of many, to Tancredo, “must be taken advantage of in all its dimensions.”

Now I get you, the hunchback thought.

“Celeste Machado wishes to assist with the Meals,” Almida interrupted, confirming what Tancredo had surmised.

“For example,” the sacristan went on intensely, “tell us what today’s results were, with the old people. How they expressed their concerns. What you said to them, how they responded.”

“We barely speak,” Tancredo said. “Speaking to the old people is impossible. You’ll see. They just want to eat, and then sleep, stay in the dining hall until the following Thursday. They’re worn out. They’re old. They do not believe.”

“They do not believe?” the sacristan spluttered in exasperation. “He said they do not believe, for God’s sake. . Did you hear that, Father Almida?” He could not manage another word.

“Yes, they believe, they believe. We are convinced that they do. Nothing is impossible for those who distribute the other bread: the Bread of God, His Hope.”

Father Almida had spoken. The sacristan wanted to resume his interrogation, but Almida got in first, interrupting him. “Listen,” he said. “Listen to Tancredo. He’s been doing this for three years. You can join forces and draw your own conclusions.”

“I’m talking about senile men and women,” the acolyte said, encouraged, “homeless people with no place to rest their heads. People who roam Bogotá all day. Who sleep in doorways. They do not want to hear Father Almida’s messages, messages that, nonetheless, I conscientiously read out to them. They want, quite simply, to have lunch. And to sleep. They pay no heed to anyone. They just want something to eat.”

He had gone too far, surely. Father Almida coughed several times, as if he were choking.

“If only,” he said finally, with a great deal of effort, “we could set up an old people’s home, and a permanent canteen, for all of them. But something is better than nothing. It is our grain of sand. You are my great helpers.” He gestured toward Sabina, toward Tancredo. He glanced fleetingly at his watch. He sighed. “These chats are very fruitful, thanks be to God. Tancredo is not entirely wrong about the old people: ill health dogs them; they are capricious. It is different with the blind, with the street children. . But, when all is said and done, the elderly do listen, and they believe. They believe, Tancredo, they do believe. They believe. The proximity of death is a real incentive to belief. Every Meal has its spirit, its time, its guest, and the sacrifice differs. Something happens with a woman who comes on Monday, something else with a woman on Friday; Monday’s woman is forsaken, a streetwalker, obliged by necessity to succumb, forced to be a symbol of immorality; Friday’s woman is a working mother, a daughter, a sister — in any case, woman at her dignified best, the most beautiful symbol of the family.”

An awkward, insurmountable silence reigned. The three men turned toward Sabina Cruz, as if she, a woman after all, were the indirect cause of this moment, this doubt, this sensation.

“Who chose the days?” the sacristan asked at last, directing his question to no one in particular. Then his voice darkened. “This is something that has always intrigued me. Why, for example, is Monday reserved for prostitutes?”

“Nobody chose the days,” replied Tancredo, cutting him off. Too late he realized that Almida had intended to reply, that he was still trying to respond. But Tancredo beat him to it. “It is what best suits the diners,” he said, “their. . occupations. Monday is a dead day for prostitutes, who generally work from Tuesday to Saturday or Sunday.”

“Work?” The sacristan’s muffled voice was heard.

The hunchback ignored his intervention.

“According to what one of them told us,” he continued. “And, begging God’s pardon and all of yours, if there’s a Monday for shoemakers, there’s also a Monday for whores.”

Now Almida really did seem to regret having called Tancredo in. He started hawking again, as though trying to dislodge a fish bone. The sacristan had opened his mouth, but did not speak. A cat miaowed from somewhere. The hunchback smiled to himself. It’s strange, he thought, catching himself out, his fear, his anger evaporating as he annoyed the sacristan. Judging by appearances, some of his observations were not to his listeners’ liking, though he seemed to have enjoyed making them, choosing them and tossing them into the conversation. His fear was transformed into a morbid pleasure. Awkward once again, the two listeners fidgeted in their chairs.

“Work, you’ve said they work,” the sacristan objected, though not saying anything more.

Tancredo decided to ignore the sacristan, who was thrusting his face, now flushed, toward him. That prostitutes should work was simply unacceptable.

“And why has their attendance gone down?” the sacristan persisted, exasperated. It was obvious that he somehow blamed the prostitutes’ absence on the hunchback’s negligence.

