The Honorary Consul

  "What do you want a Father for? Anyway, he has gone."

  The old man moved his head from one side to the other as though he were listening with each ear in turn, distinguishing the different breaths that sounded in the room, heavy breaths and muted breaths, one of them hurried, another—Diego's—with an asthmatic whistle.

  "My wife has died," he told them. "When I woke this morning and put my hand out to wake her she was cold as a wet stone. She was all right last night. She made my soup, and it was very good soup. She never told me she was going to die."

  "You must get the priest of the 'barrio', José"

  "He is not a good priest," the old man said. "He is the Archbishop's priest. You know that very well, Pablo."

  "The Father who came here was only a visitor. A relation of my cousin in Rosario. He has gone away again."

  "Who are all the people in the room, Pablo?"

  "My friends. What do you suppose? We were listening to the radio when you came."

  "My goodness, have you a radio, Pablo? How rich you have become all of a sudden."

  "It is not mine. It belongs to a friend."

  "What a rich friend you have. I need a coffin for my wife, Pablo, and I have no money."

  "You know that will all be arranged, José". We in the 'barrio' will see to that."

  "Juan says you bought a coffin from him. You have no wife, Pablo. Let me have your coffin."

  "I need the coffin for myself, José. The doctor has told me I am a very sick man. Juan will make you a coffin and all of us in the 'barrio' will pay him."

  "But there is the Mass. I want the Father to say the Mass. I do not want the Archbishop's priest." The old man took a step into the room, feeling toward them with his hands, palms up.

  "There is no Father here. I told you. He has gone back to Rosario."

  Pablo stood between the old man and Father Rivas as though he feared that even in his blindness he could pick a priest out.

  "How did you find your way here, José"?" Diego asked. "Your wife was the only eyes you had."

  "Is that Diego? I can see well enough with my hands." He held them out, fingers pointed first at Diego, then at where the doctor stood, and afterward he turned them toward Father Rivas. They were like eyes on stalks, of some strange insect. He didn't even look at Pablo. Pablo he took for granted. It was the others, the strangers, whom his hands and ears sought. He gave the impression that he was numbering them like a prison warder, while they stood in silence for his inspection. "There are four strangers here, Pablo." He took a step toward Aquino and Aquino shuffled back.

  "They are all friends of mine, José."

  "I never knew what a lot of friends you have, Pablo. They are not of this 'barrio'."

  "No."

  "They will be welcome all the same to come and see my wife."

  "They will come later, but I must lead you home now, Jose."

  "Let me hear the radio speak, Pablo. I have never heard a radio speak."

  "Ted!" the voice of Charley Fortnum called from the next room, "Ted!"

  "Who is that calling, Pablo?"

  "A sick man."

  "Ted! Where are you, Ted?"

  "A gringo!" The old man added with awe, "I have never known a gringo in the 'barrio' before. And a radio. You have become a big man, Pablo."

  Aquino turned the sound of the radio full on to drown the voice of Charley Fortnum and a woman's voice spoke loudly of the outstanding merits of Kellogg's Rice Krispies. "Popping with life and vigor," the voice said. "Golden and Honey Sweet."

  Doctor Plarr went quickly into the back room. He whispered, "What do you want, Charley?"

  "I dreamed someone was in the room. He was going to cut my throat. I was damn scared. I wanted to be sure you were still here."

  "Don't speak again. There's a stranger here. If you speak you will put all our lives in danger. I'll come back to you when he's gone."

  In the other room, as he returned, a woman's tinned voice- was saying, "She will love the scented smoothness of your cheek."

  The old man said, "It is like a miracle. To think a box is able to say beautiful things like that."

  Then someone began to sing a romantic ballad of love and death.

  "Here, José, touch the radio. Hold it in your hands." They all felt easier when the old man's hands were occupied—not turning to look at them. He held the radio close to his ears as though he were afraid to miss a single one of the beautiful words it spoke.

  Father Rivas took Pablo aside. He whispered, "I will go with him if you think it will do any good."

