What’s more, you will ask me to do things I can’t and don’t want to do.”
“For example?”
“I’ll tell you when you give me confession,” wriggled the Count and, coming back to earth, he handed the priest a cigarette, as he put another to his own lips. He lit both with his lighter and they were soon enveloped in a cloud of smoke. “I came to see you because I need to find something out and you can perhaps help me . . . How long have you known my family?”
“For fifty-eight years, since the day I first came to this parish. You weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye . . . Your Grandfather Rufino, who was even more of an atheist than you, was my first friend around here.”
Conde nodded and again worried about what had really driven him to Padre Mendoza’s door. A skilled hand in these uncomfortable situations, the priest helped him make the next step.
“So what is it you need to know?”
Conde looked him in the eye and felt the trust-suffusing gaze of that old man who’d once placed in his mouth a flour wafer that, he claimed, was the very body of Christ.
“Have you ever heard of a woman called Violeta del Río?”
The priest looked up, perhaps surprised by that unexpected question. He took a couple of drags, then put out the cigarette in the ashtray and returned Conde’s gaze.
“No,” came his firm reply. “Why?”
“The name cropped up yesterday and, for some reason or other, it sounded familiar. I had the feeling that something sleeping had suddenly woken up. But I can’t think where or why . . .”
“Who is this woman?” enquired the priest.
The Count explained, trying to fathom why Violeta del Río seemed both mysterious yet remotely familiar in this perplexing story that made no sense at all.
“How old were you in 1958?” asked the priest, staring at him.
“Three,” the Count replied. “Why?”
The old man pondered for a few seconds. He seemed to be weighing up his responses and which words he should say or keep to himself.
“Your father fell in love with a singer around that time.”
“My father?” rasped the Count. The parish priest’s words clashed with the strict, home-loving image he cherished of his father. “With Violeta del Río?”
“I don’t know what her name was, I never did, so it might have been her or somebody else . . . As far as I knew, it was a platonic affair. But he did fall in love. He heard her sing and became infatuated. I don’t think it went any further. I think . . . She lived in one world and your father in another: she was beyond his grasp, which I think was something he realized from the start. Your mother never found out. What’s more, I didn’t think anyone was in the know, apart from your father and me . . .”
“So why does the name sound familiar?”
“Did he ever mention her to you?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. My father never spoke to me about what he did – you know what he was like.”
Conde tried to reshape the monolithic image he had of his father, with whom he never succeeded in establishing the channels of communication he’d enjoyed with his mother or his grandfather, Rufino the Count. They’d loved each other, certainly, but neither had ever been able to express that affection verbally, and silence governed almost every aspect of their lives. Besides, the idea he might have been chasing after a beautiful singer in bars and cabarets didn’t fit with the image of his father that he clung to.
“Well it must have been him . . . I expect he told you one day and you just forgot. Men in love do do crazy things.”
“I know. Tell me about it. But not him.”
“How can you be so sure? He wasn’t that different.”
“We didn’t speak much.”
“What about Grandfather Rufino? Might he have said something to you?”
“No.”
“I expect he did, he told old Rufino everything and it got through to you and . . .”
“But what was this woman like my father fell for?”
“I haven’t a
“For example?”
“I’ll tell you when you give me confession,” wriggled the Count and, coming back to earth, he handed the priest a cigarette, as he put another to his own lips. He lit both with his lighter and they were soon enveloped in a cloud of smoke. “I came to see you because I need to find something out and you can perhaps help me . . . How long have you known my family?”
“For fifty-eight years, since the day I first came to this parish. You weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye . . . Your Grandfather Rufino, who was even more of an atheist than you, was my first friend around here.”
Conde nodded and again worried about what had really driven him to Padre Mendoza’s door. A skilled hand in these uncomfortable situations, the priest helped him make the next step.
“So what is it you need to know?”
Conde looked him in the eye and felt the trust-suffusing gaze of that old man who’d once placed in his mouth a flour wafer that, he claimed, was the very body of Christ.
“Have you ever heard of a woman called Violeta del Río?”
The priest looked up, perhaps surprised by that unexpected question. He took a couple of drags, then put out the cigarette in the ashtray and returned Conde’s gaze.
“No,” came his firm reply. “Why?”
“The name cropped up yesterday and, for some reason or other, it sounded familiar. I had the feeling that something sleeping had suddenly woken up. But I can’t think where or why . . .”
“Who is this woman?” enquired the priest.
The Count explained, trying to fathom why Violeta del Río seemed both mysterious yet remotely familiar in this perplexing story that made no sense at all.
“How old were you in 1958?” asked the priest, staring at him.
“Three,” the Count replied. “Why?”
The old man pondered for a few seconds. He seemed to be weighing up his responses and which words he should say or keep to himself.
“Your father fell in love with a singer around that time.”
“My father?” rasped the Count. The parish priest’s words clashed with the strict, home-loving image he cherished of his father. “With Violeta del Río?”
“I don’t know what her name was, I never did, so it might have been her or somebody else . . . As far as I knew, it was a platonic affair. But he did fall in love. He heard her sing and became infatuated. I don’t think it went any further. I think . . . She lived in one world and your father in another: she was beyond his grasp, which I think was something he realized from the start. Your mother never found out. What’s more, I didn’t think anyone was in the know, apart from your father and me . . .”
“So why does the name sound familiar?”
“Did he ever mention her to you?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. My father never spoke to me about what he did – you know what he was like.”
Conde tried to reshape the monolithic image he had of his father, with whom he never succeeded in establishing the channels of communication he’d enjoyed with his mother or his grandfather, Rufino the Count. They’d loved each other, certainly, but neither had ever been able to express that affection verbally, and silence governed almost every aspect of their lives. Besides, the idea he might have been chasing after a beautiful singer in bars and cabarets didn’t fit with the image of his father that he clung to.
“Well it must have been him . . . I expect he told you one day and you just forgot. Men in love do do crazy things.”
“I know. Tell me about it. But not him.”
“How can you be so sure? He wasn’t that different.”
“We didn’t speak much.”
“What about Grandfather Rufino? Might he have said something to you?”
“No.”
“I expect he did, he told old Rufino everything and it got through to you and . . .”
“But what was this woman like my father fell for?”
“I haven’t a
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