Rigoberto told Father O’Donovan that after going back and forth about it for a long time, he and Lucrecia had decided to find a specialized agency (“One of those agencies that jealous husbands hire to spy on their erring spouses?” the priest asked mockingly, and Rigoberto nodded: “Exactly”). A detective would follow Fonchito whenever he left the house, alone or with friends. The report from the agency—“which, by the way, cost me a fortune”—had been eloquent and contradictory: At no time had the boy had the slightest contact anywhere with older men, not at the movies, or at the Argüelles family’s party, or when he went to school or came home, or even in his fleeting visit to a discotheque in San Isidro with his friend Pezzuolo. And yet, in that discotheque, when Fonchito went to the bathroom to pee, he’d had an unexpected encounter: There was the aforementioned gentleman, washing his hands (of course there was nothing about this in the report from the agency).
“Hello, Fonchito,” said Edilberto Torres.
“At the discotheque?” asked Rigoberto.
“In the bathroom at the discotheque, Papa,” Fonchito specified. He spoke with confidence, but it seemed as if his tongue were heavy and each word required enormous effort.
“Are you having a good time here with your friend Pezzuolo?” The gentleman seemed disconsolate. He’d washed his hands and now was drying them with a paper towel he’d just pulled from the small box on the wall. He wore his usual purple sweater but his suit was blue, not gray.
“Why are you crying, señor?” Fonchito dared to ask him.
“Edilberto Torres was crying there too, in the bathroom of a discotheque?” Rigoberto gave a start. “Like on the day you saw him sitting beside you at the Larcomar Cineplex?”
“At the movies I saw him in the dark and I might have been wrong,” Fonchito responded with no hesitation. “Not in the bathroom at the discotheque. There was enough light. He was crying. Tears came out of his eyes and ran down his face. It was … it was … I don’t know how to say it, Papa, it was sad, really sad, I swear. Seeing him cry in silence, not saying anything, looking at me with so much sorrow. He seemed to be suffering so much and it made me feel bad.”
“Excuse me, but I have to go, señor,” Fonchito stammered. “My friend Chato Pezzuolo is waiting for me outside. I don’t know how to tell you how it makes me feel to see you like this, señor.”
“In other words, as you can see, Pepín, this isn’t a joke,” Rigoberto concluded. “Is he telling us the whole story? Is he delirious? Is he hallucinating? Except for this, the boy seems very normal when he talks about other things. This month his grades in school have been just as good as usual. Lucrecia and I don’t know what to think anymore. Is he losing his mind? Is this an adolescent crisis of nerves, something that will pass? Does he just want to frighten us and have us worry about him? That’s why I’ve come, old man, that’s why we thought of you. I’d be so grateful if you could help us. It was Lucrecia’s idea, as I said: ‘Father O’Donovan might be the solution.’ She’s a believer, as you know.”
“Yes, naturally, of course I will, Rigoberto,” his friend reassured him again. “As long as he agrees to talk to me. That’s my only condition. I can see him at your house, or he can come here to the church. Or I can meet him somewhere else. Any day this week. I realize now that this is very important to both of you. I promise to do everything I can. The only thing, really, is that you not force him. Suggest it to him and let him decide whether he wants to talk to me.”
“If you get me out of this, I’ll even convert, Pepín.”
“Not on your life,” said Father O’Donovan, making the sign of vade retro. “We don’t want sinners as refined as you in the Church, Ears.”
They didn’t know how to bring up the subject with Fonchito. It was Lucrecia who had the courage to speak to him. The boy was somewhat unnerved at first and took it as a joke. “But what do you mean, Stepmother, isn’t my papa an agnostic? Was it his idea for me to talk to a priest? Does he want me to confess?” She explained that Father O’Donovan was a very experienced man and a very wise person whether he was a clergyman or not. “And if he persuades me to enter a seminary and become a priest, what will you and my papa say then?” the boy continued to joke.
“Absolutely not, Fonchito, don’t say that even to be funny. You, a priest? God save us!”
