Cormac McCarthy - Cities of the Plain

Quite strangely. For the circumstance of his appointment came to elevate this man's padrinazgo to the central role of his life. It brought out what was best in him. More than best. Virtues long neglected began almost at once to blossom forth. He abandoned every vice. He even began to attend Mass. His new office seemed to have called forth from the deepest parts of his character honor and loyalty and courage and devotion. What he gained can scarcely be put into words. Who would have foreseen such a thing?

What happened? said John Grady.

The blind man smiled his pained blind smile. You smell the rat, he said.

Yes.

Quite so. It was no happy ending. Perhaps there is a moral to the tale. Perhaps not. I leave it to you.

What happened?

This man whose life was changed forever by the dying request of his enemy was ultimately ruined. The child became his life. More than his life. To say that he doted upon the child says nothing. And yet all turned out badly. Again, I believe that the intentions of the dying man were for the best. But there is another view. It would not be the first time that a father sacrificed a son.

The godchild grew up wild and restless. He became a criminal. A petty thief. A gambler. And other things. Finally, in the winter of nineteen and seven, in the town of Ojinaga, he killed a man. He was nineteen years of age. Close to your own, perhaps.

The same.

Yes. Perhaps this was his destiny. Perhaps no padrino could have saved him from himself. No father. The padrino squandered all he owned in bribes and fees. To no avail. Such a road once undertaken has no end and he died alone and poor. He was never bitter. He scarcely seemed even to consider whether he had been betrayed. He once had been a strong and even a ruthless man, but love makes men foolish. I speak as a victim myself. We are taken out of our own care and it then remains to be seen only if fate will show to us some share of mercy. Or little. Or none.

Men speak of blind destiny, a thing without scheme or purpose. But what sort of destiny is that? Each act in this world from which there can be no turning back has before it another, and it another yet. In a vast and endless net. Men imagine that the choices before them are theirs to make. But we are free to act only upon what is given. Choice is lost in the maze of generations and each act in that maze is itself an enslavement for it voids every alternative and binds one ever more tightly into the constraints that make a life. If the dead man could have forgiven his enemy for whatever wrong was done to him all would have been otherwise. Did the son set out to avenge his father? Did the dead man sacrifice his son? Our plans are predicated upon a future unknown to us. The world takes its form hourly by a weighing of things at hand, and while we may seek to puzzle out that form we have no way to do so. We have only God's law, and the wisdom to follow it if we will.

The maestro leaned forward and composed his hands before him. The wineglass stood empty and he took it up. Those who cannot see, he said, must rely upon what has gone before. If I do not wish to appear so foolish as to drink from an empty glass I must remember whether I have drained it or not. This man who became padrino. I speak of him as if he died old but he did not. He was younger than I am now. I speak as if his conscience or the world's eyes or both led him to such rigor in his duties. But those considerations quickly fell to nothing. It was for love of the child that he came to grief, if grief it was. What do you make of that?

I dont know.

Nor I. I only know that every act which has no heart will be found out in the end. Every gesture.

They sat in silence. The room was quiet about them. John Grady watched the water beading upon his glass where it sat untouched before him. The blind man set his own glass back upon the table and pushed it from him.

How well do you love this girl?

I would die for her.

The alcahuete is in love with her.

Tiburcio?

No. The grand alcahuete.

Eduardo.

Yes.

They sat quietly. In the outer hall the musicians had arrived and were assembling their instruments. John Grady sat staring at the floor. After a while he looked up.

Can the old woman be trusted?

La Tuerta?

Yes.

Oh my, said the blind man softly.

The old woman tells her that she will be married.

The old woman is Tiburcio's mother.

John Grady leaned back in his chair. He sat very quietly. He looked at the blind man's daughter. She watched him. Quiet. Kind. Inscrutable.

You did not know.

No. Does she know? Yes, of course she knows.

Yes.

Does she know that Eduardo is in love with her?

Yes.

The musicians struck up a light baroque partita. Aging dancers moved onto the floor. The blind man sat, his hands before him on the table.

She believes that Eduardo will kill her, John Grady said.

The blind man nodded.

Do you believe he will kill her?

Yes, said the maestro. I believe he will kill her.

Is that why you wont be her godfather? Yes.

That is why.

It would make you responsible.

Yes.

The dancers moved with their stiff formality over the swept and polished concrete floor. They danced with an antique grace, like figures from a film.

What do you think I should do?

I cannot advise you.

You will not.

No. I will not.

I'd give her up if I thought I could not protect her.

Perhaps.

You dont think I could.

I think the difficulties might be greater than you imagine.

What should I do.

The blind man sat. After a while he said: You must understand. I have no certainty. And it is a grave matter.

He passed his hand across the top of the table. As if he were making smooth something unseen before him. You wish for me to tell you some secret of the grand alcahuete. Betray to you some weakness. But the girl herself is the weakness.

What do you think I should do?

Pray to God.

Yes.

Will you?

No.

Why not?

I dont know.

You dont believe in Him?

It's not that.

It is that the girl is a mujerzuela.

I dont know. Maybe.

The blind man sat. They are dancing, he said.

Yes.

That is not the reason.

What's not?

That she is a whore.

No.

Would you give her up? Truly?

I dont know.

Then you would not know what to pray for.

No. I wouldnt know what to ask.

The blind man nodded. He leaned forward. He placed one elbow on the table and rested his forehead against his thumb like a confessor. He seemed to be listening to the music. You knew her before she came to the White Lake, he said.

I saw her. Yes.

At La Venada.

Yes.

As did he.

Yes. I suppose.

That is where it began.

Yes. He is a cuchillero. A filero, as they say here. A man of a certain rigor. A serious man.

I am serious myself.

Of course. If you were not there would be no problem.

John Grady studied that passive face. Closed to the world even as the world was closed to him.

What are you telling me?

I have nothing to tell.

He is in love with her.

Yes.

But he would kill her.

Yes.

I see.

Perhaps. Let me tell you only this. Your love has no friends. You think that it does but it does not. None. Perhaps not even God.

And you?

I do not count myself. If I could see what lies ahead I would tell you. But I cannot.

You think I'm a fool.

No. I do not.

You would not say so if you did.

No, but I would not lie. I dont think it. I never did. A man is always right to pursue the thing he loves.

No matter even if it kills him?

I think so. Yes. No matter even that.

HE WHEELED the last barrowload of trash from the kitchen yard out to the trashfire and tipped it and stood back and watched the deep orange fire gasping in the dark chuffs of smoke that rose against the twilight sky. He passed his forearm across his brow and bent and took up the handles of the wheelbarrow again and trundled it out to where the pickup was parked and loaded it and raised and latched the tailgate and went back into the house. HZctor was backing across the floor sweeping with the broom. They carried the kitchen table in from the other room and then brought in the chairs. HZctor brought the lamp from the sideboard and set it on the table and lifted away the glass chimney and lit the wick. He blew out the match and set back the chimney and adjusted the flame with the brass knob. Where is the Santo? he said.