A number of people, almost all women, stood or knelt at the front pews. Though they resembled one another, the distances between them showed that each was here alone. He walked toward the front, keeping to one side of the pews so he wouldn’t have to cross in front of the altar or get too close to the worshippers.
The side chapels featured colorful primitive images, and on some he saw bizarre anachronistic votive offerings of images of parts of the human body. There were heads, legs, arms, even yellow wax figures of infants or adults. They made his skin crawl. Vending machines offered imitation votive candles as sadly diminished replacements for the massive tapers that surely would have burned in here in olden times. The slot required a fifty-cent piece. He dropped one in for the pleasure of seeing the little plastic candle light up beneath the cover of transparent polymer, for all the world like a meter keeping track of prayers to the saints. He went up the side aisle toward the sacristy, passing the praying faithful and hearing their quietly muttered supplications. He looked to see whom they were addressing and saw upon the altar the effigy of a surprisingly young and happy Virgin with a year-old child in her arms. Both were smiling, and the colors of her gown and adornment were those of joy and celebration. He stood trying to reconcile that surprising sight with the picture on the church website of a suffering Virgin crushed by the weight of responsibility and plunged in inconsolable grief. He’d expected that alternative view because the site was so ancient and the traditions of this region so foreign to him.
When he entered the sacristy he saw a woman who could easily have been the sister of the one he’d spoken to. She sat at a little table arranging stacks of folded papers, no doubt the order of service for Sunday mass.
He interrupted her work. “Hello. I’m looking for Father Lucas.”
A chair scraped in the adjoining room, and the priest stepped out. He smiled at the sight of Manuel and came forward with his hand extended. “Manuel! I’m so pleased that you decided to come visit.”
Manuel shook his hand firmly but said nothing.
The woman behind the little table had the strict look of an old-fashioned schoolteacher. Her prim air was further accentuated by the calculating way she surveyed him with a mixture of reproof and misgiving. She scratched her head in an almost cartoonish effort to jog her memory and kept her eyes fixed on him.
“Won’t you come in?” Lucas asked as he gestured toward the room from which he’d come. Seeing Manuel hesitate, he offered an alternative. “Or perhaps you’d prefer a stroll and a tour of all this? The weather is gorgeous after the downpour last night.”
Still silent, Manuel turned and crossed the nave toward the exit. The priest bowed for a moment in the direction of the altar and crossed himself. He made his way around a group of the faithful and caught up with Manuel.
The sun did indeed seem more brilliant and the air more inviting when they stepped out of the church. Manuel took a deep breath of the morning air. In tacit accord they began to walk along the exterior wall.
“Manuel, what a joy this is! In truth, I was hoping you’d come, though I wasn’t entirely certain I’d see you again. I thought perhaps you’d left. How are you doing?”
His reply was entirely too quick. “I’m fine.”
The priest pressed his lips together and tilted his head. Manuel was familiar with that response by now. It was one he’d seen each time he answered that question. Manuel waited, refusing to initiate the conversation. He knew that Lucas wouldn’t give up. No one ever had. He’d seen after the funeral that as a priest, Lucas felt even more justified than others in pushing against his reserve.
Lucas looked up at the bell tower. “What do you think of the shrine?”
Manuel smiled, but he wasn’t going to be won over by that gambit. “It’s impressive enough when seen from a distance,” he conceded.
“And close up?”
“I don’t know.” He reflected, cautious. “It gives me a feeling that’s a bit . . . don’t get me wrong, it’s . . . intimate, but somehow disquieting. Like an old hospital, a mental asylum, or a geriatric ward.”
Lucas seemed to ponder that. “I know what you mean, and I agree. For centuries this place has been a refuge from human misery. It wasn’t built to hail God’s glory but rather to call for victory over sin.”
“Sin,” Manuel murmured with a touch of mockery. “Is it true they do exorcisms here?”
The priest halted, which obliged Manuel to do the same. “Folks come here seeking all sorts of solace for what ails them,” he said sharply. “But that’s hardly what you’re looking for, is it?”
Manuel regretted his impertinence. He let out a long breath of air and wondered why he felt the urge to attack this man and his beliefs. Elisa’s unhappy comment came to mind. It’s hard to accept when your partner prefers to speak to a priest instead of to you. Yes, perhaps that had something to do with it. Lucas wasn’t to blame.
He resumed his pacing; the priest, still offended, didn’t follow him immediately. Manuel tried to put his thoughts in order before speaking, but he hadn’t come with any plans or expectations. He noticed the piece of bark still in his hand, an unexpected talisman, and he held it tightly. He absentmindedly picked at its surface with a fingernail, shredding edges that yielded with faint cracking sounds. He didn’t need to hear them, for those quiet yielding protests were recorded in his memory. He hadn’t thought of them for years, but to his surprise that sound was still fresh and familiar.
The priest joined him and broke the silence. “Listen, Manuel, I was álvaro’s friend. His death is a great loss to me. I’ll mourn him the rest of my life. I know how you feel, and I’m glad you’ve decided to visit, that you’re still here. But, if you’re going to stay, stop acting like a haughty intellectual and show some respect. Many people here loved álvaro. The fact you didn’t know of their existence in no way invalidates their feelings. I wasn’t going to mention it because I didn’t think you’d appreciate it, but Herminia saw to it there were nine priests at the altar for the funeral. The family told me of his death and I informed the parish priest; the lady dowager said they’d pay for a simple ceremony. Herminia paid honoraria for the other priests from her own pocket. An average of fifty euros per officiant, in honor of a man she loved like a son. She made sure he got a proper mass, so the family wouldn’t bury him in silence and shame. She was the one who announced it. She attended to álvaro’s reputation in a land where even the humblest funeral mass is conducted by at least five priests. Any fewer is an insult to the memory of the deceased.”
Manuel was astonished.
“Yes, Manuel, that rude tradition, that folklore you sneer at, is an expression of respect. It’s pure love. In the same way the workers at the winery paid for a novena of masses here at the shrine. In all sincerity, I can’t imagine any greater act of love for the dead than caring for their welfare beyond the grave. I believe you’re a good man. You’re wounded and in pain, but that gives you no right to mock. So tell me, Manuel, why are you here?”
Manuel sighed, pressed his lips together, and acknowledged the stinging rebuke. Entirely deserved, he thought.
“I’m here because of Elisa.”
“Elisa?” the priest murmured, surprised but cautiously receptive.
Manuel didn’t want to explain the real reasons behind his decision to stay in Galicia, but he didn’t want to lie either. He was ashamed of his presumption and wished with all his heart he could share his thoughts, but it was still too early to address the question directly.
“I went back to the cemetery in As Grileiras yesterday.” It was only half a lie. “And I met her there. She’s obsessed by the idea that her fiancé didn’t commit suicide.”
Lucas kept walking in silence, looking down, apparently not surprised in the least.