  "No," Pablo said, "all the 'barrio' will be gathered at his hut to see the body of his wife. They will know he has gone to fetch a priest. If the Archbishop's priest comes, he will want to know who you are. He will want to see your papers. He might send for the police."

  Aquino said, "An accident should happen to the old one before he gets back."

  "No," Pablo said, "I will not agree to that. I have known him since I was a child."

  "Anyway," the driver Diego gave his opinion in a sullen voice, "to stop his mouth would be too late now. How did the woman at the water tap know a priest was here?"

  Pablo said, "I have told no one."

  "There are never any secrets for long in a barrio," Father Rivas said.

  "He knows of the radio and the gringo," Diego said. "That is the worst of all. We ought to move from here quickly."

  "You would have to carry Fortnum on a stretcher," Doctor Plarr said.

  The old man shook the radio. He complained, "It does not rattle."

  "Why should it rattle?" Pablo asked.

  "There is a voice in it."

  "Come, José," Pablo said, "it is time for you to go back to your poor wife."

  "But the Father," Jose said, "I want the Father to anoint her."

  "I tell you, José", there is no Father here. The Archbishop's priest will do that."

  "He never comes when we send for him. He is always busy at a meeting. It will be many hours before he comes, and where will the soul of my poor wife be wandering all that while?"

  Father Rivas said, "She will come to no harm, old man. God does not wait for the Archbishop's priest."

  The man's hands turned quickly toward him. He said, "You—you there who spoke—you have a priest's voice."

  "No, no, I am not a priest. If you had your sight you would see my wife is here beside me. Speak to him, Marta."

  She said in a low voice, "Yes. This is my husband, old one."

  Pablo said, "Come. I will take you home."

  The old man clung obstinately to the radio. The music was loud, but not loud enough for him. He pressed it against his ear.

  "He told us he came here alone," Diego whispered. "How could he? Suppose someone led him here on purpose and left him at the door..."

  "He has been here twice before with his wife. The blind remember a path well. Anyway if I take him home I can tell if someone is waiting for him or watching."

  "If you do not return in two hours," Aquino said, "if they stop you... then we shall kill the Consul. You can tell them that." He added, "If only I had aimed at his back yesterday, we would be far away by now."

  "I have heard a radio," the old man said with astonishment. He laid it down gently like a fragile thing. "If only I could tell my wife..."

  "She knows," Marta said, "she knows everything."

  "Come, José." The Negro took the old man's right hand and pulled him toward the door, but he was stubborn. He twisted round, and with his free hand he seemed to be counting them over again. He said, "What a big party you have here, Pablo. Give me something to drink. Give me some 'caña'."

  "We have nothing to drink here, José." He pulled the blind man out and the Indian closed the door quickly behind them. For a moment they felt relief like a breath of wind cooling the thunder-heavy day.

  "What do you think, Léon?" Doctor Plarr asked. "Was he a spy?"

  "How can I tell?"

  "I think you should have gone wit
h the poor man, Father," Marta said. "His wife is dead and there is no priest to help him."

  "If I had gone I would have endangered all of us."

  "You heard what he said. The Archbishop's priest cares nothing for the poor."

  "And do you think I care nothing for them? I am risking my life for them, Marta."

  "I know that, Father. I was not accusing you. You are a good man."

  "She has been dead for hours. What difference can a little oil make now? Ask the doctor."

  "Oh, I deal only with the living," Doctor Plarr said.

  The woman touched her husband's hand. "I did not want to offend you, Father. I am your woman."

  "You are not my woman. You are my wife," Father Rivas said with angry impatience.

  "If you say so."

  "I have explained to you how it is over and over again."

  "I am a stupid woman, Father. I do not always understand. Does it matter so much? A woman, a wife..."

  "It does matter. Human dignity matters, Marta. A man who feels lust takes a woman for the period of his desire, but I have taken you for life. That is marriage."

  "If you say so, Father."

