The Power Of The Dog (52 page)

“You asked,” she says. “You deserve some kind of a life. You’ve earned it. If you decide to resign, no one will blame you. They’ll blame the Vatican, and you can walk away from all this with your head up.”

She gets up from the sofa, walks to the sidebar and pours herself a glass of wine. She wants the wine, but mostly she wants to avoid his eyes. Doesn’t want him looking at her as she says, “I’m selfish, okay? I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

“Ah.”

The shared, unspoken thought hangs heavily between them: If he were to resign not just the cardinalate, but the priesthood itself, then they could …

But he could never do that, she thinks, and I wouldn’t really want him to.

And you’re being an exceptionally foolish old man, he thinks. She’s forty years your junior and you are, when all is said and done, a priest. So he says, “I’m afraid I’m the one who is being selfish. Perhaps our friendship is keeping you from seeking a relationship—”

“Don’t.”

“—that would meet more of your needs.”

“You meet all my needs.”

The expression on her face is so serious that he is taken aback for a moment. Those startling eyes so intense. He answers, “Certainly not all.”

“All.”

“Don’t you want a husband?” he asks. “A family? Children?”

“No.”

She wants to scream, Don’t leave me. Don’t make me leave you. I don’t need a husband or a family or children. I don’t need sex or money or comfort or safety.

I need you.

And there are probably a billion psychological reasons—indifferent father, sexual dysfunction, fear of committing to a man who’s actually available; a shrink would have a fucking field day—but I don’t care. You are the best man I’ve ever known. The smartest, kindest, funniest, best man I’ve ever known, and I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you, so please don’t go away. Don’t make me go away.

“You’re not going to resign, are you?” she asks.

“I can’t.”

“Okay.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.”

She never really thought he would resign.

A soft knock on the door, and his assistant murmurs that he has an unscheduled visitor who has been told—

“Who is it?” Parada asks.

“A Señor Barrera,” the assistant answers. “I have told him—”

“I will see him.”

Nora gets up. “I need to get going anyway.”

They embrace and she goes to get dressed.

Parada goes into his private office to find Adán sitting there.

He’s changed, Parada thinks.

He still has the boyish face, but it’s a boy with cares. And little wonder, Parada thinks, what with the sick child. Parada offers his hand to shake. Adán takes it and, unexpectedly, kisses his ring.

“That’s certainly unnecessary,” Parada says. “It’s been a long time, Adán.”

“Almost six years.”

“Then why—”

“Thank you for the gifts you send Gloria,” Adán says.

“You’re welcome,” Parada says. “I also say Masses for her. And offer prayers.”

“They’re appreciated more than you know.”

“How is Gloria?”

“The same.”

Parada nods. “And Lucía?”

“Fine, thank you.”

Parada goes behind his desk and sits down. Leans forward on the desk, clasps his fingers together and looks at Adán with a studied, pastoral expression. “Six years ago I reached out to you and asked for your mercy on a helpless man. You answered by killing him.”

“It was an accident,” Adán says. “It was out of my control.”

“You can lie to yourself and to me,” Parada says. “You cannot lie to God.”

Why not? Adán thinks. He lies to us.

But he says, “On the lives of my wife and my child, I was going to release Hidalgo. One of my colleagues accidentally gave him an overdose, trying to reduce his pain.”

“Which he required because he had been tortured.”

“Not by me.”

“Enough, Adán,” Parada says, waving his hand as if to swat away the evasion. “Why are you here? How can I minister to you?”

“You can’t.”

“Then …”

“I’m asking you to be a pastor to my uncle.”

“Jesus walked on water,” Parada says. “I don’t know that it’s been done since.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Parada says as he takes a pack of cigarettes from the desktop, shakes one into his mouth and lights it, “that despite the official party line, I have to believe that some people are beyond redemption. What you are asking for is a miracle.”

“I thought you were in the miracle business.”

“I am,” Parada answers. “For instance, right now I am trying to feed thousands of hungry people, provide them with clean water, decent homes, medicine, education and some hope for the future. Any one of these would be a miracle.”

“If it’s a matter of money—”

“Fuck your money,” Parada says. “There, is that plain enough?”

