The Spanish Daughter(64)

His words resonated with me. My mother had also dragged me to church for six o’clock mass every morning—the chocolate store had been a wonderful excuse not to go anymore. It was interesting that the two women in my father’s life had shared such devotion.

“So, I set out to disprove the existence of God,” he said, and a tight-lipped smile followed. “I went to great lengths to do this. I joined the seminary so I could learn everything I could about philosophy and religion and I could come back home filled with rational arguments to support my stance. Of course, I hid my perverse plan from all those around me, but the more I learned, the more I attempted to illuminate my mother of all my findings. And yet, her faith remained intact.” He took a deep breath. “Her death was so shocking and painful to me that one afternoon, filled with rage against this so-called God who had taken the person I loved the most away from me, I turned to the very source of my doubt and struggle for solace.”

His voice broke a little. He stared at his hands before speaking again.

“I remember praying the rosary, as I’d seen my mother do so many times, with the hopes that it would calm me—numb me, if you will—as I’d seen happen to her. I sat in this very same church, in front of the statue of Our Lady, her impassive expression maddening me even more. I wished then with all my heart that God truly existed, as I believed that only He could take this pain away. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, resigned to the thought that this anguish and despair wasn’t going anywhere. I can’t explain what happened then, not rationally anyway. As I knelt down as a first sign of humility, a sort of serenity descended upon me. My body became light, as if floating, and an enormous peace took over me—not unlike the feeling you get when you leave a cold building and the first rays of sun hit your cheeks. It was at that moment that I realized that everything that had led up to that point in my life was part of the Lord’s big plan for me.” His fingers rubbed the cotton of his soutane. “I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.”

He sat in silence for a moment, then turned to me.

“Sorry. I’m known to give long sermons. I’m sure this long outpour wasn’t exactly why you came all the way here to see me.”

I shook my head, confused. I’d always thought priests had blind faith in everything the Scripture said. I didn’t know they had doubts just like the rest of us. Moreover, I couldn’t reconcile this touching account with what I believed Alberto had done.

I sat up straight.

“Well”—my voice was hoarse after sitting in silence for so long—“a young girl by the name of Mayra came by the hacienda yesterday.”

Whatever color he had left his face. He turned as pale as the two candles flanking the metal cross on the desk.

“She claims that she’s expecting a baby. Your baby.”

He slid all the way to the back of the chair.

“I’m not here to judge you,” I said. “I’m . . . human, too, and I understand that the expectations the Roman Catholic Church places on young men are, for the most part, unreasonable.” I gripped Cristóbal’s pocket watch. “I don’t know if you’re aware but Mayra lost her job with Aquilino.”

He covered his face with both hands.

“She’s working for Don Martin now.”

He remained still for an eternity.

“So, it is your child?” I finally said.

“What I told you earlier is the truth,” he said removing his hands from his face. “I believe this is my calling, but Mayra . . .” He shook his head.

I nodded. I knew all about temptation.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I just want to know if you intend to do something about her situation.”

He spoke in a low voice. “Why do you care about this?”

“She asked for my help,” I said, measuring my next words. “I saw her leaving the curandera’s house the other day.”

He sprang up, paced the sacristy.

“We didn’t really intend to go through with that,” he said, his usual composure vanished. “We were just desperate.”

“Do you know that the curandera’s son has been missing for a few weeks?”

My words took him by surprise, no doubt. He stopped his pacing.

“I had no idea. I just assumed he left town.”

I examined his expression in minute detail. I’d wanted to get a candid response from him when I mentioned Franco, but his reaction seemed sincere. Anyone who saw him would believe that this was the first time he’d heard the news that Franco was missing, but as I had just learned, he was also an accomplished liar who’d been living a double life for over a year.

His expression was puzzled.

I honestly didn’t know what to believe. When I’d first met Alberto, I’d taken an immediate liking to him. He seemed friendly, frank, and well-read. Plus, his honesty about his struggles with his faith and vocation had touched me. But I was disappointed that he’d left Mayra without any resources and continued with his life as a priest as if nothing had happened. I didn’t blame him for failing to keep his vows—it was hard to fight nature—what I resented was how he’d washed his hands of the entire ordeal. Why continue with the farce of the decent priest? Ambition? There was, of course, the power the cassock gave him. Some men loved the adoration, the respect, the demigod status the role of spiritual leader gave them in the community. The shame of giving in to his carnal desires by impregnating a young, ignorant maid might be unbearable for him. He was, after all, the son of a rich landowner, the guardian of his sisters. Would he lose it all if the truth came out? Would he let Mayra and their child be mere casualties in order to save his reputation?