Robert Stone - A Flag for Sunrise

After a few minutes, the searchlight was turned off and the encoffined savior carried inside and placed at the side altar where he reposed except during procession days and Holy Week. A number of people stood chatting in the church doorway, and among them Justin recognized Father Schleicher, an Oblate Missionary from the Midwest. The other clerics there were two Tecanecans, or rather Spaniards — one the vicar of the cathedral and the other a monsignor from the capital, a representative of the Archbishop.

“We should go up there,” Father Godoy said, when they had done a round of the square. “I have to at least.”

Together, they climbed the church steps, and while Godoy made his obeisances to the senior clergy, Justin endeavored to converse with Schleicher and a young Tecanecan woman who was with him.

Father Schleicher was young, and was said to be politically engaged. Sister Justin had heard also that he had unofficially purchased a colonial press edition of the Quixote from a clerk at the Catholic university in the capital and that he paid plantation workers to bring him such pre-Columbian artifacts as they might find. Although none of this was quite illegal, although it was practically innocent hobbyism and a mark of his cultivation, Justin held what she heard against Schleicher’s account. She disliked him; he was chubby and blond, and it seemed to her that his face was set continually in an expression of thick-lipped self-satisfaction. A creep, was what she called him.

They talked for a while about American politics and Schleicher introduced the girl with him as a community planner. When their conversation ran thin, they all turned toward the interior of the church to look for more to talk about.

Inside, a great many people were crowded in a semicircle around the dead Cristo, kneeling on the floor.

“It’s an incredible statue,” Justin said. “Isn’t it strange to see him presented like that — I mean laid out ?”

“When I first saw it,” Schleicher said, “it reminded me of Che. You know, the picture taken after he was killed? It still makes me think of him.”

The Tecanecan girl smiled slightly and nodded.

“I wonder what it’s made of,” Justin said.

The Tecanecan girl laughed, a bit too merrily for Justin, and turned to Schleicher.

“It’s such a North American question,” the girl said. “What’s it made of?”

Schleicher laughed as though he thought it was such a North American question too.

“I’m like that,” Sister Justin said. “When I saw Notre Dame Cathedral I wondered what it weighed. We’re all like that where I come from.”

The girl’s laughter was a little less assured. Father Schleicher hastened to ask her where it was that she came from, but Justin ignored him. She had told him often enough before.

“Did you study in the States?” Justin asked the Tecanecan girl.

“Yes. Yes, in New Orleans. At Loyola.”

“That must have been fun,” Justin said. “Community planning.”

“Yes,” the girl said warily.

Godoy disengaged himself from the old Spaniards and joined them for a moment’s stiff exchange of pleasantries. Then he and Justin said their goodbyes and went back down the steps to the square. Justin found herself wondering whether the hip Father Schleicher might be sleeping with his young community planner. She sighed, despising her own petty malice. That night she was against anyone with a purpose to declare, anyone less lonely and beaten than herself.

The plaza was emptying as she and Godoy walked across it. Men approached them in the shadow of the trees, begging, calling for a blessing against bad visions from the cane alcohol. A youth warbled a birdcall after them and a woman laughed.

The crowds, the lights and the music were on the other side of the church now, where they had set up a market and a fun fair for the children. The trees had been stripped of garlands and lanterns by the crowd and the central street ran deserted toward the harsh bright lights of the company piers.

“Hungry?” Godoy asked.

Justin was not at all hungry but she supposed that he must be. She nodded pleasantly.

“We’ll give the kids some time at the games,” the priest said, “before we go and arrest them. Now we can go to the Chino’s if you like.”

The Chino’s was a restaurant that called itself the Gran Mura de China. It had a small balcony section with two tables that overlooked the harbor.

The lower floor of the Gran Mura de China was empty when they arrived; the Chino’s wife and daughter sat at a table stringing firecrackers. Justin and Godoy smiled at them and went upstairs to the balcony. They sat down and Godoy lighted a Winston.

“Do you know what Father Schleicher said about the image?” Justin asked Godoy. “He said he thought it looked like Che.”

Godoy looked at her evenly, unsmiling.

“Father Schleicher said that? Was he joking?”

“Not exactly joking. I think he had a point to make.”

“Iconography,” Godoy said vaguely, tapping his ash and looking out over the pier lights at the dark ocean.

After a minute the Chino’s daughter came up to serve them. Under her apron, the child wore a white party dress; she had been up to the plaza.

Godoy asked for shrimp and rice; Justin a bottle of Germania.

“You may have heard about our troubles,” Justin said, when they had ordered. She found the puzzled look Godoy gave her disingenuous. It was impossible, she thought, that he had not heard.

“I’m going to close us down and go home. I’m tired of arguing with the order and I don’t believe we’re getting anything done.”

“It’s a shame you had no support. It must be difficult.”

“Yes, it’s difficult to make a fool of yourself to no good purpose. But of course it’s a lesson.” She was beginning to grow quite irritated with Godoy. “Yet another goddamn valuable lesson.”

“I have to tell you,” the priest said as he watched the little girl serve his dinner and their beer, “that I’m very sorry to hear that you’re closing.”

“Really?” Justin said impatiently. “Why, thank you.”

He’s downright super-serviceable, she thought.

“Please excuse me,” Godoy said. “I haven’t yet eaten today.”

“Please go ahead,” Justin said. She decided that he was dandified and vain. Frightened of, and therefore hostile to, women. For a long time it had seemed to her that Godoy had a difficulty in comprehending plain English that went beyond any unfamiliarity with the language.

“You know,” Godoy said, tasting his shrimp, “I think you stayed this long because I wanted you to.”

“Are you kidding?” Justin demanded.

“Just a superstition of mine.”

“If you wanted us to stay you were very subtle.”

“It wasn’t only because I like you,” the priest said. “And not because I thought you were the very model of a Yankee missionary. Obviously you are not that.”

The bluntness of his language startled her. “Then why?” she asked.

“Because I know how you think. I know your attitudes. I even know the books you own.”

Justin watched him delicately take his shrimp.

“Then everyone must,” she said. “So I’m probably in trouble.”

He shrugged.

“You are North American and that protects you. The Archbishop in his way protects you.”

“Campos,” she said.

“Don’t worry about Campos for now.” He kept his eyes on his plate as he said it.

“Really,” Justin said, “it was stupid of me to try to keep the station open.”

Godoy gave her a quick amused glance.

“I don’t know what you were thinking of. But I admire you for it. And I sympathize.”

“I was being naïve as usual.”