The boy agreed, as he’d agreed to see Dr. Delmira Céspedes, and said he preferred to go to the church in Bajo el Puente. Rigoberto drove him in his car. He dropped him off and went to pick him up a couple of hours later.
“He’s a very nice guy, your friend,” was all Fonchito would say.
“In other words, the conversation was worthwhile?” Rigoberto explored the terrain.
“It was very good, Papa. That was a great idea. I learned a lot of things talking to Father O’Donovan. He doesn’t seem like a priest, he doesn’t give advice, he listens. You were right.”
But he refused to say any more either to him or to his stepmother in spite of their requests. He limited himself to generalities, like the smell of cat urine that filled the church (“Didn’t you notice, Papa?”) even though the priest assured him he didn’t have and had never had a cat and, in fact, saw mice in the sacristy from time to time.
Rigoberto soon deduced that something strange, perhaps something serious, had occurred during the couple of hours that Pepín and Fonchito talked. Otherwise, why had Father O’Donovan been avoiding him for the past four days, making up all kinds of excuses, as if he were afraid to meet with him and tell him about his conversation with the boy?
“Are you looking for reasons not to tell me how your conversation with Fonchito went?” He confronted him on the fifth day, when the priest deigned to answer the telephone.
There was a silence of several seconds on the phone, and finally Rigoberto heard the priest say something that left him stupefied.
“Yes, Rigoberto. The truth is, I am. I’ve been avoiding you. What I have to tell you is something you’re not expecting,” Father O’Donovan said mysteriously. “But since it can’t be helped, let’s talk about it. I’ll come to your house for lunch on Saturday or Sunday. Which day is better for you?”
“Saturday, Fonchito usually has lunch that day at his friend Pezzuolo’s house,” said Rigoberto. “What you’ve said will keep me awake until Saturday, Pepín. And it’ll be even worse for Lucrecia.”
“That’s how I’ve been since you had the bright idea of having me talk to your son,” the priest said drily. “Until Saturday then, Ears.”
Father O’Donovan must have been the only cleric who traveled through greater Lima not by bus or jitney but on a bicycle. He said it was his only exercise, but he did it so regularly that it kept him in excellent physical condition. Besides, he liked to pedal. He would think as he rode, preparing his sermons, composing letters, scheduling the day’s tasks. True, he had to be constantly on the alert, especially at intersections and at the traffic lights that no one in this city respected, and where motorists drove as if trying to knock down pedestrians and cyclists instead of bringing their vehicle safely home. Even so, he’d been lucky: In the more than twenty years that he’d been traveling all over the city on two wheels, he’d been hit only once, with no serious consequences, and only one bicycle had been stolen. An excellent record!
On Saturday, at about midday, Rigoberto and Lucrecia, who were watching the street from the terrace of the penthouse where they lived, saw Father O’Donovan pedaling furiously along the Paul Harris Seawalk in Barranco. They felt great relief. It had seemed so strange that the cleric put off telling them about his conversation with Fonchito for so long that they had even worried he’d invent a last-minute excuse to avoid coming. What could have been said in the conversation to make him so reluctant to tell them about it?
Justiniana went downstairs to tell the porter to allow Father O’Donovan to bring his bicycle into the building to keep it safe from thieves, and rode up with him in the elevator. Pepín embraced Rigoberto, kissed Lucrecia on the cheek, a
nd asked permission to go to the bathroom to wash his hands and face because he was sweaty.
“How long did it take you to cycle from Bajo el Puente?” asked Lucrecia.
“Just under half an hour,” he said. “With the traffic jams we have now in Lima, it’s faster to go on a bicycle than in a car.”
He asked for fruit juice as an aperitif and looked at both of them slowly, smiling.
“I know you must have been saying terrible things about me for not telling you what happened,” he said.
“Yes, Pepín, exactly, terrible, awful, dreadful things. You know how upset we are about this. You’re a sadist.”
“How was it?” Doña Lucrecia asked anxiously. “Did he talk to you honestly? Did he tell you everything? What’s your opinion?”
