“Take him up to bed, Cuchillo,” Filomena ordered. “I’m sure this is nothing serious. It’s probably a cold. That’s what you get for not wearing a sweater!”
“Time has ceased to flow / Night and day are eternal winter / There is naught but the pure silence / Of antennae in the blackness . . .”* Gilberto improvised.
“Go tell cook to prepare some chicken broth,” his sister said, to silence him.
* * *
The family physician determined that it was not a cold and recommended that Miguel see an ophthalmologist. The next morning, after an impassioned exposition on the subject of health—God’s gift and the people’s right—which the infamous regime in power had made into a privilege of caste, the stricken man agreed to see a specialist. Sebastián Canuto drove all three to the Southside Hospital, the only place Miguel approved of because there they treated the poorest of the poor. His sudden blindness had put the priest in an unusually bad humor; he could not understand the divine design that would make him an invalid just when his services were most needed. Christian resignation never entered his mind. From the beginning he had refused to allow anyone to lead him or support him; he preferred to stumble along, even at the risk of breaking his neck, more than for any reason of pride, to accustom himself as quickly as possible to this new limitation. Filomena had given the chauffeur secret instructions to take a different route and drive them to the German Clinic, but her brother, who knew all too well the smell of poverty, was suspicious the minute they stepped inside the building, and his suspicions were confirmed when he heard music in the elevator. His brother and sister had had to rush him out of the clinic before he threw the king of all fits. At Southside they waited four hours, time that Miguel used to inquire into the misfortunes of his fellow patients in the waiting room, Filomena to begin another sweater, and Gilberto to compose the poem about the antennae in the blackness that had welled up in his heart the night before.
“The right eye is hopeless, and to restore any vision to the left we will have to operate again,” said the doctor who finally attended them. “He’s already had three operations, and the tissue is greatly weakened; this will require special techniques and instruments. I believe the only place where it can be done is in the Military Hospi—”
“Never!” interrupted Miguel. “I will never set foot in that den of callous vipers!”
Startled, the doctor winked apologetically at the nurse, who smiled complicitously.
“Don’t be difficult, Miguel,” scolded Filomena. “It will only be for a day or two; I don’t think that would betray your principles. No one goes to hell for a stay in the hospital!” But her brother replied that he would rather be blind for the rest of his days than give the military the pleasure of restoring his eyesight. At the door the doctor held his arm a moment.
“Look, Padre. Have you ever heard of the Opus Dei clinic? They have modern equipment there, too.”
“Opus Dei?” the priest exclaimed. “Did you say Opus Dei?”
Filomena tried to lead him outside the consulting room, but he planted himself in the doorway to inform the doctor that there was another place he would never dream of asking a favor.
“But, why . . . ? Aren’t they Catholics?”
“Reactionary Pharisees is what they are.”
“S-s-sorry,” stammered the doctor.
Back in the car Miguel lectured his brother and sister, and the chauffeur, on how the Opus Dei was a nefarious organization more concerned with soothing the conscience of the upper classes than with feeding the starving and on how it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, or however that went. He added that their experience was further proof of how bad things were in a country where only the privileged could get well with dignity, and the rest had to be content with the herbs of poverty and poultices of humiliation. And to cap it off he asked them to take him straight home, because he had to water the geraniums and prepare his Sunday sermon.
“I agree,” commented Gilberto, depressed by the hours of waiting and the vision of misfortune and ugliness he had witnessed in the hospital. He was not accustomed to activities of this sort.
“You agree with what?” asked Filomena.
“That we cannot go to the Military Hospital. That would not be wise. But we could offer the Opus Dei the opportunity, don’t you think?”
“What are you saying!” his brother sputtered. “I told you what I think of them.”
“People will say we can’t afford to pay!” Filomena objected, close to losing her patience.
“There’s nothing to lose by inquiring,” suggested Gilberto, running a cologned handkerchief around his neck.
“Those people are so busy moving fortunes around in banks and embroidering priests’ chasubles in gold thread that they don’t have any energy left to devote to the needy. Heaven is not won with genuflexions, but with—”
“But you’re not poor, don Miguelito,” interrupted Sebastián Canuto, not relaxing his grip on the wheel.
“Don’t you insult me, Cuchillo. I’m as poor as you are. But turn around, then, and take us to the damned clinic, to prove to the Poet that as usual he’s got his head in the clouds.”
They were received by a pleasant woman who asked them to fill out some forms and offered them a cup of coffee. Fifteen minutes later they were in the consulting room.
“First of all, Doctor, I want to know whether you’re a member of the Opus Dei, or whether you just work here,” the priest asked.
“Yes, I do God’s Work,” the doctor smiled meekly.
“Then how much is the consultation?” The priest’s tone did not mask his sarcasm.
“Do you have financial problems, Father?”
“Just tell me how much.”
“Nothing, if you’re not able to pay. Donations are voluntary.”
For a brief instant Padre Boulton lost his aplomb, but his bafflement was short-lived.
“This doesn’t have the look of a charity ward.”
“No, it’s a private clinic.”
“Uh hunh! So only people able to make donations come here.”
