Monsignor Quixote

  ‘I heard something of the sort on the radio yesterday.’

  ‘Yet in all that time they haven’t encountered a single angel.’

  ‘Have you read, Sancho, about the black holes in space?’

  ‘I know what you are going to say, father. But the word holes is used only in a metaphoric sense. One more glass. Don’t be afraid of any bishop.’

  ‘Your vodka inspires me with hope.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘A forlorn hope you would say.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me. What hope?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. You would laugh at me. One day perhaps I will tell you of my hope. If God grant me the time. And you the time too, of course.’

  ‘We should see more of each other, father. Perhaps I will convert you to Marx.’

  ‘You have a Marx on your shelves?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Das Kapital?’

  ‘Yes. Among others. There it is. I haven’t read any of it for a long time. To tell you the truth, I’ve always found parts . . . Well, remote . . . All the statistics about the English industrial revolution. I imagine you find parts of the Bible dull too.’

  ‘Thank God, we are not expected to study Numbers or Deuteronomy, but the Gospels are not dull. My goodness, look at the time. Is it vodka that makes time go so fast?’

  ‘You know, father, you remind me of your ancestor. He believed in all those books of chivalry, quite out of date even in his day . . .’

  ‘I’ve never read a book of chivalry in my life.’

  ‘But you continue to read those old books of theology. They are your books of chivalry. You believe in them just as much as he did in his books.’

  ‘But the voice of the Church doesn’t date, Sancho.’

  ‘Oh yes, father, it does. Your second Vatican Council put even St John out of date.’

  ‘What nonsense you talk.’

  ‘No longer at the end of Mass do you read those words of St John – “He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not.”’

  ‘How strange you should know that.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve sometimes come in at the end of Mass – to make sure none of my people are there.’

  ‘I still say those words.’

  ‘But you don’t say them aloud. Your bishop wouldn’t allow it. You are like your ancestor who read his book of chivalry secretly so that only his niece and his doctor knew until . . .’

  ‘What a lot of nonsense you talk, Sancho.’

  ‘Until he broke away on Rocinante to do his deeds of chivalry in a world that didn’t believe in those old stories.’

  ‘Accompanied by an ignorant man called Sancho,’ Father Quixote replied with a touch of anger which he immediately regretted.

  ‘Accompanied by Sancho,’ the Mayor repeated. ‘Why not?’

  ‘The bishop could hardly deny me a short holiday.’

  ‘You must go to Madrid to buy your uniform.’

  ‘Uniform? What uniform?’

  ‘Purple socks, monsignor, and a purple – what do you call that thing they wear below the collar?’

  ‘A pechera. That’s rubbish. Nobody will make me wear purple socks and a purple . . .’

  ‘You’re in the army of the Church, father. You can’t refuse the badges of rank.’

  ‘I never asked to be a monsignor.’

  ‘Of course you could retire from the army altogether.’

  ‘Could you retire from the Party?’

  Each took another glass of vodka and fell into a comradely silence, a silence in which their dreams had room to grow.

  ‘Do you think your car could get us as far as Moscow?’

  ‘Rocinante is too old for that. She’d break down on the way. Anyway, the bishop would hardly consider Moscow a suitable place for me to take a holiday.’

  ‘You are no longer the bishop’s servant, monsignor.’

  ‘But the Holy Father . . . You know, Rocinante might perhaps get us as far as Rome.’

  ‘I don’t fancy Rome at all. Nothing to be seen in the streets but purple socks.’

  ‘Rome has a Communist mayor, Sancho.’

  ‘I don’t fancy a Euro-Communist any more than you fancy a Protestant. What’s the matter, father? You are upset about something.’

  ‘The vodka gave me a dream, and another vodka has taken it away.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You aren’t used to vodka and it has gone to your head.’

  ‘Why such a happy dream . . . and afterwards despair?’

  ‘I know what you mean. Vodka sometimes has that effect on me, if I take a little too much. I’ll see you home, father.’

  At Father Quixote’s door they parted.

  ‘Go and lie down for a while.’