  Father Rivas said in a voice which sounded tired with having eternally to teach the same thing, "Not if I say so, Marta. It is the truth."

  "Yes, Father. I would feel better if sometimes I could hear you pray..."

  "Perhaps I pray more often than you know."

  "Please do not be angry, Father. I am very proud that you chose me."

  She turned on the others who were in the room. "He could have slept with any woman he liked in our 'barrio' in Asunci6n. He is a good man. If he did not go back with the old one, he must have had a good reason. Only, please, Father..."

  "I wish you would not call me Father all the time. I am your husband, Marta. Your husband."

  "Yes, but I would be so proud if just once I could see you as you used to be... all dressed at the altar... turning to bless us, Father."

  The word slipped out again; she put her hand to her mouth too late to stop it.

  "You know I cannot do that."

  "If I could see you like I saw you in Asunci6n... in white for Easter..."

  "You will never see me again like that."

  Léon Rivas turned away. "Aquino," he said, "Diego, go back to your posts. We will relieve you in two hours. You, Marta, go back to the town and see if the newspapers have come yet from Buenos Aires."

  "You had better buy more whisky for Fortnum," Doctor Plarr said. "His sort of measure soon empties a bottle."

  "This time," Father Rivas said, "no one is to share it."

  "What are you hinting at?" Aquino asked.

  "I am not hinting at anything. Do you think I could not smell your breath yesterday?"

  ***

  At four it was Aquino who turned on the radio, but this time there was not a single reference to the kidnapping. It was as though they had been wiped off the world's memory. "They do not even mention your disappearance," Aquino said to Doctor Plarr.

  "They may not know of it yet," Doctor Plarr said. "I am losing count of the days. Is it Thursday? I remember I gave my secretary a long weekend off. She will be busy somewhere gathering indulgences. For the souls in purgatory. I hope we shall not have the benefit of them."

  An hour later Pablo returned. No one had shown any suspicion, but he had stayed away longer than he intended because he was bound to join the queue which was waiting to pay the last respects to the dead woman. When he left, the Archbishop's priest had still not arrived. The only anxiety he had felt was when José chatted to everyone about the radio. The old man was immensely proud because he was the only one there who had ever listened to a radio and he had actually held one in his hands. For the time being he seemed to have forgotten about the gringo.

  "He will remember soon enough," Diego said. "We ought to get away from here."

  Pablo said, "How can we go? With a wounded man."

  "El Tigre would say 'Kill him now.' " Aquino argued.

  "You had your chance," Diego said.

  "Where is Father Rivas?" Pablo asked.

  "On guard."

  "There should be two of you out there."

  "A man must have a drink. My mate was finished. It was Marta's job to bring more, but Father Rivas sent her into the town to buy whisky for the gringo. He must never be left thirsty."

  "Aquino, you go."

  "I take no orders from you, Pablo."

  If this inaction goes on much longer, Doctor Plarr thought, they will be fighting each other.

  ***

  It was evening by the time Marta returned. The papers from Buenos Aires had arrived and in the 'Nación' a few lines were devoted to Doctor Saavedra, though the reporter found it necessary to remind his readers who Saavedra was. "The novelist," he wrote, "who is best known by his first book, 'The Silent Heart'," getting the title wrong.

  The evening seemed interminably drawn out. It was as though, sitting there for hours in silence, they formed part of a universal silence all around them, the silence of the radio, the silence of the authorities, even the silence of nature. No dogs barked. The birds had ceased to sing, and when rain began to fall it was in heavy spaced drops, as infrequent as their words—the silence seemed all the deeper between the drops. Somewhere far off there was a storm, but the storm was happening across the river in another country.

  Whenever any of them spoke, the danger of a quarrel arose even over the most innocent remark. The Indian alone was unaffected. He sat and smiled with gentle content as he oiled his gun. He cleaned the crevices of the bolt with tenderness and with sensuous pleasure like a woman attending to her first baby. When Marta gave them soup, Aquino complained of a lack of salt, and Doctor Plarr thought for a moment she was going to throw a plate full of the despised soup in his face. He left them and went into the inner room.