Father O’Donovan, very serious now, took a deep breath. He murmured that the half hour of pedaling had tired him more than he cared to admit. And he was silent for a long time.
“Shall I tell you something?” He looked at them with an expression that was partly distressed, partly defiant. “The truth is I’m not at all comfortable about the conversation we’re about to have.”
“Neither am I, Father,” said Fonchito. “There’s no reason to have it. I know very well that my papa’s nerves are on edge because of me. If you like, you do whatever you have to do and give me a magazine to read, even if it’s a religious one. Then we’ll tell my papa and stepmother that we talked and you can make up something to reassure them. And that’ll be that.”
“Well, well,” said Father O’Donovan. “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, Fonchito. Do you know that at your age, in La Recoleta, your father was a great bamboozler?”
“Did you get to talk to him about that man?” asked Rigoberto, not hiding his anxiety. “Did he open up to you?”
“The truth is, I don’t know,” said Father O’Donovan. “This boy is like quicksilver, he always seemed to be slipping away from me. But don’t worry. I’m sure of one thing at least. He’s not crazy, he’s not delirious, and he’s not kidding you. I thought he was the healthiest, most centered child in the world. The psychologist who saw him told you the absolute truth: He has no mental problems at all, as far as I can judge. Of course, I’m not a psychiatrist or a psychologist—”
“But then this man’s appearances,” Lucrecia interrupted. “Did you find out anything certain? Does Edilberto Torres exist or not?”
“Though it might not be entirely accurate to say he’s normal.” Father O’Donovan corrected himself, avoiding the question. “Because the boy has something exceptional, something that differentiates him from the rest. I’m not referring only to his being intelligent. He’s that, certainly. I’m not exaggerating one bit, Rigoberto, and I’m not saying this just to please you. But besides that, the boy has in his mind, his spirit, something that draws one’s attention. A very special, very personal kind of sensibility we ordinary mortals don’t possess. Literally. As for the rest, I don’t know if this is a reason to be glad or frightened. And I don’t discount the possibility that he wanted to give me that impression and succeeded, as a consummate actor would. I really wasn’t sure whether I should come and tell you this. But I thought it was better if I did.”
“Can we get to the point, Pepín?” Don Rigoberto had become impatient. “Stop beating around the damn bush. I’ll speak frankly: Cut the bullshit, and let’s get to the meat of the problem. Speak clearly and please stop trying to save your own ass.”
“What awful language, Rigoberto,” said Lucrecia in reproof. “It’s just that we’re so terribly worried, Pepín. Forgive him. I think this is the first time I’ve heard your friend Ears swearing like a truck driver.”
“All right, I’m sorry, Pepín, but tell me once and for all, old man,” Rigoberto insisted. “Does the ubiquitous Edilberto Torres exist? Does he appear to him in movie theaters, in discotheque bathrooms, on school bleachers? Can all this nonsense be true?”
Father O’Donovan had begun to perspire again, copiously, and now it was not due to the bicycle, thought Rigoberto, but the stress of having to render a verdict on this subject. What in hell was it? What was going on?
“Let’s put it this way, Rigoberto,” said the priest, handling his words with extreme caution, as if they had thorns. “Fonchito believes he sees and talks to him. I think that’s incontrovertible. Well, I believe he believes it absolutely, so that he believes he isn’t lying to you when he says he’s seen and talked to him. Even though these appearances and disappearances seem, and are, absurd. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?”
Rigoberto and Lucrecia looked at each other and then at Father O’Donovan in silence. The priest now seemed as confused as they were. He’d become sad and clearly wasn’t happy with his answer either. But it was evident he had no other and couldn’t give a better explanation. He didn’t know how.
“I understand, of course I do, but what you’re telling me doesn’t mean anything, Pepín,” Rigoberto complained. “That Fonchito isn’t trying to deceive us was one of the hypotheses, naturally. That he might be deceiving himself through autosuggestion: Is that what you believe?”
