John Irving - Avenue of Mysteries

“May I remind you that the statistics on pedophilia outside the Church, in the general population, are exactly the same as the statistics inside the Church?” Clark French said to Juan Diego.

“Benedict said: ‘Nothing is good or bad in itself.’ He said nothing, Clark,” Juan Diego told his former student. “Pedophilia isn’t nothing; surely pedophilia is ‘bad in itself,’ Clark.”

“After the children have—”

“There are no children here, Clark!” Juan Diego shouted. “We’re alone, on a balcony!” he cried.

“Well—” Clark French said cautiously, looking all around; they could hear the voices of children somewhere, but no children (not even teenagers, or other adults) were anywhere in sight.

“The Catholic hierarchy believes kissing leads to sin,” Juan Diego whispered. “Your Church is against birth control, against abortion, against gay marriage — your Church is against kissing, Clark!”

Suddenly, a swarm of small children ran past them on the balcony; their flip-flops made a slapping sound and their wet hair gleamed.

“After the little ones have gone to bed—” Clark French began again; conversation was a competition with him, akin to a combat sport. Clark would have made an indefatigable missionary. Clark had that Jesuitical “I know everything” way about him — always the emphasis on learning and evangelizing. The mere thought of his own martyrdom probably motivated Clark. He would happily suffer, just to make an impossible point; if you abused him, he would smile and thrive.

“Are you all right?” Clark was asking Juan Diego.

“I’m just a little out of breath — I’m not used to limping this fast,” Juan Diego told him. “Or limping and talking, together.”

They slowed their pace as they descended the stairs and made their way to the main lobby of the Encantador, where the dining room was. There was an overhanging roof to the hotel restaurant, and a rolled-up bamboo curtain that could be lowered as a barrier against wind and rain. The openness to the palm trees and the view of the sea gave the dining room the feeling of a spacious veranda. There were paper party hats at all the tables.

What a big family Clark French had married into! Juan Diego was thinking. Dr. Josefa Quintana must have had thirty or forty relatives, and more than half of them were children or young people.

“No one expects you to remember everyone’s name,” Clark whispered to Juan Diego.

“About the mystery guest,” Juan Diego said suddenly. “She should sit next to me.”

“Next to you ?” Clark asked him.

“Certainly. All of you hate her. At least I’m neutral,” Juan Diego told Clark.

“I don’t hate her — no one knows her! She’s inserted herself into a family —”

“I know, Clark — I know,” Juan Diego said. “She should sit next to me. We’re both strangers. All of you know one another.”

“I was thinking of putting her at one of the children’s tables,” Clark told him. “Maybe at the table with the most obstreperous children.”

“You see? You do hate her,” Juan Diego said to him.

“I was kidding. Maybe a table of teenagers — the most sullen ones,” Clark continued.

“You definitely hate her. I’m neutral, ” Juan Diego reminded him. (Miriam could corrupt the teenagers, Juan Diego was thinking.)

“Uncle Clark!” A small, round-faced boy tugged on Clark’s hand.

“Yes, Pedro. What is it?” Clark asked the little boy.

“It’s the big gecko behind the painting in the library. It came out from behind the painting!” Pedro told him.

“Not the giant gecko — not that one!” Clark cried, feigning alarm.

“Yes! The giant one!” the little boy exclaimed.

“Well, it just so happens, Pedro, that this man knows all about geckos — he’s a gecko expert. He not only loves geckos; he misses geckos,” Clark told the child. “This is Mr. Guerrero,” Clark added, slipping away and leaving Juan Diego with Pedro. The boy instantly clutched the older man’s hand.

“You love them?” the boy asked, but before Juan Diego could answer him, Pedro said: “Why do you miss geckos, Mister?”

“Ah, well—” Juan Diego started and then stopped, stalling for time. When he began to limp in the direction of the stairs to the library, his limp drew a dozen children to him; they were five-year-olds, or only a little older, like Pedro.

“He knows all about geckos — he loves them,” Pedro was telling the other kids. “He misses geckos. Why ?” Pedro asked Juan Diego again.

“What happened to your foot, Mister?” one of the other children, a little girl with pigtails, asked him.

“I was a dump kid. I lived in a shack near the Oaxaca basurero— basurero means ‘dump’; Oaxaca is in Mexico,” Juan Diego told them. “The shack my sister and I lived in had only one door. Every morning, when I got up, there was a gecko on that screen door. The gecko was so fast, it could disappear in the blink of an eye,” Juan Diego told the children, clapping his hands for effect. He was limping more as he went up the stairs. “One morning, a truck backed over my right foot. The driver’s side-view mirror was broken; the driver couldn’t see me. It wasn’t his fault; he was a good man. He’s dead now, and I miss him. I miss the dump, and the geckos,” Juan Diego told the children. He was not aware that some adults were also following him upstairs to the library. Clark French was following his former teacher, too; it was, of course, Juan Diego’s story that they were following.

Had the man with the limp really said he missed the dump ? a few of the children were asking one another.

“If I’d lived in the basurero, I don’t think I would miss it,” the little girl with pigtails told Pedro. “Maybe he misses his sister, ” she said.

“I can understand missing geckos, ” Pedro told her.

“Geckos are mostly nocturnal — they’re more active at night, when there are more insects. They eat insects; geckos don’t hurt you,” Juan Diego was saying.

“Where is your sister?” the little girl with the pigtails asked Juan Diego.

“She’s dead,” Juan Diego answered her; he was about to say how Lupe had died, but he didn’t want to give the little ones nightmares.

“Look!” Pedro said. He pointed at a big painting; it hung over a comfortable-looking couch in the Encantador library. The gecko was enough of a giant to be almost as visible, even from a distance, as the painting. The gecko clung to the wall beside the painting; as Juan Diego and the children approached, the gecko climbed higher. The big lizard waited, watching them, about halfway between the painting and the ceiling. It really was a big gecko, almost the size of a house cat.

“The man in the painting is a saint,” Juan Diego was telling the children. “He was once a student at the University of Paris; he’d been a soldier, too — he was a Basque soldier, and he was wounded.”

“Wounded how ?” Pedro asked.

“By a cannonball,” Juan Diego told him.

“Wouldn’t a cannonball kill you?” Pedro asked.

“I guess not if you’re going to be a saint,” Juan Diego answered.

“What was his name?” the little girl with pigtails asked; she was full of questions. “Who was the saint?”

“Your uncle Clark knows who he was,” Juan Diego answered her. He was aware of Clark French watching him, and listening to him — ever the devoted student. (Clark looked like someone who might survive being shot with a cannonball.)