“Look, Father, if you don’t like it here, I suggest you leave,” the doctor replied. “But before you go, let me examine you. If you want, bring all your sheep to me and we’ll deal with them to the best of our abilities; that’s why those who are able to pay, pay. And now, sit very still and open your eyes wide.”
After a painstaking examination the doctor confirmed the earlier diagnosis, and he was not optimistic.
“We have the very best equipment here, but this is a very delicate operation. I won’t deceive you, Father. Only a miracle can restore your eyesight.”
Miguel was so crestfallen that he scarcely heard what the doctor was telling him; Filomena, however, seized on that one hope.
“A miracle, you say?”
“Well, that’s a manner of speaking, señora. The truth is that no one can guarantee he will see again.”
“If what you want is a miracle, I know where to get one,” said Filomena, stuffing her knitting back in her bag. “Thank you very much, Doctor. Please proceed with preparations for the operation. We will not be gone long.”
Once again in the car, with Miguel speechless for the first time in recent memory and Gilberto fatigued by the shocks of the day, Filomena ordered Sebastián Canuto to drive toward the mountains. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smiled enthusiastically. More than once he had driven the señora in that direction, never happily, because the road was a writhing serpent, but now he was animated by the thought that he was helping the person he valued most in the world.
“Where are we going now,” murmured Gilberto, calling on all his British discipline to keep from swooning with exhaustion.
“Why don’t you nap; it’s a long trip. We’re going to the grotto of Juana o
f the Lilies,” his sister explained.
“You must be crazy!” the priest exclaimed.
“She’s a saint.”
“That’s out-and-out nonsense. The Church still hasn’t made up its mind about her.”
“It takes the Vatican something like a hundred years to acknowledge sainthood. We can’t wait that long,” Filomena concluded.
“If Miguel does not believe in angels, he’s even less likely to believe in some local saint, particularly since your Juana came from a family of wealthy landowners,” Gilberto sighed.
“That is not relevant; she lived in poverty. Don’t put ideas in Miguel’s head,” said Filomena.
“If it weren’t for the fact that her family is prepared to spend a fortune to have its own saint, no one would’ve ever heard of her,” the priest interjected.
“She’s more miraculous than any of your foreign saints.”
“Whatever the case, it would be arrogant of me to ask for special treatment. Sick as I am, I’m nobody, and I have no right to stir up heaven with personal demands,” grumbled the priest.
Juana’s fame had arisen after her premature death when the campesinos of the region, impressed by her piety and charitable works, had begun praying to her for favors. Soon the news spread that the dead girl could work miracles, and her notoriety grew until it culminated in the Miracle of the Explorer, as it was referred to. A man had been lost in the mountains for two weeks, and when the rescue teams had given up the search and were about to declare him dead, he appeared, hungry and nearly prostrate, but safe. In his statements to the press, he had declared that in a dream he had seen the vision of a girl wearing a long dress and carrying a bouquet of flowers in her arms. When he awakened he had smelled a strong aroma of lilies and had known beyond doubt that it was a message from heaven. Following the penetrating perfume of the flowers he had made his way out of the labyrinth of passes and ravines and finally come within sight of a road. When he was shown a photograph of Juana, he swore that she and the girl in his vision were one and the same. The girl’s family had made it their business to disseminate the story, to construct a grotto on the site where the explorer had emerged, and to mobilize all resources at hand to present the case to the Vatican. To date, nevertheless, the Jury of Cardinals had not replied. The Holy See did not believe in hasty judgments; for many centuries it had exercised power cautiously and looked forward to doing so many more in the future; therefore, it never acted precipitously in any matter, especially beatifications. Rome had received numerous testimonies from South America, where every so often prophets, hermit saints, preachers, stylites, martyrs, virgins, anchorites, and other unique and locally revered figures appeared, but it would not do to be overenthusiastic about each case. Great caution was required in such matters because one misstep could lead to ridicule, especially in these pragmatic times when skepticism prevailed over faith. Juana’s devoted, however, had not awaited a verdict from Rome before elevating her to the rank of saint. They sold pictures of her and medals with her portrait, and every day notices were published in the newspapers thanking her for some favor granted. So many lilies had been planted around the grotto that the odor went to the pilgrims’ heads and caused sterility in domestic animals for miles around. Oil lamps and candles and torches filled the air with smoglike smoke, confounding condors in their flight. Within a brief time the site had been filled with memorial plaques, with orthopedic devices and miniature replicas of organs that believers had left as proof of a miraculous cure. Through public subscription, money had been raised to pave the route, and within a couple of years there was a road, sinuous but passable, linking the capital with the shrine.
The Boultons reached their destination at nightfall. Sebastián Canuto helped the three elderly people along the path that led to the grotto. Despite the late hour, worshipers were still present: some inching their way forward on their knees, aided by a solicitous relative; others praying aloud or lighting candles before the plaster statue of the revered girl. Filomena and El Cuchillo knelt to compose their pleas, Gilberto sat on a bench to cogitate upon the strange turns of life, and Miguel stood muttering that if they were going to ask for miracles, why not just pray for the fall of the tyrant and the return of democracy.