  Charley Fortnum said, "If only I had something to read..."

  Doctor Plarr said, "There's not enough light to see by." Only one candle lit the room.

  "Surely they could give me a few more candles."

  "They don't want any light to show outside. Most people in this 'barrio' sleep as soon as it's dark... or make love."

  "Thank God there's still plenty of whisky. Have a glass. It's an odd relationship, isn't it? They shoot me down like a dog and then they give me whisky. This time I didn't even pay for it. Is there any news? When they put the radio on they turn it so damn low I can't hear a thing."

  "There's no news at all. How are you feeling?"

  "Pretty awful. Do you think I'll live to see the end of this bottle?"

  "Of course."

  "Then be an optimist and give yourself a bigger dose."

  They drank together in the silence which they had only momentarily broken. Doctor Plarr wondered where Clara was. At the camp? at the Consulate? At last he said, "What made you marry Clara, Charley?"

  "I told you—I wanted to help her."

  "You needn't have married her to do that."

  "If I hadn't she'd have lost a lot in taxes when I died. Besides I wanted a child. I love her, Ted. I want her to feel secure. I wish you knew her a bit better. A doctor sees only the outside—oh, and the inside too, I suppose, but you know what I mean. To me she's like... like..." He couldn't find the word he wanted and Doctor Plarr was tempted to supply it. She's like a looking glass, he thought, a looking glass which has been manufactured by Mother Sanchez to reflect any man who looks at her—to reflect Charley's fumbling tenderness with her own imitation of it and my... my... but the right word failed him too. It certainly wasn't "passion." What was the question she had asked him just before he left her? She reflected even one's suspicion of her. He was angry with her as though in some obscure way she had done him an injury. One could use her to shave In, he thought, remembering Gruber's sunglasses.

  "You'll laugh at me," Charley Fortnum rambled on, "but she reminds me a bit of Mary Pickford in those old silent movies... I don't mean her face, of course, but,
well, a sort of... I suppose you might call it innocence."

  "Then I hope the child turns out to be a girl. A boy like Mary Pickford would hardly make his way in the world."

  "I don't mind which it is, but Clara seems to want a boy." He added with self-mockery, "Perhaps she wants him to take after me."

  Doctor Plarr had a savage des'ire to tell him the whole truth. It was only the wounded body which stopped him, stretched helplessly out on the coffin lid. To disturb a patient would be unprofessional. Charley Fortnum raised his glass of whisky and added, "Not as I am now, of course. Cheers."

  Doctor Plarr heard the voices rise higher in the next room.

  "What's happening out there?" Charley Fortnum aslced.

  "They are quarreling among themselves."

  "What about?"

  "Probably about you."

  2

  Just after nine o'clock on Friday morning a helicopter came flying low down over the 'barrio'. It went back and forth in regular lines, like a pencil along a ruler, up and down every muddy track, just above the trees, tireless and probing. Doctor Plarr was reminded of the way his own fingers had to make tracks sometimes along a patient's body, seeking the exact spot of pain.

  Father Rivas told Pablo to join Diego and Marta who were on guard outside. "The whole 'barrio' will be watching," he said. "They will notice if in this one hut people show indifference." He told Aquino to keep watch on Fortnum in the inner room. Though there was no possible way for Fortnum to signal his presence there, Father Rivas was taking no chances.

  Doctor Plarr and the priest sat in silence and watched the roof of the room as though the machine at any moment might come crashing through on top of them. After the helicopter had passed, they could hear the rustle of the leaves falling like rain. When that sound ceased they stayed dumb, waiting for the chopper to return.

  Pablo and Diego came in. Pablo reported, "They were taking photographs."

  "Of this hut?"

  "Of the whole 'barrio'."

  "Then they have seen your car," Doctor Plarr said. "They will wonder what a car is doing here."

  "We have it well hidden," Father Rivas said. "We can only hope..."