‘Or perhaps the Guardia,’ the Mayor said with a glance in his mirror, but the road was empty behind them.
IV
HOW MONSIGNOR QUIXOTE
REJOINED HIS ANCESTOR
1
The great grey edifice of the Osera monastery stretches out almost alone within a trough of the Galician hills. A small shop and a bar at the very entrance of the monastery grounds make up the whole village of Osera. The carved exterior which dates from the sixteenth century hides the twelfth-century interior – an imposing stairway, perhaps twenty metres wide, up which a platoon could march shoulder to shoulder, leads to long passages lined with guest rooms above the central courtyard and the cloisters. Almost the only sound during the day is the ring of hammers where half a dozen workmen are struggling to repair the ravages of seven centuries. Sometimes a white-robed figure passes rapidly by on what is apparently a serious errand, and in the dark corners loom the wooden figures of popes and of the knights whose order founded the monastery. They take on an appearance of life, as sad memories do, when the dark has fallen. A visitor has the impression of an abandoned island which has been colonized only recently by a small group of adventurers, who are now trying to make a home in the ruins of a past civilization.
The doors of the church, which open on to the little square before the monastery, are closed except during visiting hours and at the time of Sunday Masses, but the monks have their private staircase which leads from the corridor, where the guest rooms lie, down to the great nave as large as many a cathedral’s. Only during visiting hours or when guests are present do human voices sound among the ancient stones, as though a pleasure boat has deposited a few tourists on the shore.
2
Father Leopoldo was only too well aware that he had cooked a very bad lunch for the guest room. He had no illusions about his ability as a chef, but his fellow Trappists were used to even worse cooking and there was no real occasion for them to complain – each of them in turn would have to do his best or his worst. All the same, most guests must have been accustomed to better food and Father Leopoldo felt unhappy when he thought of the meal he had served that afternoon, all the more because he had a real reverence for the only guest at the moment who was the Professor of Hispanic Studies at Notre Dame University in the United States. Professor Pilbeam had taken – it would appear from the plate – not more than a spoonful or two of soup, and his fish had been left almost untouched. The lay brother who was helping Father Leopoldo in the kitchen had raised his eyebrows ostentatiously when the professor’s dishes were brought in to be cleaned and he had winked at Father Leopoldo. Where there is a vow of silence, a wink can convey as much as a word, and no one there had taken a vow to refrain from communication by other means than the voice.
Father Leopoldo was glad when at last he was able to leave the kitchen and go to the library. He hoped that he would find the professor there, for then he could tell him in words how sorry he was about the meal. Speech was not forbidden with a guest, and he felt sure that Professor Pilbeam would understand his absent-mindedness with the salt. He had been thinking, as happened very often, of Descartes. The presence of Professor Pilbeam, whose second visit to Osera this was, had removed Father Leopoldo from the peace of a routine to a more confused world, the world of intellectual speculation. Professor Pilbeam was perhaps the greatest living authority on the life and works of Ignatius Loyola, and any intellectual discussion, even on a subject as unsympathetic to Father Leopoldo as a Jesuit saint, was like giving food to a starving man. It could be dangerous. So often the guests at the monastery were young people of great piety who imagined that they had a vocation for a Trappist life, and they invariably irritated him by their ignorance and by their exaggerated respect for what they believed had been his great sacrifice. They wanted in a romantic way to sacrifice their own lives. But he had come here only to find a precarious peace.
The professor was not in the library and Father Leopoldo sat down and again he thought of Descartes. It was Descartes who had led him out of scepticism into the Church in much the same way as he had led the Queen of Sweden. Descartes would certainly not have put too much salt in the soup, nor would he have over-grilled the fish. Descartes was a practical man who had worked on spectacles to find cures for blindness and on wheel-chairs to aid cripples. Father Leopoldo when a young man had had no thought of becoming a priest. He had attached himself to Descartes without thought of where he might be led. He wanted to question everything, in the manner of Descartes, searching for an absolute truth, and in the end, like Descartes, he had accepted what seemed to him the nearest thing to truth. But it was then that he had taken a greater leap than Descartes – a leap into the silent world of Osera. He was not unhappy – except about the soup and the fish – but all the same he was glad of the opportunity to talk to an intelligent man, even if he had to talk about Saint Ignatius rather than Descartes.