“The prostitutes who attend are the older ones,” Tancredo explained, no less exasperated. “The ones who live alone and work as they please, depending on their luck. The ones who can arrange things for themselves, you understand, organize their own schedules. They are free, in a manner of speaking. And if by chance a Monday finds them without lunch, then they come along. They’re already familiar with the benefits the parish offers. They have a free lunch, that’s all.”

Tancredo thought Almida was smiling to himself surreptitiously. Was the Father making fun of him, perhaps, of his youth, or did he feel only pity?

Hesitantly, the sacristan asked: “Why don’t the young ones come?”

“They’re shut in. They have. . an employer, their. . keeper. Someone who won’t let them go out, just like that, to a church. It’s not easy. Besides, they don’t need lunch.”

“But how do they know about these meals?” The sacristan continued his interrogation. Now his tone was irritating the hunchback.

Father Almida hurried to reply.

“Tancredo,” he said, “it is Tancredo who is in charge of spreading our invitation by word of mouth among the destitute of Bogotá, who unfortunately seem to make up most of the city’s population. You know this, Celeste. Thanks to Tancredo’s brave and generous work, we can rely on the street children, the blind, the elderly all coming along. .”

“I would like to help him with this as well,” the sacristan said finally. “If I may.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Father Almida said. “Your assistance will be invaluable.”

“Yes,” the sacristan said. “That is where the problem lies: absence. . I mean. . perhaps,” and he blushed even more, “it is enthusiasm that is missing from the invitations. I do not see that he is sowing the seed; he is merely casting it on barren ground.”

The telephone on the black writing-desk rang. Sabina started to reach for it.

“We’ll take it in the sacristy,” Almida said, standing up, thus bringing the conversation to a close. “Starting next Monday, Celeste and Tancredo will agree their respective duties.”

The telephone rang again. Almida did not bat an eyelid.

“Tancredo,” he said, “something important is happening today. I will not be officiating at Mass. Celeste and I have to be elsewhere.”

The telephone rang once more. For a fleeting moment, Almida and Machado examined the hunchback icily.

“Another priest will be standing in for me,” Almida said. “He will be here shortly. You will give him every assistance.” He moved toward the sacristy. The cat followed him.

The sacristan left the room smiling broadly, his pale eyes looking at no one. “Very well, Monday,” he said, “6:00 in the morning.” The prospect of the following Monday clearly filled him with enthusiasm, or so the hunchback divined. For the sacristan, it meant the start of a different sort of week. Perhaps he felt it was already Monday, that Monday, his Monday; aglow with anticipation, he rushed out after Almida. Tancredo was left alone in the office, alone or in the company of Sabina Cruz.

Because he was getting ready to leave the office when he heard Sabina’s almost inaudible voice call his name. She was still behind the black desk, not looking in his direction. She was holding a stack of white paper. He went over to her. “Here are some leaflets for you to distribute around the neighborhood,” Sabina said. They were not leaflets; there was nothing written on the sheets of paper. Sabina’s nervous glance, her white lashes tipped with gold, darted toward the door, confirming that she and Tancredo were alone. For the first time she looked into his eyes. Her voice was tinged with reproach and resentment.

“You’ll have noticed, will you not,” she whispered, “that I’m wearing the blue headscarf today?”

“Yes.”

“I wore it last Tuesday too,” she said with tremendous effort, “and last Sunday. Didn’t you see that I was wearing the blue scarf?”

“Yes,” Tancredo replied. “It was blue.”

Sabina’s extremely white hands suddenly dropped the sheets of paper beside the typewriter.

“So” — she spoke rapidly — “why didn’t you come either of those nights? Perhaps you’re thinking of not visiting me tonight either? I’m not begging you to visit me, I demand that you do, understand? Haven’t you realized that?”

She was suffering, wringing her hands over the stack of paper. They both kept glancing at the door, fearful that Father Almida might enter, or Sacristan Machado.

“Sabina,” Tancredo whispered, “I was coming up to see you on Sunday, but I bumped into Almida in the library.”

“What time was that?”

He felt that Sabina was interrogating him, just like the sacristan.

“It was late,” he sighed. “Three in the morning. I was surprised to find the Father awake at that hour. He was surprised to see me too. I told him I was looking for a book, and. . we ended up working on our Latin until dawn.”

“And Tuesday?”

“On Tuesday I was just about to. . and I heard noises coming from Machado’s room. He must have been awake.”

“What time was that? Three in the morning again?”

“Yes.”

