The power and the glory by Graham Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

spirit?"

"Coffee, father. We have nothing else."

"Some food."

"We have no food."

"Never mind."

The boy came out of the hut and watched them: everybody watched: it was like a bull-fight: the animal was tired and they awaited the next move. They were not hard-hearted: they were watching the rare spectacle of something worse off than themselves. He limped on towards the hut. Inside it was dark from the knees upwards: there was no flame on the floor, just a slow burning away. The place was half-filled by a stack of maize: rats rustled among the dry outer leaves. There was a bed made of earth with a straw mat on it, and two packing-cases made a table. The stranger lay down, and the old man closed the door on them both.

"Is it safe?"

"The boy will watch. He knows."

"Were you expecting me?"

"No, father. But it is five years since we have seen a priest … it was bound to happen one day."

The priest fell uneasily asleep, and the old man crouched on the floor, fanning the fire with his breath. Somebody tapped on the door and the priest jerked upright. "It is all right," the old man said. "Just your coffee, father." He brought it to him-grey maize coffee smoking in a tin mug, but the priest was too tired to drink. He lay on his side perfectly still: a rat watched him from the maize.

"The soldiers were here yesterday," the old man said. He blew on the fire: smoke poured up and filled the hut. The priest began to cough, and the rat moved quickly like the shadow of a hand into the stack.

"The boy, father, has not been baptized. The last priest who was here wanted two pesos. I had only one peso. Now I have only fifty centavos."

"Tomorrow," the priest said wearily. "Will you say Mass, father, in the morning?"

"Yes, yes."

"And Confession, father, will you hear our confessions?"

"Yes, but let me sleep first." He turned on his back and closed his eyes to keep out the smoke.

"We have no money, father, to give you. The other priest, Padre José..."

"Give me some clothes instead," he said impatiently.

"But we have only what we wear."

"Take mine in exchange."

The old man hummed dubiously to himself, glancing sideways at what the fire showed of the black torn cloth. "If I must, father," he said. He blew quietly at the fire for a few minutes. The priest's eyes closed again.

"After five years there is so much to confess."

The priest sat up quickly. "What was that?" he said.

"You were dreaming, father. The boy will warn us if the soldiers come. I was only saying-"

"Can't you let me sleep for five minutes?" He lay down again: somewhere, in one of the women's huts, someone was singing-"I went down to my field and there I found a rose."

The old man said softly: "It would be a pity if the soldiers came before we had time... such a burden on poor souls, father …" The priest shouldered himself upright against the wall and said furiously: "Very well. Begin. I will hear your confession." The rats scuffled in the maize. "Go on then," he said. "Don't waste time. Hurry. When did you last..." The old man knelt beside the fire, and across the clearing the woman sang: "I went down to my field and the rose was withered."

"Five years ago." He paused and blew at the fire. "It's hard to remember, father."

"Have you sinned against purity?"

The priest leant against the wall with his legs drawn up beneath him, and the rats accustomed to the voices moved again in the maize. The old man picked out his sins with difficulty, blowing at the fire. "Make a good act of contrition," the priest said, "and say-say-have you a rosary?-then say the Joyful Mysteries." His eyes closed, his lips and tongue stumbled over the Absolution, failed to finish... he sprang awake again.

"Can I bring the women?" the old man was saying. "It is five years..."

"Oh, let them come. Let them all come!" the priest cried angrily. "I am your servant." He put his hand over his eyes and began to weep. The old man opened the door: it was not completely dark outside under the