After a while, when there was no sign of Professor Pilbeam, he made his way along the guests’ corridor and down to the great church which was likely to be empty at this hour when the outer doors were closed. There were few, except during tourist hours, who visited the church – even on a Sunday – so that to Father Leopoldo it was like a close family home, almost free from the intrusion of strangers. He could pray there his individual prayer and it was there he would often pray for Descartes, and sometimes he would even pray to Descartes. The church was ill-lit, and as he entered by the private door from the monastery he did not at first recognize a figure which stood examining the rather grotesque painting of a naked man stuck in a thorn bush. Then the man spoke in his American accent – it was Professor Pilbeam.
‘I know you are not very fond of Saint Ignatius,’ he said, ‘but at least he was a good soldier and a good soldier would find more useful ways of suffering than throwing himself into a lot of thorns.’
Father Leopoldo abandoned the thought of private prayer, and in any case the rare opportunity to speak was a greater privilege. He said, ‘I am not so sure that Saint Ignatius was all that concerned with what was useful. A soldier can be very romantic. I think it is for that reason he is a national hero. All Spaniards are romantic, so that sometimes we take windmills for giants.’
‘Windmills?’
‘You know that one of our great modern philosophers compared Saint Ignatius to Don Quixote. They had a lot in common.’
‘I haven’t read Cervantes since I was a boy. Too fanciful for my taste. I haven’t much time for fiction. Facts are what I like. If I could unearth one undiscovered document about Saint Ignatius I would die a happy man.’
‘Fact and fiction – they are not always easy to distinguish. As you are a Catholic . . .’
‘A rather nominal one, father, I’m afraid. I haven’t bothered to change the label that I was born with. And of course being a Catholic helps me in my research – it opens doors. Now you, Father Leopoldo, you are a student of Descartes. That’s hardly likely to open many doors for you, I should imagine. What brought you here?’
‘I suppose Descartes brought me to the point where he brought himself – to faith. Fact or fiction – in the end you can’t distinguish between them – you have just to choose.’
‘But to become a Trappist?’
‘I think, you know, professor, that when one has to jump, it’s so much safer to jump into deep water.’
‘And you don’t regret . . .?’
‘Professor, there are always plenty of things to regret. Regrets are part of life. One can’t escape regrets even in a twelfth-century monastery. Can you escape from them in the University of Notre Dame?’
‘No, but I decided long ago that I was not a jumper.’
It was an unfortunate remark, for at that moment jump he did as an explosion outside was followed seconds later by two more, and the sound of a crash.
‘A tyre gone,’ Professor Pilbeam exclaimed. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a motor accident.’
‘That was no tyre,’ Father Leopoldo said. ‘Those
were gun shots.’ He made for the stairs and called back over his shoulder, ‘The church doors are locked. Follow me.’ He ran down the passage by the guest rooms as fast as his long robe would allow him and arrived out of breath at the head of the great ceremonial staircase. The professor was close behind. ‘Go and find Father Enrique. Tell him to open the church doors. If someone’s been hurt we can’t carry him up all these stairs.’
Father Francisco, who was in charge of the little shop near the entrance, had left his picture postcards, rosaries and liqueur bottles. He looked frightened, and scrupulously he waved his hand towards the door without breaking his vow of silence.
A small Seat car had smashed against the wall of the church. Two Guardia had left their jeep and were approaching with caution with their guns at the ready. A man with blood on his face was trying to open the door of the Seat. He called angrily to the Guardia, ‘Come and help, you assassins. We are not armed.’
Father Leopoldo said, ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Of course I’m hurt. That’s nothing. I think they’ve killed my friend.’
The Guardia put away their guns. One of them said, ‘We only shot at the tyres.’ The other explained, ‘We had our orders. These men were wanted for causing a riot.’