  ‘Teresa would find it rather odd at this hour. And I haven’t yet read my breviary.’

  ‘That’s no longer compulsory, surely?’

  ‘I find it hard to break a habit. Habits can be comforting, even rather boring habits.’

  ‘Yes, I think I understand. There are even times when I dip into The Communist Manifesto.’

  ‘Does it comfort you?’

  ‘Sometimes – a little, not very much. But a little.’

  ‘You must lend it to me. One day.’

  ‘Perhaps on our travels.’

  ‘You still believe in our travels? I doubt very much whether we are the right companions, you and I. A big gulf separates us, Sancho.’

  ‘A big gulf separated your ancestor from the one you call mine, father, and yet . . .’

  ‘Yes. And yet . . .’ Father Quixote turned hurriedly away. He went into his study and took his breviary from the shelf, but before reading more than a few sentences he fell asleep, and all that he could remember after he had woken was that he had been climbing a high tree and he had dislodged a nest, empty and dry and brittle, the relic of a year gone by.

  2

  It needed a great deal of courage for Father Quixote to write to the bishop and an even greater courage to open the letter which in due course he received in reply. The letter began abruptly ‘Monsignor’ – and the sound of the title was like acid on the tongue. ‘El Toboso,’ the bishop wrote, ‘is one of the smallest parishes in my diocese, and I cannot believe that the burden of your duties has been a very heavy one. However, I am ready to grant your request for a period of repose and I am despatching a young priest, Father Herrera, to look after El Toboso in your absence. I trust that at least you will delay your holiday until you are fully satisfied that Father Herrera is aware of all the problems which may exist in your parish, so you can leave your people with complete confidence in his care. The defeat of the Mayor of El Toboso in the recent election seems to indicate that the tide is turning at last in the proper direction and perhaps a young priest with the shrewdness and discretion of Father Herrera (he won golden opinions as well as a doctorate in Moral Theology at Salamanca) will be better able to take advantage of the current than an older man. As you will guess I have written to the Archbishop with regard to your future, and I have small doubt that by the time you return from your holiday we will have found you a sphere of action more suitable than El Toboso and carrying a lesser burden of duties for a priest of your age and rank.’

  It was an even worse letter than Father Quixote had expected, and he waited with growing anxiety for the arrival of Father Herrera. He told Teresa that Father Herrera should take immediate possession of his bedroom and asked her to find, if it were possible, a folding camp bed for the living-room. ‘If you cannot find one,’ he said, ‘the armchair is quite comfortable enough for me. I have slept in it often enough in the afternoon.’

  ‘If he’s young let him sleep in the armchair.’

  ‘For the time being he is my guest, Teresa.’

  ‘What do you mean – for the time being?’

  ‘I think that the bishop is likely to make him my successor in El Toboso. I am getting old, Teresa.’

  ‘If you are that old you shouldn’t go gallivant
ing off – the good God alone knows where. Anyway, don’t expect me to work for another priest.’

  ‘Give him a chance, Teresa, give him a chance. But don’t on any account tell him the secret of your admirable steaks.’

  Three days passed and Father Herrera arrived. Father Quixote, who had gone to have a chat with the ex-Mayor, found the young priest on the doorstep carrying a smart black suitcase. Teresa was barring his entrance, a kitchen cloth in her hand. Father Herrera was perhaps naturally pale, but he looked agitated and the sun gleamed on his clerical collar. ‘Monsignor Quixote?’ he asked. ‘I am Father Herrera. This woman won’t let me in.’

  ‘Teresa, Teresa, this is very unkind of you. Where are your manners? This is our guest. Go and get Father Herrera a cup of coffee.’

  ‘No. Please not. I never drink coffee. It keeps me awake at night.’

  In the sitting-room Father Herrera took the only armchair without hesitation. ‘What a very violent woman,’ he said. ‘I told her that I was sent by the bishop and she said something very rude.’

  ‘Like all of us, she has her prejudices.’

  ‘The bishop would not have been pleased.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t hear her, and we won’t tell him, will we?’