“What does it matter if Machado is awake?” Sabina’s voice rose involuntarily. “We both know the old devil’s as deaf as a post.”

“He’s deaf, Sabina, but not as a post. And he’s not just deaf, he’s your godfather, and not just your godfather, but your next-door neighbor. .”

“Oh yes?” Sabina interrupted him. Her voice became hoarse. “So I have a keeper too, like the whores?”

“For God’s sake, Sabina. I’m just saying he could hear us at any moment.”

“Of course he couldn’t.” Sabina’s expression turned scornful; her fingers crumpled and messed up the stack of paper. Her fury was boundless, but so was her fear. She went on looking alternately at Tancredo and at the door. “That’s why I put the mattress on the floor,” she said. “So we won’t make noise. It’s the bed that’s noisy, but we don’t use the bed. Just the mattress. We don’t worry, my God. We never worry.”

She stopped, frightened by her own words. She was a little girl explaining the rules of a game. She wore her blue scarf to show, silently, that she wanted to be visited that night. She took a deep breath.

“I want you to come today,” she said finally, as if issuing an order. “Today, right?” Her voice cracked. Then, gently, she added, as if pleading with him: “Tancredo, come up tonight, I beg you, for God’s sake, I need you.” Her trembling fingers grazed the hunchback’s fingers. Her yellow eyes looked directly into his. She had half risen in order to murmur this to him, their faces very close. If at that moment Almida or Machado were to come in, thought the hunchback, it would be difficult to explain that nearness, like the imminence of a kiss.

“No,” he said, “I’m not coming.”

“Why not?” Sabina Cruz burst out, falling back into the chair, defeated. She did not let go of the hunchback’s fingers although he remained standing, his back to the door, his body concealing that entwining of hands in case somebody came in. Night settled in the garden. Now Sabina’s pale mouth dared to do the worst; brazenly kissing Tancredo’s hands. For the first time (the first time with Sabina), the hunchback was overcome by distaste, as if the cold, slippery skin of the old people were still brushing against him. “You must come today,” she told him.

“No, Sabina.”

“Why not, if I plead with you? Forget the order. I’m begging you.”

“I’m not coming. I don’t want to.”

Sabina’s mouth fell open in a silent cry. She let go of his hands. Tancredo closed his eyes.

“I won’t be coming any more,” he said.

They were interrupted by one of the Lilias bringing in a jug of coffee and a tray of little cups, which she began to arrange too slowly around the oblong table. Sabina Cruz bit her lips. Tancredo silently welcomed the old woman’s arrival, which extricated him from that dangerous, absurd conversation.

“Father Almida and my godfather are in the sacristy,” Sabina said to the old woman.

“I know,” she replied, and went on setting out the cups, spoons, sugar.

“Take them their coffee in the sacristy,” Sabina snapped.

“They will be having their coffee here,” the old woman responded, “with you, before they go.” She gathered up the gold-rimmed glasses, left almost untouched after having been topped up. “It seems you didn’t like the hazelnut liqueur,” she said, turning to them with a smile. “Such a waste. The cats aren’t tempted by hazelnut liqueur. We’ll have to keep it for the Meal on Monday. They like it.”

“Those women?” Sabina asked indignantly, scandalized. “The Father does not allow alcohol to be served at the Meals.”

“But this is licor de santos,” replied the old woman, as if excusing herself. “It wouldn’t harm a child. Of course, it’s as sweet as poison, but it’s always better to share than to waste.”

It was a secret to no one that all their leftovers were destined for the Community Meals, including those at which the presbytery cats turned up their noses, the six fat, contented cats. Sabina waited for the old woman to leave the office, but in vain, because there she remained, smiling at them, holding the tray like a shield. Sabina knotted and unknotted her fingers in desperation.

“Tonight,” the old woman announced, “this very night, for the first time in all the years I’ve lived with him, Reverend Father Juan Pablo Almida will not say Mass.”

“We know that already,” Sabina said.

