“They told me about that terrible explosion on a yacht,” Norberto said. “They thought I might be needed to give the last sacraments. I came here so I could be closer to the wharf.”
“But you weren’t,” Adolfo said confidently. “No one could have survived that explosion.”
Norberto looked at him. “Do you know that for certain because you
Adolfo looked at him. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading. He put the mug down and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “I really must get going.”
“Where?”
“I’m meeting friends tonight.”
Norberto stepped over to his brother. He put his hands on Adolfo’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. Adolfo was very aware that his face was closed to his brother. A blank mask.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Norberto asked.
“About what?”
“About — anything,” Norberto replied uneasily.
“About anything? Sure. I love you, Berto.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know,” Adolfo said. “And I know you, Norberto. What’s troubling you? Or should I help you? You want to know what I was doing tonight? Is that what this is about?”
“You’ve already said you were fishing,” Norberto said. “Why shouldn’t I believe you?”
“Because you knew exactly what the explosion was and yet you pretended not to,” Adolfo said. “You didn’t come here to be closer to the sea, Berto. You came here because you wanted to see if I was home. All right. I wasn’t. You also know that I wasn’t fishing.”
Norberto said nothing. He removed his hands from Adolfo’s shoulders. His arms fell heavily.
“You’ve always been able to see inside me,” Adolfo said. “To know what I was thinking, feeling. When I was a teenager I’d come back from a night of whoring or cockfights and lie to you. I’d tell you I was playing soccer or watching a movie. But you always looked in my eyes and saw the truth, even though you said nothing.”
“You were a boy then, Dolfo. Your activities were a part of growing up. Now you’re a man—”
“That’s right, Norberto,” Adolfo interrupted. “I’m a man. One who barely has time for cockfighting, let alone whoring. So you see, brother, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Norberto stepped closer. “I’m looking in your eyes again now. And I believe there is something to worry about.”
“It’s my worry, not yours.”
“That isn’t true,” Norberto said. “We’re brothers. We share pain, we share secrets, we share love. We always have. I want you to talk to me, Dolfo. Please.”
“About what? My activities? My beliefs? My dreams?”
“All of it. Sit down. Tell me.”
“I don’t have time,” Adolfo said.
“Where your soul is concerned you must make the time.”
Adolfo regarded his brother for a moment. “I see. And if I did have time would you be listening to me as a brother or as a priest?”
“As Norberto,” the priest replied gently. “I can’t separate who I am from what I am.”
“Which means you would be my living conscience,” Adolfo said.
“I fear that that position may be open,” Norberto replied.
Adolfo looked at him a few seconds longer. Then he turned away. “You really want to know what I was doing tonight?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” Adolfo said. “I’ll tell you because if anything happens I want you to know why I have done what I’ve done.” He turned back and spoke in a low voice lest the neighbors hear through the thin walls. “The Catalonian men on the boat that sank, Ramirez and the rest of them, planned and carried out the execution of an American diplomat in Madrid. In my pocket I have their taped conversation about the murder.” The cassette rattled as he patted it through his sweater. “The tape is in effect a confession, Norberto. My commander, the General, was right about these men. They were the leaders of a group that is attempting to bankrupt our nation in order to take it over. They killed the diplomat to make sure that the United States does not become involved in their conquest of Spain.”
“Politics do not interest me,” Norberto said quietly, “you know that.”
“Perhaps they should,” Adolfo replied. “The only help that ever reaches the poor of this parish comes from God and that doesn’t put food on the table. It isn’t right.”
“No, it isn’t,” the young priest agreed. “But ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ ”
“That’s true in your profession, not mine,” Adolfo said angrily.
He went to go but Norberto grasped his arm. He held it firmly. “I want you to tell me, Adolfo. What part did you have in the killing?”
“What part did I have?” Adolfo said quietly. “I did it,” he blurted out. “I’m the one who destroyed the yacht.”
Norberto recoiled as though he’d been slapped.
“Millions of our people would have suffered had those monsters lived,” Adolfo said.
Norberto made the sign of the cross on his forehead. “But they were men, Adolfo. Not monsters.”
“They were ruthless, unfeeling
“You are wrong.” Norberto trembled as he squeezed Adolfo’s arm even tighter. “These ‘things,’ as you call them, were people. People with immortal souls created by God.”
“Then you should thank me, brother, for I have returned their immortal souls to God.”
There were tears in the priest’s eyes. “You take too much on yourself. Only God has the right to take a soul.”
“I have to leave.”
“And those millions you speak of,” Norberto continued, “their suffering would only have been in this world. They would have known perfect happiness in the presence of God. But you — you risk damnation for eternity.”
“Then pray for me, brother, for I intend to continue my work.”
“No, Adolfo! You mustn’t.”
Adolfo gently pulled away his brother’s fingers. He squeezed them lovingly before dropping them.
“At least let me hear your confession,” Norberto urged.
“Some other time,” Adolfo replied.
“Some other time may be too late.” Norberto’s voice, like his eyes, were now full of emotion. “You know the punishment if you die unrepentant. You will be estranged from God.”
“God has forgotten me. Forgotten all of us.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry,” Adolfo said. The fisherman looked away from his brother. He didn’t want to see the hurt in his kind eyes. And he didn’t want to face the fact that he’d caused it. Not now. Not with so much left to do. He took another swallow of stew and thanked his brother again for bringing it. Then he pulled a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pants pocket — his last, he noted. He’d have to stop and buy pre-mades. Lighting it, he headed toward the door.
“Adolfo, please!” Norberto grabbed his brother’s shoulder and turned him around. “Stay here with me. Talk to me. Pray with me.”
“I have business up on the hill,” he replied evenly. “I promised the General I’d deliver the taped conversation to the radio station there. They are Castilians at the station. They will play the tape. When they do, all the world will know that Catalonia has no regard for life, Spanish or otherwise. The government, the world will help end the financial oppression they’ve forced on us.”