  ‘I was quite shocked, monsignor.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call me monsignor. Call me father if you like. I’m old enough to be your father. Have you experience of parish work?’

  ‘Not directly. I’ve been His Excellency’s secretary for three years. Since I left Salamanca.’

  ‘You may find it difficult at first. There are many Teresas in El Toboso. But I am sure you will learn very quickly. Your doctorate was in . . . let me remember.’

  ‘Moral Theology.’

  ‘Ah, I always found that a very difficult subject. I very nearly failed to pass – even in Madrid.’

  ‘I see you have Father Heribert Jone on your shelf. A German. All the same, very sound on that subject.’

  ‘I am afraid I haven’t read him for many years. Moral Theology, as you can imagine, doesn’t play a great part in parish work.’

  ‘I would have thought it essential. In the confessional.’

  ‘When the baker comes to me – or the garagist – it’s not very often – their problems are usually very simple ones. Well, I trust to my instinct. I have no time to look their problems up in Jone.’

  ‘Instinct must have a sound basis, monsignor – I’m sorry – father.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, a sound basis. Yes. But like my ancestor, perhaps I put my trust most in old books written before Jone was born.’

  ‘But your ancestor’s books were only ones of chivalry, surely?’

  ‘Well, perhaps mine – in their way – are of chivalry too. St John of the Cross, St Teresa, St Francis de Sales. And the Gospels, father. “Let us go up to Jerusalem and die with Him.” Don Quixote could not have put it better than St Thomas.’

  ‘Oh, of course, one accepts the Gospels, naturally,’ Father Herrera said in the tone of one who surrenders a small and unimportant point to his adversary. ‘All the same, Jone on Moral Theology is very sound, very sound. What’s that you said, father?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. A truism which I haven’t the right to use. I was going to add that another sound base is God’s love.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But we mustn’t forget His justice either. You agree, monsignor?’

  ‘Yes, well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Jone makes a very clear distinction between love and justice.’

  ‘Did you take a secretarial course, father? After Salamanca, I mean.’

  ‘Certainly. I can type and without boasting I can claim to be very good at shorthand.’

  Teresa put her head round the door. ‘Will you have a steak for lunch, father?’

  ‘Two steaks, please, Teresa.’

  The sunlight flashed again on Father Herrera’s collar as he turned: the flash was like a helio signal sending what message? Father Quixote thought he had never before seen so clean a collar or indeed so clean a man. You would have thought, so smooth and white was his skin, that it had never required a razor. That comes from living so long in El Toboso, he told himself, I am a rough countryman. I live very, very far away from Salamanca.

  3

  The day of departure came at last. Rocinante had been passed by the garagist, though rather grudgingly, as fit to leave. ‘I can guarantee nothing,’ he said. ‘You should have turned her in five years ago. All the same she ought to get you as far as Madrid.’

  ‘And back again, I hope,’ Father Quixote said.

  ‘That is another matter.’

  The Mayor could hardly contain his impatience to be gone. He had no desire to see his successor installed. ‘A black Fascist, father. We shall soon be back in the days of Franco.’

  ‘God rest his soul,’ Father Quixote added with a certain automatism.

  ‘He had no soul. If such a thing exists.’

  Their luggage filled the boot of Rocinante and the back seat was given up to four cases of honest manchegan wine. ‘You can’t trust the wine in Madrid,’ the Mayor said. ‘Thanks to me we have at least an honest cooperative here.’

  ‘Why should we go to Madrid?’ Father Quixote asked. ‘I remember I disliked the city a great deal when I was a student and I have never been back. Why not take the road to Cuenca? Cuenca, I am told, is a beautiful town and a great deal nearer to El Toboso. I don’t want to overtire Rocinante.’

  ‘I doubt if you can buy purple socks in Cuenca.’

  ‘Those purple socks! I refuse to buy purple socks. I can’t afford to waste money on purple socks, Sancho.’

  ‘Your ancestor had a proper respect for the uniform of a knight errant, even though he had to put up with a barber’s basin for a helmet. You are a monsignor errant and you must wear purple socks.’