Almida had never failed in his duty to the Church. Even when he was ill, he would celebrate the Holy Eucharist, keeping to a strict schedule. Tancredo turned to Sabina Cruz, wanting to quiz her about what was going on. But Sabina seemed not to understand anything. Her mind was focused only on her plea, her invitation to him to visit her room that night as on so many others. Sabina was focusing all her powers of reason, Tancredo thought, on that alone. Her understanding, he thought, was like her body: carnal. Then they heard the voices of the Father and the sacristan in the garden passage; coming from the sacristy, they stopped a moment to finalize details best not resolved in the office with witnesses present. Sabina’s eyes showed her anguish, but her words were cold, categorical. She wanted to speak at once, lest her godfather’s imminent arrival prevent her from saying anything. Though she did not care about the proximity of the old woman, she nevertheless did not say exactly what she meant: “Tancredo, if you don’t come up to collect the leaflets tonight, I shall come down to give them to you myself, in your room.”

A dreadful slip, thought the hunchback, to say this in the old woman’s presence. And to say it in such a way, like an impassioned threat. Revealing that it was possible that he might go upstairs in the night merely to collect some leaflets, or that she might come down to give them to him — in his room, at night — when such tasks should only be carried out in the Father’s office, or maybe in the library, and during the day, for God’s sake, during the day. Sabina Cruz had gone mad.

“I will collect the leaflets,” Tancredo said, “here, in the office.”

Sabina blushed, belatedly repentant. She bit her lips until they bled, but the voices of the Father and the sacristan kept her from reacting to the Lilia’s intrusion: she pretended to busy herself with her work, indifferent to the old woman, who went on watching them and smiling, even nodding suspiciously. The voices of the sacristan and the Father came closer, but then stopped again a few steps from the door. The two men did not see the others. Night had completely taken over the garden. The cold slid in. As the old woman was finally leaving, slipping out like a shadow among shadows, Tancredo heard the Father mention Don Justiniano several times. “Don Justiniano,” he said, “Don Justiniano will believe us.” And then: “Justiniano, Justiniano.” Then the sacristan: “Whom are you talking about, Father?” And the Father: “Don Justiniano.” And the sacristan: “Ah, an upright man.” And the Father: “True. We need not worry.” The sacristan’s deafness obliged people to raise their voices when speaking to him, so Almida, while supposing he was speaking in confidence, was in fact shouting. “All this will soon be cleared up,” he said. “God is everywhere every day.” And, as if he had invoked it, rain began to fall. The parish’s two highest representatives came into the office at once, and stared at Sabina and Tancredo as if they didn’t recognize them.

“You’re here,” the Father said. “Well, sit down; let’s have our coffee. It is time for coffee, the hallowed moment, praise be to God.”

“Like a family, just like a family,” the sacristan encouraged them, in spite of himself, while taking his seat. His words were not addressed to any of the Lilias, much less to Tancredo. He conscientiously fulfilled all the duties required of his office; he was a diocesan trustee, as well; he assisted the Father at every one of his Masses, acolyte and altar boy at sixty years of age, happily relieving Tancredo of that special office usually held by a child; and, once the sacrament was over, he went from row to row taking the collection, greeting the oldest parishioners, the only ones he recognized, with a respectful nod; he made sure the altar was kept in immaculate order, and took charge of every baptism, confirmation, first Communion, marriage, midnight Mass, funeral Mass, every Mass except for sung Masses, High Masses, for when Don Paco Lucio the organist died, he would let no one else touch the organ; the instrument was shut up for good, just like the music. This did not matter to the Father, but Sabina, the three Lilias and the hunchback missed the music, the canticles, Don Lucio’s velvety bass voice, the choirs of nuns whose voices blazed at Easter. But the sacristan was immutable in the face of requests for music, and thus contented himself in his deafness. “Don Paco is present at every Mass,” he said, “and his song is heard for eternity.” Tancredo has never tried to reason with him; for as long as he can remember, Sacristan Celeste Machado has hated him.

“Tancredo,” Father Almida said, pouring a little hazelnut

liqueur into his coffee, “have you lost your mind?” He blinked rapidly. Then, though his expression calmed, his voice continued to admonish. “What is the matter with you? What’s all this about the old not believing, and not heeding my missives? Who are you to claim such a thing? Do you have telepathic gifts? Can you see inside their heads? What do you know? I’m the one who hears their confessions, for God’s sake, Tancredo.” He took a sip of coffee. He huffed. Now he couldn’t help smiling. “Besides,” he said provocatively, “if you have important things to say, you must say them in Latin. Why else have we learned it? We are never going to believe you otherwise.” He passed a hand over his face, clearly preoccupied. “Well,” he sighed, “we’ll talk about this tomorrow. I think we need to hear your confession, don’t we? And today you will have to assist at Mass. Father Fitzgerald won’t be long. He will officiate, and you shall be his acolyte. Just for today.”