“I know that what I’m telling you is a disappointment, that you were both hoping for something more definitive, more categorical,” Father O’Donovan continued. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be more concrete, Ears. I can’t. This is all I could make of it. That the boy isn’t lying. He believes he sees the man and perhaps … perhaps it’s possible he does. That he’s the only one who sees him and nobody else does is something I can’t get past. It’s simple conjecture. I repeat: I don’t exclude the possibility that your son is stringing me along. In other words, that he’s more astute and skilled than I am. Maybe he takes after you, Ears. Do you remember at La Recoleta when Father Lagnier called you a mythomaniac?”
“But, then, what you’ve learned is not at all clear but very obscure, Pepín,” Rigoberto murmured.
“Is it a question of visions? Or hallucinations?” Lucrecia attempted to make things more explicit.
“You can call it that, but not if you associate those words with mental unbalance or disease,” the priest declared. “My impression is that Fonchito has total control of his mind and emotions. He’s a well-balanced boy and distinguishes clearly between the real and the imaginary. I can definitely assure you of that, I’d bet my life on his sanity. In other words, this isn’t something that can be resolved by a psychiatrist.”
“I assume you’re not talking about miracles,” said Rigoberto, irritated and mocking. “Because if Fonchito is the only person who sees Edilberto Torres and speaks to him, you’re talking about miraculous powers. Have we fallen so low, Pepín?”
“Of course I’m not talking about miracles, Ears, and neither is Fonchito,” said the priest, now irritated as well. “I’m simply talking about something I don’t know what to call. The child is having a very special experience. I won’t say a religious experience because you don’t know and don’t want to know what that is, but let’s compromise and use the word ‘spiritual.’ Something to do with sensitivity, with extreme emotion. Something that only very indirectly has to do with the material, rational world we move through. For him, Edilberto Torres symbolizes all human suffering. I know you don’t understand me. That’s why I was so afraid to come and tell you about my talk with Fonchito.”
“A spiritual experience?” Doña Lucrecia repeated. “What does that mean exactly? Can you explain, Pepín?”
“It means that the devil appears to him, that his name is Edilberto Torres, and that as it turns out, he’s Peruvian,” summarized a sarcastic and angry Rigoberto. “Basically that’s what you’re telling us, Pepín, in the inane prattle of a miracle-faking priest.”
“Lunch is served,” said Justiniana, just in time, from the doorway. “You can come to the table whenever you like.”
“At first it didn’t bother me, it only surprised me,” said Fonchito. “But now it does. Though ‘bother’ isn’t the right word, F
ather. It disturbs me, rather, makes me feel bad, makes me sad. Ever since I saw him cry, you know? The first few times he didn’t cry, he only wanted to talk. And though he doesn’t tell me why he’s crying, I think he’s crying for all the bad things that happen. And for me, too. That’s what hurts me the most.”
There was a long silence, and finally Father O’Donovan said the prawns were delicious and he could tell they came from the Majes River. Should he congratulate Lucrecia or Justiniana for this delicacy?
“Neither one, but the cook,” replied Lucrecia. “Her name’s Navidad and she’s from Arequipa, of course.”
“When was the last time you saw this gentleman?” asked the priest, who’d lost the confident, secure air he’d had until now and seemed somewhat nervous. He asked the question with great diffidence.
“Yesterday, crossing the Puente de los Suspiros, in Barranco, Father,” Fonchito answered immediately. “I was walking across the bridge and there were maybe three other people. And suddenly there he was, sitting on the railing.”
“Crying, as usual?” asked Father O’Donovan.
“I don’t know, I saw him for just a moment as I walked past. I didn’t stop, I kept walking, walking faster,” the boy explained, and now he seemed frightened. “I don’t know if he was crying. But his face looked really sad. I don’t know how to say it, Father. I swear to you I’ve never seen anyone as sad as Señor Torres. It’s contagious, I’m upset for a long time afterward, full of sorrow, and I don’t know what to do. I’d like to know why he’s crying. I’d like to know what he wants me to do. Sometimes I tell myself he’s crying for all the people who suffer. For the sick, the blind, for those who beg in the streets. Well, I don’t know, lots of things go through my head when I see him. But I don’t know how to explain them, Father.”