“Uh-huh,” Nogueira responded. He took another long look at the painting he’d seen when they entered the office. “I see you still have the portrait of the old marquis.”
The prior seemed taken aback by that comment but recovered quickly. “He was a great benefactor of this institution, and his family continues the tradition.”
“Oh, really?” Nogueira pretended this was news to him.
“All the buildings stand on his land.”
Nogueira changed the subject and watched for a reaction. “His son recently died, as you know.”
The prior looked down for a moment. “Oh yes! A terrible thing.”
“I believe he attended school here as a boy.”
“Yes, and so did all his brothers. Though he wasn’t with us for long.”
Nogueira got up as if to leave and stepped away to give the prior some breathing room. Then he turned and eyed the man. “Was álvaro Mu?iz de Dávila here last Saturday?”
The prior looked as if he were about to have a heart attack. “Saturday . . . No, no, he wasn’t . . .”
“But he telephoned.”
“No.”
“His phone records confirm it.”
The prior pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, indeed you’re right, I’d forgotten. He did call, but it was a very brief conversation.”
Nogueira stood like a statue, watching the man; he knew the prior felt sufficiently compromised already to provide an explanation without being asked.
“He wanted to be heard in confession,” was the explanation. “I suggested a couple of possible times, but they didn’t suit him. So we put it off.”
Nogueira didn’t say anything. He opened the door with arrogant slowness and exited at glacial speed. He even turned to look back, to provoke the prior even more. His farewell was casual. “No need to see me out.”
He went out the main door of the building, inhaled the heavy humid air, and lit a cigarette.
A lay brother was strolling along the flagstone walk with his hands behind his back. He came up to the visitor with a smile. “I had that same vice for many years, but I quit many years ago. Food has tasted much better to me ever since.”
“I should do the same,” the officer said, falling into step as they went toward the gate. “But it’s so difficult.”
“Do as I do: pray for strength. God will assist you.”
They walked past the open door of the garage where several cars were parked. Nogueira looked inside. “And you believe God pays attention to such things?”
“God pays attention to everything, great and small.” The brother’s cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me.” He put it to his ear.
Nogueira gave him a little wave of acknowledgment and leaned into the garage. Inside were a tractor, a little motorbike, a 1999 SEAT Córdoba sedan, and a small white pickup with a dented front fender. He turned to speak to the brother and saw that the man’s expression had changed. Still on the phone, the brother was looking up toward a second-story window where the prior was visible watching them. The brother pressed his phone to his ear. The men gazed at one another. The brother ended the call, went to the garage, and pulled down the overhead door.
When he approached the officer his face was anything but friendly and his words were curt. “I’ll see you out.”
Manuel noted Nogueira’s reticence as soon as they began the phone conversation. He’d expected it. Lucas had warned him, and he’d had the same experience. Very often a confession engenders feelings of shame and regret. Not because of the confession itself but because of apprehension that one might have been too hasty or confided to the wrong person. If kept secret, a matter that weighs heavily on the conscience may give one a feeling of invulnerability. Manuel assumed that after the lieutenant got over his brief boozy moment of exultant friendliness, he regretted telling the truth. And probably especially regretted inviting Manuel to his home.
The writer sidestepped the issue and kept his tone casual. “How did it go at the seminary?”
He had an idea the policeman was glad to have a different subject. Nogueira answered in his usual noncommittal style. “Depends on how you look at it.”
Manuel smiled and let him talk.
“The prior didn’t want to tell me anything, but by denying so much he actually wound up revealing a great deal. He says he was angry with his nephew because the boy took money from his wallet, but I don’t believe him. He doesn’t seem too worried about the kid’s whereabouts, almost as if this has happened before. But the crunch came when I said álvaro came to see him. He denied both the visit and the phone call. When I told him we had proof, his memory improved remarkably. ‘Oh, yes, in fact he did telephone.’ He claims it was to make an appointment for confession but they couldn’t find a convenient time.”
“I don’t believe it. Lucas said álvaro didn’t go to confession, or at least not as a formal rite. I’ll ask him again.”
“There’s something else. On the way out I saw a white vehicle that had a dent in the front right quarter panel, which might correspond with the damage to álvaro’s car. They practically threw me out when I tried to take a look at it.”
“And now what do you suggest?”
“It might be a good idea for you to have a go, but you’ll need to be subtle. I have an idea. I’ll explain it to you after dinner and see what you think.”
At least the dinner was still on, though so far Nogueira seemed reluctant to discuss it.
“Manuel, that’s not the only reason I called. I want to warn you about something before you come to our house.”
Manuel tried to make light of it. “I hope you’re not going to tell me your wife’s a bad cook. I was counting on a fine home-cooked meal.”
Nogueira chuckled on the other end of the line. “No, nothing like that. My wife’s a good cook, an excellent one, in fact. But we’re going through a rocky spell right now, and you might notice some tension between the two of us.”
“I understand, don’t worry,” Manuel reassured him quickly, hoping to avoid some lengthy explanation.
“And there’s my older daughter. You know, she’s a teenager, almost seventeen, and lately we haven’t been seeing eye to eye. She failed her classes and has to repeat the school year. I haven’t seen her crack a book all summer. I scold her and my wife defends her. We’re always arguing.”
“I’ll see if I can help with that.”
“And then there’s the boy.”
“I thought you had only the two girls.”
“The boy’s Xulia’s boyfriend.” He sniffed in exasperation. “I suppose he’ll be there for dinner too. He’s always at the house. He’s arrogant. I can’t stand him, and I’m sure my wife doesn’t care too much for him either. But he’s always hanging around, scratching his balls and looking like an idiot.”
Manuel smiled as he pictured Nogueira’s exasperation. “I can imagine it.”
“Believe me, you have no idea.”
Manuel looked down at Café one last time before pressing the button. “Behave yourself now, little buddy.”
Café’s sidelong look suggested the dog was offended by the admonition.
The chimes died away within, and he heard a tumult and a shrill childish voice. A girl about eight years old opened the door. “Hi, I’m Antía. We were expecting you.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. Then the sight of little Café made her completely forget Manuel. “Oh, you’ve got a doggie! Can I pet him? Does he like kids?”
“Yes, you may,” he answered. “I suppose he does, I don’t know.” He was overwhelmed by her childish eagerness.
“It’s Manuel! He brought flowers and wine and a doggie!” she shouted down the entry hall.
Nogueira appeared in the door to the kitchen, relieved him of the wine, and brought him inside. A large table occupied the center of the room. By the stove stood a woman of about forty-five who was taking off her apron. She was extremely good-looking, with a dark complexion and long hair gathered in a ponytail. She held the apron behind her as she walked up smiling and offered him her hand.