The sacristan was listening carefully, turning his right ear in Almida’s direction, even cupping one of his wrinkled, trembling hands around it.

“One should never refuse the honor of being an acolyte,” he said, without addressing Tancredo directly, of course. He spoke angrily, bitterly, his rage barely suppressed.

“He has not refused,” the Father said.

Sabina stood up and poured more coffee into Machado’s cup. Her hand shook. For a moment Tancredo thought she was going to spill the hot liquid. No doubt she had just understood that Almida and Machado really would be absent from the church, who knew until what time, and that she and he would be alone, after Mass, because he would be serving as acolyte, an office he had not performed in a long time — the last time had been on Easter Sunday when he was just fifteen. Which meant that Sabina and he would end up alone in the presbytery for the first time in ages. This prospect affected her deeply. Flushed, placid, Tancredo watched her pour coffee into all the cups, then return immediately to her chair, as if fleeing. She seemed to be laughing to herself.

“It’s fine with me,” Tancredo said, ignoring the sacristan in his turn. “I remember all the steps perfectly.”

“How could one forget them?” the sacristan asked, continuing to address only the Father. “Even if he were an idiot in addition to what he already is.”

“Please, Celeste.” The Father pushed his cup away. “Here in the office we are still in God’s house, not just in the church. This entire place is God’s house, every nook and cranny, every stick of furniture. We are all the Church. We cannot use words that do not honor the presence of the Almighty.”

He spoke quietly, so of course the sacristan did not hear him; he could not. The Father sometimes spoke this way to his sacristan, with the obvious wish not to be heard, as if on purpose, to express agreement with others without undermining or mocking Machado; he managed things so that Machado did not realize he was taking sides. The sacristan calmly took another sip of coffee.

Tancredo had been an acolyte and altar boy since he was ten years old. He had been relieved of these responsibilities by mutual agreement with the Father. The hunchback offered no resistance, and neither, he thought, did the parishioners. Having become an acolyte out of a sense of obligation, he found pathetic the fear his presence produced in the children (many of whom cried at the sight of him), as well as the cautious mockery of the men and the restrained but evident repugnance felt by the old ladies of the Neighborhood Civic Association. He can find only one appropriate word to describe himself as an altar boy: absurd. More than a hunchback, he supposes, an absurdity — I am, in a word, an absurdity. Not that this stops the sacristan’s goddaughter from kissing my hands and begging me to visit her at night. Such are God’s ironic designs, an imponderable puzzle, but who am I to question them? I cannot, and do not want to remember myself as an altar boy, another of His designs, because the fears return, and hatred, my hatred, grows, without any particular object.

The sacristan, it seemed, was genuinely worried, as was Almida. Something was tormenting them. Outside, the rain fell harder.

“It is my house too,” Almida said suddenly, as if resuming his reflections out loud. Nobody had ever seen him exasperated, so his outburst surprised them all. He not only shouted these words but slammed his hand down on the table: the coffee jug shook, the little cups rattled, the hazelnut liqueur shuddered. The sacristan heard the cry perfectly. “This is my house,” the Father went on. “They have nothing to reproach me for. I do as much good as I can; I consecrate my strength to God; I have spent my whole life in His service. Why come to me with such nonsense? We cannot afford to lose Don Justiniano’s funding. They have filled his head with lies. Everything he gives us we give to the poor. Charity is at the heart of everything we do. If we lose the funding, we lose the Meals.”

“The truth always triumphs,” the sacristan said.

“They are fools,” the Father replied, “and they are priests, flesh of our flesh, spirit of our spirit, yet nevertheless an emblem of evil. They want to swindle us out of our funding, by God. We won’t be the ones to lose out, though. Many of God’s children will suffer. Envy in a priest is three times more sinful. May God forgive them, because I curse them.”

The sacristan was pained not so much by the Father’s words — which he must have heard before — but because he said them in front of Tancredo.

“Father Fitzgerald will be here soon,” Machado said. “The bad weather is holding him up. I rang him from the sacristy, spoke to him personally. We could leave now. He did not indicate that there would be any problems.”

“How could he,” Father Almida countered vehemently, “when I’ve stood in for him on a thousand and one occasions? This is the first time I’ve asked a priest to stand in for me at Mass. The first time in forty years. Forty years,” he repeated, looking at the clock. It was 6:40. “Well,” he said, “my parishioners must be arriving, God bless them. I can’t leave without my replacement being here.”