Father Leopoldo looked at the passenger through the shattered glass of the windscreen. He exclaimed, ‘But he’s a priest,’ and a moment later, ‘a monsignor.’
‘Yes,’ the stranger said with anger, ‘a monsignor – and if the monsignor hadn’t stopped to piss we would have been safe in your monastery by now.’
The two Guardia managed to wrench the passenger door open. ‘He’s alive,’ one of them said.
‘No thanks to you.’
‘You are both under arrest. Get into the jeep while we pull your friend out.’
The doors of the church swung open and Professor Pilbeam joined them.
Father Leopoldo said, ‘These men are injured. You can’t take them away like this.’
‘They are wanted for causing a riot and stealing money.’
‘Nonsense. The man in the car is a monsignor. Monsignors don’t steal money. What’s your friend’s name?’ he asked the stranger.
‘Monsignor Quixote.’
‘Quixote! Impossible,’ Professor Pilbeam said.
‘Monsignor Quixote of El Toboso. A descendant of the great Don Quixote himself.’
‘Don Quixote had no descendants. How could he? He’s a fictional character.’
‘Fact and fiction again, professor. So difficult to distinguish,’ Father Leopoldo said.
The Guardia had succeeded in removing Father Quixote from the wrecked car and they laid him on the ground. He was trying to speak. The stranger leant over him. ‘If he dies,’ he told the Guardia, ‘by God, I’ll see you pay for this.’
One of the Guardia looked uneasy, but the other demanded sharply, ‘What is your name?’
‘Zancas, Enrique, but monsignor,’ he rolled the title as though it were a salute or a drum, ‘prefers to call me Sancho.’
‘Profession?’
‘I am the former Mayor of El Toboso.’
‘Your papers.’
‘You are welcome to them if you can find them in this wreck.’
‘Señor Zancas,’ Father Leopoldo said, ‘can you make out what the monsignor is trying to say?’
‘He is asking if Rocinante is all right.’
‘Rocinante?’ Professor Pilbeam exclaimed. ‘But Rocinante was a horse.’
‘He means the car. I daren’t tell him. The shock might be too great.’
‘Professor, will you please telephone to Orense for a doctor? Father Francisco knows the number.’
The surly Guardia said, ‘We can see about the doctor. We are taking them to Orense.’
‘Not in this condition. I forbid it.’
‘We will have an ambulance sent.’
‘You can send your ambulance if you want, but it may have to wait a long time: these two will stay here in the monastery until the doctor allows them to leave. I shall speak to the bishop in Orense and I am sure he will have something to say to your commanding officer. Now don’t you dare to finger your gun at me.’
‘We’ll go and report,’ the other Guardia said.
Professor Pilbeam returned with a monk. They carried a mattress between them. He said, ‘Father Francisco is telephoning. This will have to do for a stretcher.’
Father Quixote was shifted with some difficulty on to the mattress and the four of them carried him into the church and up the nave. He was muttering what might have been prayers, but might equally well have been curses. As they turned in front of the altar towards the stairs he made an attempt to cross himself, but the cross remained uncompleted. He had fainted again. The stairs were a difficulty and they had to take a rest at the top.
Professor Pilbeam said, ‘Quixote is not a Spanish family name. Cervantes himself said that the real name was probably Quexana and that his home was not in El Toboso.’
The Mayor said, ‘Nor was Monsignor Quixote born there.’
‘Where was he born?’
The Mayor quoted, ‘“In a certain village in La Mancha, which I do not wish to name.”’
‘But the whole story is absurd. And Rocinante . . .’
Father Leopoldo said, ‘Let us put him safely to bed in number three guest room before we discuss the difficult distinction between fact and fiction.’
Father Quixote opened his eyes. ‘Where am I?’ he asked. ‘I thought . . . I thought . . . I was in a church.’
‘You were, monsignor. The church of Osera. Now we are taking you to a guest room where you can sleep comfortably till the doctor comes.’
‘Again a doctor. Oh dear, oh dear, is my health so bad . . .?’
