Evelio Rosero: Good Offices

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?”