“Father Fitzgerald is very punctual,” Machado commented.

Tancredo realized that he should go and arrange the sacred utensils on the altar; the sacristan’s eyes were urging him on. He felt as if, without looking at him, they were staring and shouting, “To your duties, dimwit!” Then the office telephone rang. Sabina went to answer it. Astounded, they heard her greeting Father Fitzgerald, which meant he was not even on his way. But then they heard her mention Father Ballesteros. It must be that he was going to replace Father Fitzgerald.

“Mother of God,” Almida said, “this is unheard of. Don Justiniano leaves for the airport in two hours. We barely have time to get to his house and speak to him.” When Sabina had hung up, Almida ordered her to ring Ballesteros. “If they confirm that Father Ballesteros is on his way, we’ll leave, but only if they confirm it, Sabina. You must insist they guarantee that Ballesteros is coming to take my place.”

“Don Justiniano will wait for us,” Machado said.

Almida chose not to favor him with a glance.

“He is a businessman,” he said. “I hope his devotion to the parish will allow him to understand our urgency, our explanations.”

“He’ll wait for as long as he has to.”

“Your mouth to God’s ear,” the Father snapped. His hands met in the air and rubbed together rapidly. He had to speak to Don Justiniano before the businessman left. The parish’s principal funding depended on the results of their meeting.

Don Justiniano was their main benefactor. He invariably attended early Mass on Sunday along with his wife and two of his daughters. He didn’t inspire the least confidence in either Sabina or Tancredo. Something dark, violent, and complicated lurked within this small man surrounded by watchful bodyguards. Like a human trap, a vast spider’s web in which Almida and the sacristan might find themselves struggling like mosquitoes. Every visit from Don Justiniano meant a case full of money, cases which Reverend Juan Pablo Almida and his sacristan, Celeste Machado, hid carefully on the first floor of the presbytery. On one occasion Don Justiniano had agreed to have lunch with the Father in the presbytery dining room; they had dined alone, behind closed doors. The three Lilias had outdone themselves: spicy potato stew, avocados, passion-fruit pudding, flank steak, fruit cocktail, chicken with dried fruit and almonds, saffron rice with parsley, triple dairy flan, melon, soursop sorbet, stewed curuba fruit and a creamy cheese with honey that the Lilias called manna. But it had all been in vain, because in the end, lunch had been delivered from the kitchens of the Hilton Hotel: American-style fried chicken breasts, pork loin in sherry, eggs à la king, ravioli in sauce, curried rice, and a Normandy pear tart. Father Almida had apologized to the Lilias. “Don Justiniano insisted,” he had told them. “We could not convince him otherwise. What could we do, given that it’s his charity that enables us to offer up good works to God? Even though I told him myself that he’d enjoy the flavors cooked by the ladies of our parish much more, three pious women who have been with us helping to do God’s work for years, three humble and devout cooks a million times better than any French chef, because they cook with love.” This was how Father Almida spoke and charmed his helpers, but only when buoyed up by calmness and inner peace. Now they were in the presence of an irascible, shattered priest who frightened them when Sabina announced that Ballesteros was on the line. It appeared that he was not on his way to the church either.

“This cannot be.” Almida took the telephone from her. At his side, the almost albino Sabina Cruz resembled a plaster figurine, another of the Lilias. There was a clap of thunder; one flash of lightning after another lit the garden blue.

“Father Ballesteros,” Almida began, “this is the first time I have asked another priest for assistance. I have an urgent, unavoidable appointment, for the good of my parish, and they assured me here that you had promised to come. I’ve stood in for you on three Sundays.”

There was an expectant silence. No doubt Ballesteros was excusing himself, but they could not hear him, so Tancredo and the sacristan devoted the silence to ignoring one another. Their gazes clashing when they heard Almida’s exasperated voice, they turned to look at him, clutching the receiver like a drowning man.

“But he hasn’t shown up either,” he was protesting. “Knowing him as I do, it is quite possible that he won’t get here until next year, do you hear me?”

Silence again. Then they followed the Father’s gaze as it moved to the doorway of the office. On the threshold, alongside one of the Lilias, listening to every word, drenched to the skin, a priest stood waiting. Reverend Father Juan Pablo Almida hung up slowly and sighed.

“Father Matamoros,” he said. “A very good evening to you. You’re a Godsend.”