Manuel felt a strong desire to tell him everything, including the fact that “they” were limited to the medical examiner taken off the case, a retired policeman, and himself. He wanted to lay out every last detail and share all his torments. But he’d formally pledged to Nogueira and Ophelia he would keep them out of it. Trust has to go both ways, and he’d get little or nothing from Lucas unless he gave him something in exchange. But it was still too early to open up completely.
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. I don’t even know if I can trust you, or if I’m making a huge mistake by telling you.”
The photo of the boy with the calm gaze clamored suddenly from his jacket pocket as if it had come alive. He clasped his hand to his chest as if he’d just been struck by a terrible physical pain.
Lucas met his gaze. His eyes were steady. “You can trust me.”
Manuel studied his face and thought about it. “I already have. That’s the honest truth. But sometimes confessions take time and several sessions. Isn’t that what you said?”
“I’ll help you with whatever you need. Don’t shut me out.”
Manuel nodded. “I have to think about it. Right now I’m really confused. I could get into big trouble if anyone hears that I told you this much.”
“What are you mixed up in, Manuel?”
“What was álvaro mixed up in? That’s the question to ask!”
“I can assure you it was nothing evil.”
“Assure me? You think you can assure me?” His voice rose. “And how do you think you can assure me? Maybe you knew everything about him? Did you know he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring when he died? Did you know he used to go out whoring with his brother?” His mind was echoing Mei’s account of the words someone had said from a pay phone, under the impression he was speaking to álvaro. He knows you killed him.
Lucas closed his eyes. His response and emotion were evident. He covered his face with his hands.
Manuel stayed on the attack. “That’s right, Lucas, your married, gay buddy hung out with whores. He even had a favorite hooker. What do you think of that? Still want to stand up for him? You want to look me in the face and tell me he never lied?” He was shouting now. Tears of indignation erupted from his eyes and he trembled in fury.
Manuel turned his back on the priest and took a couple of angry steps. He didn’t want to let the man see him cry.
Lucas dropped his hands and opened his eyes. He was devastated. “I didn’t know,” he whispered.
“Doesn’t matter,” Manuel responded bitterly. “If you had, you wouldn’t have told me. Right?”
“Manuel,” Lucas said in a conciliatory tone, coming up behind him, “what I do know is that the álvaro I knew was an honorable man. Perhaps he had a reason for taking whatever measures he did.”
Manuel stubbornly rejected that objection, his eyes fixed on a blurry vision of the distant valley.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I understand what you’re going through. Numb indifference and false calm, depression, insomnia or constant sluggishness, and sometimes anger or rage—those are normal feelings.” He placed a hand on Manuel’s shoulder.
Manuel shrugged it off in a fury and turned to face him. “Don’t you go breaking my balls with your cheap psychology. I don’t need some exorcist priest with a degree in theology to tell me it’s perfectly normal for me to be angry. Of course I’m angry. I’m so damn angry that I’m surprised I don’t just explode. But more than that I’m frustrated and disgusted by all the lies. How am I not going to be in a rage when at every step of the way I get new evidence that the man I thought I knew was a complete stranger to me? A fabulously successful businessman from a family of aristocrats, Catholics devoted to the church and the whorehouse! How can I help being furious when every day I wake up with the feeling I’ll have to face another stinking pile of his shit?” He spewed out indignation. “With the added provocation that since he’s not here to explain, I’m the one who has to bear the weight of his fucking shame. And to top it off, he has the gall to will it all to me like a grand lottery prize or compensation for the insult. ‘Here you go, you’re heir to all my fucking crap.’”
His bitter, resentful harangue surged forth from his innermost being like boiling bile vomited up from his deepest gut. He’d lost control. His mind fought with itself in the knowledge he’d been blinded by black wrath. He’d never felt such searing emotion; it overwhelmed him and yet strengthened him at the same time. He subsided into silence, shaking, his jaw rigid and clenched to the point of pain.
He’d lost it. He needed to get away. No hope remained. “Do you really want to help me, priest?”
“In whatever way you wish,” Lucas replied with a mildness in total contrast to Manuel’s anger.
“No more lies. Not even by omission.” Manuel walked away.
“I give you my word,” Lucas said behind him.
Manuel left the grounds of the shrine without looking back. He felt Lucas’s eyes on him until he turned the corner of the wall at the front stairs. He forced himself to slow his pace as he descended toward the shade under the thick crowns of the plane trees. You can’t go on like this, his inner voice told him all the while. The serene authority of those towering trees calmed his spirit. He plunged again into the unending shade of the trees like a wounded animal seeking refuge.
Trying to regain his calm, he took a deep breath of the air that was rapidly shedding the invisible humidity of the preceding day’s rain. It smelled now of hay and wood. He knew his inner voice was right; he was destroying himself with every step. He felt the ache in every muscle of his body, the physical toll taken by his outburst, and the mental damage inflicted by these struggles. Mei, Nogueira, Lucas . . .
Exhausted, he looked around in search of help. The faded tinplate advertisement with rusted edges visible across the street beyond the parking lot presented itself, both tempting and incongruous. Surrendering to his fatigue, he allowed its quaint appeal to influence him. He turned his steps in that direction, hoping for the respite he so desperately needed.
There were two men behind the bar. The older one was cutting bread and cheese on a board while carrying on a lively conversation in Gallego dialect with the locals Manuel had seen entering earlier. Two other men had joined them. All were drinking wine in bright white porcelain cups. The bar ran the entire width of the narrow, cramped room. A table and three chairs stood on either side of the door in a public space that measured not much more than ten feet by twenty feet. A small handwritten card tacked to the only other door identified it as the access to a toilet. Behind the bar a door stood open to a kitchen in the house behind. A woman of the same advanced age as the bartender was busy there. The domain over which she reigned featured a massive wooden table and delicate old-fashioned curtains partially drawn across the kitchen window. No bottles were on display behind the bar. A set of shelves more fit for a garage held white cups and pitchers. The walls of the bar were decorated only with small family photos in unmatched frames, a lugubrious funeral home calendar, and a chalkboard proclaiming Soup Today. The aroma from the kitchen confirmed that promise. The contrast between the spick-and-span kitchen and the casual, half-finished installations of the bar showed that husband and wife had staked out their respective territories.
He jutted his chin toward the cups of wine the men were drinking. “Okay to have some wine?”