Mario Ortu?o was in his late fifties. His fierce eyes were distinctly unfriendly as he studied them from behind the bar he owned on Calle Real de Corme. Despite their protests, his wife, Susa, had insisted on accompanying the visitors there from their house at the end of the same street.
As soon as they stepped inside, she went to her husband. “Mario, look, these gentlemen have come all the way from Chantada to talk to you. Come out here and I’ll take your place behind the bar.” She stooped and slipped through the low access to the other side the bar.
He didn’t react. He stared at them, long enough to make Manuel think he was going to stay where he was.
Ortu?o turned to his wife. “Do us a favor, Susa, and fix some coffee.” He bent low and came out through the same passage.
He pointed to the table farthest in the back and followed them there. “I should have guessed that yesterday’s visit wouldn’t be the end of it.” He nodded toward Lucas. “You’re a priest; no need to tell me.” He stared suspiciously at the others. “But as for you two . . .”
Nogueira waited until they were all seated before making introductions. “Father Lucas was a student at the seminary, and you may remember him as a child from back then.” His tone was brisk and entirely professional. “Manuel and I are investigating the events at San Xoan seminary on the night of December 13, 1984.”
Ortu?o’s puzzled expression while peering at Lucas turned into one of surprise. His eyebrows rose; he appeared impressed. He turned to Manuel, who said, “We know you were on duty at the infirmary and you left the order the following day, stating you’d had a crisis of faith.”
Manuel looked toward the bar, wondering if Brother Julián had guessed right and the lovely Susa had been the reason for that departure thirty-two years before.
Ortu?o read his thoughts. His eyes flashed. “I married Susa almost ten years later. She had nothing to do with my decision to leave the monastery, the order, or any of all that.”
Nogueira spoke up. “So the prior came to see you yesterday?”
“You might as well say he came for two entirely contradictory reasons: first, to refresh my memory; and second, to persuade me to forget everything.” It was clear from his tone that he’d found both requests offensive.
Manuel, seated beside him, watched him closely. It wasn’t yet clear whether the man was going to cooperate. But it was clear he was profoundly angry.
Nogueira was equally belligerent. “And which did you choose?”
“I made my decision back then, and it meant I had to leave the monastery. You think anything has changed my mind? Only Alzheimer’s could ever wipe away the memory of what I saw that night.”
Manuel swiped through the photos in his cell phone, located the photo, and put the phone on the table.
Ortu?o picked it up, checked the heading showing the family name, and saw his own signature at the bottom. “Those bastards!” he exclaimed. “It shouldn’t surprise me though. I assumed they were going to burn it. But I suppose they couldn’t destroy a whole year’s worth of admission notes. That would have been too obvious. We were halfway through December and the pages were numbered, so they couldn’t just rip one out. And that’s just like them; the Church has been as arrogant as the Nazis and the Fascists. It’s never bothered to cover its tracks. When you’re convinced you’re eternal, there’s no need to destroy documents. That bunch of senile hoarders never bothered to remove the evidence of their crimes.”
Manuel recalled his first impression of the document. It had indeed manifested the arrogance and conceit typical of those who consider themselves above it all: the assumptions they were invulnerable, all-powerful, and therefore invincible. Like one of Franco’s Fascist bureaucrats, some anonymous clergyman had applied thick glistening smears of black ink to blot out the evidence of atrocity.
“We need to know what was on those blacked-out lines. I have to know what really happened that night.” Manuel heard the naked desperation of his own declaration.
Ortu?o sat silently studying the screen and appeared not to have noticed his anguish. Susa brought them coffee. Ortu?o poured sugar into his, stirred it slightly, and drank it straight off, even though Manuel found the coffee in his own cup still boiling hot.
“Brother Matías pulled me out of bed at half past three in the morning and said there was no time for me to get dressed. So I was still in my pajamas when he hustled me down the hall to Brother Verdaguer’s cell. It was obvious something terrible had happened. Verdaguer was unconscious on the floor, red in the face and dripping with sweat, wearing only a shift. The prior was kneeling there trying to revive him, but nothing worked. A leather belt was wrapped around Verdaguer’s neck and trailed across the floor. The belt from a school uniform. I saw the older boy first. Standing there stiff and straight like a soldier at attention, watching us with huge frightened eyes. The other child was on the floor curled up against the wall, hands covering his face, and crying his eyes out.”
“There was a second boy in the room?” Manuel asked in astonishment.
Ortu?o nodded.
“Mu?iz de Dávila,” interjected Nogueira. “That’s why you didn’t give a first name. There were two of them, the brothers. álvaro and Santiago?”
Ortu?o nodded. He looked miserable. “The other brother, the little one . . . because of the way he was huddling against the wall, I could see blood on his pajama bottoms. He’d pulled them up in such a hurry that the top wasn’t tucked in, but even that additional covering wasn’t enough to hide the blood. For a moment I couldn’t move. My memory of that moment is particularly vivid because it seemed to last forever. Me staring at the older boy’s horrified expression, the little one twisting and turning on the floor with his face turned to the wall, Verdaguer’s dead body stretched out on the floor naked from the waist down.
“I didn’t realize Brother Matías had disappeared until he came back into the room with a thick rope. The prior hadn’t noticed me. He loosened the belt, undid it, picked it up, got up, and threw it on the bed. He saw me when he grabbed the rope from Matías. ‘Take the boys to the infirmary, put them to bed, and make sure they don’t talk to anyone. And don’t you talk to them either. They’re both in shock and they’re delirious. The poor youngsters found Brother Verdaguer dead.’ He pointed to the beam overhead. ‘He hanged himself.’
“I tried to protest. ‘You are to say nothing. Obey me and do what I say.’ He stooped over the body and put the noose around Verdaguer’s neck. Brother Matías had already knotted it. ‘Brother Verdaguer has been in terrible pain for a long time. From cancer. The suffering drove him mad, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. The boys heard his body hit the floor when the rope came loose. That’s what happened. Right, boys?’
“The older boy said nothing.”
“álvaro.” Manuel’s voice was barely audible.
Ortu?o looked at him, moved to hear that name. “Yes. álvaro.” That name lingered in his mouth. “He said nothing, shook his head, stood there staring at the body. I suddenly saw that he wasn’t in pajamas, even though it was terribly late. He was in his school uniform, but without a belt. But the little boy did speak up. I heard him clearly. He lay there sobbing against the wall and wouldn’t look at us, but he managed to say, ‘Yes, that’s what happened.’
“His little bare feet were covered in blood.”
“Bastard sons of bitches!” muttered Nogueira. Lucas heard the anguish in the policeman’s voice and gave him a commiserating look.
Manuel read the lieutenant’s mind and understood what was haunting him.