Several days later the physicians of the Opus Dei clinic operated on Miguel’s left eye, without charge, after notifying the family that they must not be overly hopeful. The priest appealed to Filomena and Gilberto not to say a word about Juana of the Lilies; it was enough to bear the humiliation of accepting aid from his ideological rivals. As soon as he was discharged, Filomena took Miguel to the family home, ignoring his protests. Miguel was wearing an enormous patch that covered half his face and was weakened by the experience, but his humility was not diminished. He declared that he did not want to be attended by hands that accepted pay, so they had to dismiss the nurse they had engaged for his recovery. Filomena and the faithful Sebastián Canuto themselves assumed responsibility for Miguel’s care—not an easy task, since he was in a foul humor: he could not tolerate staying in bed and had lost his appetite.
The priest’s presence radically altered the household routine. Opposition radios and the shortwave Voice of Moscow blared constantly and an endless file of sympathetic neighbors came to visit their sick friend. Miguel’s room soon filled with humble gifts: schoolchildren’s drawings, cookies, herb teas, flowers grown in tin cans, a hen for chicken soup, even a two-month-old puppy that urinated on the Persian rugs and gnawed furniture legs, which someone had brought with the idea of training as a Seeing Eye dog. All in all, the convalescence progressed rapidly, and fifty hours after the operation, Filomena called the surgeon to tell him that her brother was seeing quite well.
“But I told him not to touch the patch,” the doctor protested.
“Oh, he’s still wearing the patch. He’s seeing with the other eye,” Filomena clarified.
“What other eye?”
“Well, the one that’s not covered, Doctor; the one he was blind in.”
“That can’t be. I’ll be right over. Don’t move him for any reason!” ordered the surgeon.
In the Boulton mansion he found a very spirited patient eating fried potatoes and watching soap operas with the puppy in his lap. Incredulous, the doctor verified that the priest’s vision was unimpaired in the eye that had been blind for eight years, and when he removed the patch it was evident Miguel could also see with the eye that had been operated on.
* * *
Padre Miguel celebrated his seventieth birthday in the parish church of his barrio. His sister, Filomena, and her friends formed a caravan of cars filled with cakes, pies, tasty morsels, baskets of fruit, and jugs of chocolate, led by El Cuchillo, who had brought liters of wine and liquor disguised in barley-water bottles. The priest had sketched the story of his eventful life on large posters and hung them inside the church. There, with a touch of irony, he had recounted the ups and downs of his vocation, beginning with the moment when at fifteen the call of God had fallen on his head with the force of a lead pipe, continuing with his struggles against the cardinal sins—first, greed and lust; later, anger—and ending with his recent adventures in police cells at an age when other old men were sitting in rocking chairs counting the stars. He had hung a portrait of Juana, crowned by a garland of flowers, beside his ubiquitous red flags. The festivities began with a mass—enlivened by four guitars—which all the neighborhood attended. Loudspeakers had been set up to allow the crowd that spilled out into the street to follow the ceremony. After the benediction, people began coming forward to testify to new cases of abuse of authority, until Filomena marched forward to announce that there had been enough lamentation, it was time to celebrate. Everyone went outside to the patio, someone put on a record, and immediately the dancing and feasting began. The ladies from exclusive neighborhoods served the food, while El Cuchillo set off fireworks, and Miguel, surrounded by well-wishers and friends, danced the Cha
rleston to prove that not only were his eyes as sharp as a hawk’s but, in addition, no one could best him when it came to a party.
“Plebian fiestas have no poetry about them,” observed Gilberto after the third glass of fake barley water, but his English-lord affectations did not entirely disguise the fact he was having a good time.
“Here now, Padre Miguel, tell us the miracle!” someone shouted, and all the rest joined in.
Miguel asked for the music to be turned off, straightened his clothing, smoothed down the few hairs that still crowned his head, and in a voice quavering with gratitude told the story of Juana of the Lilies, without whose intervention all the craft of science and technology would have come to naught.
“If only she was a proletarian holy lady, we could trust her a lot easier,” someone spoke up, and loud laughter seconded his quip.
“I don’t want to hear any shit about my miracle,” roared an indignant Padre Miguel. “You’ll get my saint mad and I’ll be blind as a bat again! And now, all of you line up, because you’re going to sign this letter to the Pope for me!”
And so, amid guffaws and tipping of wineglasses, all the priest’s neighbors signed the petition for the beatification of Juana of the Lilies.
* * *
* From the poem “Aunque es de noche,” © by the Chilean poet Carlos Bolton.
REVENGE
On the radiant day that Dulce Rosa Orellano was crowned with the jasmine of the Queen of Carnival, the mothers of the other candidates had grumbled that the competition was rigged, that the title had been given to her only because she was the daughter of Senator Anselmo Orellano, the most powerful man in all the province. They admitted that the girl had charm and that she could play the piano and dance like no one else, but other girls who had sought the same prize were much more beautiful. They watched her standing there on the dais in her organza dress and flower crown, waving to the crowd, and cursed her under their breath. That was why some were not at all unhappy when several months later misfortune fell upon the house of the Orellanos, sowing so much death and calamity that it took twenty-five years to reap it.