‘A little rest, and you will be yourself again.’
‘I thought . . . in the church . . . and then there were some stairs . . . I thought if I could only say a Mass . . .’
‘Perhaps . . . tomorrow . . . when you are rested.’
‘Too long since I said one. Sick . . . travelling . . .’
‘Don’t worry, monsignor. Perhaps tomorrow.’
They got him safely into his room and presently the doctor from Orense came and told them he thought there was nothing seriously wrong – shock and a minor cut on his forehead from the broken windscreen. Of course at his age . . . Tomorrow he would examine him more thoroughly. Perhaps an X-ray might be necessary. Meanwhile he should be kept quiet. It was the Mayor who needed more attention, more attention in more than one way because after the doctor had finished with him (a half dozen or so stitches) the head of the Guardia in Orense telephoned. The Guardia had checked up on Father Quixote by telephone to La Mancha – his bishop there had told them that he was in fact a monsignor (by some oversight of the Holy Father), but his mental health made him irresponsible for his actions. As for his companion – that was quite another matter. It was true that he had been Mayor of El Toboso, but he had been defeated at the last election and he was a notorious Communist.
Luckily it was Father Leopoldo who answered the telephone. He said, ‘At Osera we are not concerned with a man’s politics. He will stay here until he is fit to travel.’
3
The doctor had given Father Quixote a sedative. He slept deeply and it was one o’clock in the morning before he woke. He couldn’t make out where he was. He called, ‘Teresa,’ but there was no reply. Somewhere there were voices – male voices, and an idea came to him that Father Herrera and the bishop were discussing him in the sitting-room. He got out of his bed, but his legs folded under him and he sank down again and cried out more urgently for Teresa.
The Mayor came in, closely followed by Father Leopoldo. Professor Pilbeam watched from the door without entering. ‘Are you in pain, monsignor?’ Father Leopoldo asked.
‘Please do not call me monsignor, Dr Galván. I have no right even to say Mass. The bishop forbids it. He would even like to burn my books.’
‘What books?’
>
‘The books I love. St Francis de Sales, St Augustine, Señorita Martin of Lisieux. I don’t think he trusts me even with St John.’ He put his hand to the bandage on his head. ‘I am glad to be back in El Toboso. But perhaps at this very moment Father Herrera is burning my books outside.’
‘Don’t worry. In a day or two – father – you will feel yourself again. For the moment you must rest.’
‘It’s difficult to rest, doctor. There is so much in my head that wants to come out. Your white coat – you are not going to operate, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ Father Leopoldo reassured him, ‘just another pill to make you sleep.’
‘Why, Sancho, is that you? I’m glad to see you. You found your way home all right. How is Rocinante?’
‘Very tired. She’s resting in the garage.’
‘What an old pair we are. I am tired too.’
Without resistance he took the pill and almost immediately fell asleep.
‘I’ll sit up with him,’ Sancho said.
‘I’ll stay with you. I wouldn’t be able to sleep for worrying,’ Father Leopoldo said.
‘I’ll lie down for a while,’ Professor Pilbeam told them. ‘You know my room. Wake me if I can be of any use.’
It was around three in the morning when Father Quixote spoke and awoke the two of them from a shallow drowse. He said, ‘Excellency, a lamb may be able to tame an elephant, but I would beg you to remember the goats in your prayers.’
‘Dreaming or delirium?’ Father Leopoldo wondered.
Sancho said, ‘I seem to remember . . .’
‘You have no right to burn my books, Excellency. The sword, I beg you, not death by pin stabs.’
There was a short period of silence, then, ‘A fart,’ Father Quixote said, ‘can be musical.’
‘I fear,’ Father Leopoldo whispered, ‘that he is in a worse state than the doctor told us.’
‘Mambrino,’ came the voice from the bed, ‘Mambrino’s helmet. Give it me.’
‘What does Mambrino’s helmet mean?’
Sancho said, ‘It was the barber’s basin which Don Quixote wore. His ancestor, as he believes.’