  ‘They say my ancestor was mad. They will say the same of me. I will be brought back in disgrace. Indeed I must be a little mad, for I am mocked with the title of monsignor and I am leaving El Toboso in charge of that young priest.’

  ‘The baker has a poor opinion of him and I’ve seen him myself in close talk with that reactionary of the restaurant.’

  Father Quixote insisted on taking the wheel. ‘Rocinante has certain tricks of her own which only I know.’

  ‘You are taking the wrong road.’

  ‘I have to go to the house once more. I have forgotten something.’

  He left the Mayor in the car. The young priest, he knew, was at the church. He wanted to be alone for the last time in the house where he had lived for more than thirty years. Besides, he had forgotten Father Heribert Jone’s work on Moral Theology. St John of the Cross was in the boot and so was St Teresa and St Francis de Sales. He had promised Father Herrera, although a little unwillingly, to balance these old books with a more modern work of theology which he had not opened since the days when he was a student. ‘Instinct must have a sound basis in belief,’ Father Herrera had correctly said. If the Mayor began to quote Marx to him Father Heribert Jone might perhaps prove useful in reply. Anyway it was a small book which fitted easily into a pocket. He sat down for a few moments in his armchair. The seat had been shaped by his body through the years and its shape was as familiar to him as the curve of the saddle must have been to his ancestor. He could hear Teresa move pans in the kitchen, keeping up the angry mutter which had been the music of his morning solitude. I will miss even her ill humour, he thought. Outside the Mayor impatiently sounded the horn.

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Father Quixote said, and Rocinante gave a deep groan as he changed gear.

  They said very little to each other. It was as though the strangeness of their adventure weighed on their spirits. Once the Mayor spoke his thought aloud. ‘We must have something in common, father, or why do you go with me?’

  ‘I suppose – friendship?’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘We will find out in time.’

  Mo
re than an hour passed in silence. Then the Mayor spoke again. ‘What is upsetting you, friend?’

  ‘We have just left La Mancha and nothing seems safe any more.’

  ‘Not even your faith?’

  It was a question which Father Quixote did not bother to answer.

  III

  HOW A CERTAIN LIGHT

  WAS SHED UPON THE

  HOLY TRINITY

  The distance from El Toboso to Madrid is not very great, but what with the faltering gait of Rocinante and the queue of lorries which stretched ahead the evening found Father Quixote and the Mayor still upon the road.

  ‘I am hungry and thirsty,’ the Mayor complained.

  ‘And Rocinante is very tired,’ Father Quixote replied.

  ‘If only we could find an inn, but the wine along this main road is not to be trusted.’

  ‘We have plenty of good manchegan with us.’

  ‘But food. I must have food.’

  ‘Teresa insisted on putting a parcel on the back seat. She told me it was in case of an emergency. She had no more trust, I’m afraid, in poor Rocinante than the garagist.’

  ‘But this is an emergency,’ the Mayor said.

  Father Quixote opened the parcel. ‘Praise be to God,’ he said, ‘a big manchegan cheese, some smoked sausages, even two glasses and two knives.’

  ‘I don’t know about praise to God, but certainly praise to Teresa.’

  ‘Oh well, it is probably the same thing, Sancho. All our good actions are acts of God, just as all our ill actions are acts of the Devil.’

  ‘In that case you must forgive our poor Stalin,’ the Mayor said, ‘for perhaps only the Devil was responsible.’

  They drove very slowly, looking out for a tree which would give them shade, for the late sun was slanting low across the fields, driving the shadows into patches far too thin for two men to sit in them at ease. Finally, under the ruined wall of an outhouse, which belonged to an abandoned farm, they found what they needed. Someone had painted a hammer and sickle crudely in red upon the crumbling stone.

  ‘I would have preferred a cross,’ Father Quixote said, ‘to eat under.’

  ‘What does it matter? The taste of the cheese will not be affected by cross or hammer. Besides, is there much difference between the two? They are both protests against injustice.’