Leonardo Padura - Havana Red

Father Mendoza jumped from the altar of memory to the real door where the Count had knocked twice. Although their spiritual relationship had never been renewed after that distant Sunday of purity he’d never revisited, the priest and the dissident had always maintained an affable relationship, in which the cleric insisted on calling the Count a mystic without faith and the latter on dubbing Father Mendoza a cunning old devil, capable of doing anything to win – or bring back – a believer to the fold. Nevertheless in subsequent years their dialogues had always taken place in the middle of the street, the result of casual encounters, for the Count had never gone back inside the local church or the adjoining house where the priest lived and where he’d received the necessary instruction in catechism in order to accede to communion with the holy and eternal.

“My Lord, can this be a miracle?” exclaimed Father Mendoza when his eyes, still bloodshot from sleep and clouded by the passage of time, allowed him mentally to locate the image of his morning visitor.

“Miracles are a thing of the past, Father. How are you?”

The priest smiled as he led him into his sitting room.

“Miracles still happen. And I’m a real ruin, or are you blind to boot?”

“As I can see, but you’re not that bad. We’re both growing old at a similar pace.”

“But I’ve got a forty-year lead. How can I help? Have you finally come to confess your multiple sins?”

The Count sat on the wood and straw sofa, for he hadn’t forgotten how the high-backed rocking-chair was the only earthly property the priest defended like a vehement, haggling merchant. As usual, Father Mendoza settled down in his armchair and began swaying furiously.

“Don’t keep on, Father: that decision was for ever.”

“This is your greatest sin, Condesito: pride. And the other, I know for certain, is that you are afraid of yourself… Do you realize that one day you’ll fall…”

“Don’t be so sure, Father. Do you know when I was last here?”

“Twenty-eight years ago,” replied the priest, as if he didn’t have to think twice, and the Count suspected he’d thrown out a figure and only by chance hit on the right number.

“Exactly twenty-eight years, but don’t play at cheap miracles.”

The priest smiled again.

“Don’t worry, it’s not because of you that I remember… My father died on the day of your communion. I found out ten minutes before saying mass. It was the worst mass of my life, or the best, I don’t know. And it was also the last time I doubted the goodness of God.”

“And why did you talk to us about the Transfiguration that day?”

The priest almost shut his eyes, as if needing to look within himself.

“So I’m not the only one who remembers that day, am I?”

“No,” the Count admitted.

“Wait, would you like a coffee? I can tell you I don’t offer everybody coffee. Just imagine, twenty people come and see me every day, and I’ve still not worked the miracle of multiplying the little envelopes of coffee they give me in my ration book…”

Father Mendoza leapt from his chair as if propelled by the rocking and the Count’s heart felt the vitality the old parish priest exuded. He looked round the sitting room, at the wooden walls with scenes of the stations of the cross – all the fallen women were present – and the resplendent statue of Archangel Raphael, an exact replica of the one in the church, under which – twenty-eight years ago – the children taking part in the catechism had sat and listened to the lessons from Miss Merced and Father Mendoza. Just the fucking job, he thought when the priest returned with a cup of coffee, which his stomach, ravaged by alcohol and lack of sleep, was piously grateful for.

“Do you still smoke?” he asked the Count, who nodded. “Well, give me one. That’s one pleasure I’ll allow myself today.”

The Count took two cigarettes out of the packet and then lit the priest’s and his. They both exhaled at the same time and were enveloped by the same cloud of smoke.

“I want to talk to you about the Transfiguration. Something has happened which reminded me of that passage, but I failed Bible History.”

The priest, who’d recovered his rocking speed, contemplated his cigarette before speaking.

“I knew you wanted to get something out of me… Do you know why I used the passage on the Transfiguration that day?”

His eyes tired of following the pendulum marked by the priest’s face, the Count looked towards the painting which represented the arrival at Mount Calvary.

“You really want me to guess?”

“I’m sorry, I’m becoming old and stupid, and ask stupid questions

… I did so because I felt very sick, and in that passage, when God appears before the apostles, Jesus understands the human soul more than ever and tells his disciples: ‘Arise, be not afraid’… And not everyone can understand the dimensions fear can have. And that day, you understand, I went in great fear of death.”

“And after six days, Jesus taketh Peter, James and John his brother and bringeth them up into a high mountain apart. And was transfigured before them: and his face did shine as the sun and his raiment was white as the light. And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias talking with him. Then answered Peter and said unto Jesus: Lord, it is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses and another for Elias. While he yet spake, a bright cloud overshadowed them: and behold a voice out of the cloud which said, This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased: hear ye him. And when the disciples heard it, they fell on their face, and were sore afraid. And Jesus came and touched them, and said: Arise, be not afraid. And when they had lifted up their eyes, they saw no man, save Jesus only.

“And as they came down from the mountain, Jesus charged them, saying, Tell the vision to no man, until the Son of man be risen again from the dead.

“This is chapter seventeen according to St Matthew. Mark and Luke also relate the Transfiguration, and, listen to this interesting detail, Mark saw it thus: ‘And his raiment became shining, exceeding white as snow; so as no fuller on earth can white them.’

“Conde, you know, the scholars say that this happened on Mount Tabor, some forty miles from Caesarea. It’s a strange mountain, because it stands a thousand feet above the plain of Esdrelon, and reigns in solitude, as if it had sprung from the ground or fallen from heaven. On the mountain meseta the Byzantines raised a basilica with two chapels that the Crusaders rebuilt several centuries later and entrusted to the Benedictines. After the Crusades, the Muslims transformed it into a fortress in the year 1212. The latest news I have is that the present basilica was consecrated in 1924 and has a central facade flanked by two towers.

“But what is important in all this is that it was on Mount Tabor that Jesus’s divine character was publicly revealed for the first time, that he was recognized by his father and introduced as the Messiah. Hence the disciples saw the appearance of Jesus, who must have been really dirty after such a long journey over the sea and desert, profoundly transformed: his clothes, skin and hair shone, but in reality everything was the result of an inner brilliance necessary to receive the revelation from his father. It is then the greatness of Jesus is made manifest: being who he is, introduced as a divine being, he doesn’t lose his humanity and understands the fear of his followers, who have witnessed something that transcends them infinitely. And do you know why? Because I think Jesus predicted his own fear when he talks to them about how his work will be carried through: his glory will be in a resurrection, but first he must endure the suffering and sacrifice which await him on the cross, that was the necessary test for this greater miracle to take place. Beautiful and heartrending, don’t you think? And if He was afraid and understood what fear is, why should we deny ourselves such a human sentiment? Perhaps the most human of all, Conde.”