Adán smiles, remembering why he loves this man. And why Father Juan is probably the only priest tough enough to help Tío. He says, “My uncle is in torment.”

“Good. He should be.”

When Adán raises an eyebrow, Parada says, “I’m not sure I believe in a fiery hell, Adán, but if there is one, your uncle is doubtless going there.”

“He’s addicted to crack.”

“I will let the irony of that pass without comment,” Parada says. “You are familiar with the concept of karma?”

“Vaguely,” Adán says. “I know he needs help. And I know that you cannot refuse to help a soul in torment.”

“A soul who comes in true repentance, seeking to change his ways,” Parada says. “Does that describe your uncle?”

“No.”

“Does it describe you?”

“No.”

Parada stands up. “Then what do we have to talk about?”

“Please go see him,” Adán says. He takes a notepad from his jacket pocket and scribbles Tío’s address. “If you could persuade him to go to a clinic, a hospital …”

“There are hundreds in my diocese who want such treatment and can’t afford it,” Parada says.

“Send five of them with my uncle, and send their bills to me.”

“As I said before—”

“Right, fuck my money,” Adán says. “Your principles, their suffering.”

“From the drugs you sell.”

“He says with a cigarette in his mouth.”

Adán drops his head, looks at the floor for a second then says, “I’m sorry. I came to ask you for a favor. I should have checked my attitude at the door. I meant to.”

Parada takes a long pull on the cigarette, walks to the window and looks outside onto the zócalo, where the street vendors have spread their blankets and laid out their milagros to sell.

“I’ll go see Miguel Ángel,” he says. “I doubt it will do any good.”

“Thank you, Father Juan.”

Parada nods.

“Father Juan?”

“Yes?”

“There are a lot of people who want to know that address.”

“I’m not a policeman,” Parada says.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Adán says. He walks to the door. “Good-bye, Father Juan. Thank you.”

“Change your life, Adán.”

“It’s too late.”

“If you really believed that,” Parada says, “you wouldn’t have come here.”

Parada walks Adán out the door into the small foyer, where a woman is standing with a small overnight bag over her shoulder.

“I should be going,” Nora says to Parada. She looks at Adán and smiles.

“Nora Hayden,” Parada says, “Adán Barrera.”

“Mucho gusto,” Adán says.

“Mucho gusto.” She turns to Parada. “I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” She turns to leave.

“I’m just going now myself,” Adán says. “May I carry your bag? Do you need a taxi?”

“That would be nice.”

She kisses Parada on the cheek. “Adiós.”

“Buen viaje.”

Outside in the zócalo she says, “That sly smile on your face …”

“Is there a sly smile on my face?”

“—is misplaced. It’s not what you think.”

“You misunderstand,” Adán says. “I love and respect the man. Any happiness he finds in this world, I would never begrudge him.”

“We’re just friends.”

“As you wish.”

“We are.”

Adán looks across the square. “There’s a good café over there. I was about to have breakfast, and I hate to eat alone. Do you have the time and inclination to join me?”

“I haven’t eaten.”

“Come on, then,” Adán says. Crossing the square with her, he adds, “Look, I just have to make one phone call.”

“Go ahead.”

He gets his cell phone out and dials Gloria’s number.

“Hola, sonrisa de mi alma,” he says when she answers. She is the smile of his soul. Her voice is his dawn and his dusk. “How are you this morning?”

“Good, Papa. Where are you?”

“In Guadalajara,” he says. “Visiting Tío.”

“How is he?”

“He’s good, too,” Adán says. He looks out over the square where the street merchants have gathered in strength. “Ensancho de mi corazón, comfort of my heart, they sell songbirds here. Shall I bring one home to you?”

“What songs do they sing, Papa?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think you have to teach them songs. Do you know any?”

“Papa,” she laughs, delighted, knowing she’s being teased, “I sing to you all the time.”

“I know you do.” Your songs crack my heart.

“Yes, please, Papa,” she says. “I would love to have a bird.”

“What color?”

“Yellow?”

“I think I see a yellow one.”

“Or green,” she says. “Any color, Papa. When will you be home?”

“Tomorrow night,” he says. “I have to go see Tío Güero, then I’ll come home.”