Silence is Golden

35. Pretty Priestly

My eyes flicked around the clearing. A saw, hammer, a pair of trousers and a shirt were hanging from a line – whoever was living here, he was clearly not a native. But what would a European or even a Brazilian be doing living out here?

Karim seemed to have similar thoughts. 'What is this place?' he rumble-whispered. 'What kind of man would come to live out here, all alone?'

'A madman,' Mr Ambrose told us, succinctly.

'Mad?' I stared at him. 'And you didn't think to mention this before we came here?'

'No. Let's see if he is at home.'

Mr Ambrose marched forward, seeming not the least bit disturbed by the continued metallic noises from inside the cabin.

'Father?' he called.

My eyes almost bugged out of my sockets.

'His father lives here?' I hissed to Karim, who seemed to be having equal difficulties with coming to grips with the situation. 'And he's off his rocker?'

But my theory was crushed a moment later when the curtain in the cabin's doorway was swept aside and out stepped a man in a black robe, holding a rusty goblet in his hand. The man's wide, blinking eyes fell on Mr Ambrose.

'Oh meu deus! Visitors? And English ones to boot! Now, this is a surprise. You must excuse me, Senhores, I was scraping the rust of the chalice.' He raised the goblet. 'I am afraid I did not hear you approach.'

I stared at the man. It took a few moments to sink in, but then I finally realised: that black robe he was wearing wasn't a robe. It was a cassock. The man was a priest. A young, wide-eyed, beardless little scrap of a priest with half a nervous smile on his face and a receding hairline, although he couldn't have been older than twenty-five. If anyone had wanted to capture the perfect platonic idea of the word 'harmless', the incarnation of harmlessness so to speak, this was what it would look like.

'That is the mysterious 'he'?' I whispered, gesturing at the little bald man. 'He is supposed to be dangerous? He doesn't look as if he could squash a mosquito!'

Karim shrugged. 'I do not know the Sahib's business. I do not question the Sahib.'

'No, of course you don't.'

But I was going to do a hell of a lot of questioning!

The priest was smiling at Mr Ambrose now. Somehow, despite being faced by my employer's cold eyes, he seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that having visitors was a good thing. But that misapprehension wouldn't last long. It was time to step in, both to save the poor priest from getting squashed, and to find out what the hell was going on here.

'Excuse me,' I began, stepping out of the shadow of the trees and curtsying to the priest. 'I know it is very impolite of us to come unannounced to your, um...home like this, but–'

I didn't get any farther.

'Santa Maria!' The priest stumbled back, staring at me, eyes wide. He raised a shaking finger to point. 'La puta de Babilonia!'

I leaned over to Mr Ambrose. 'What did he say?'

'You don't want to know.'

Slowly, his eyes fixed on me one moment, then flickering away the next, the priest sank to his knees.

'Pai nosso, que estais no céu

Santificado seja o Vosso nome...'

I leaned closer to Mr Ambrose. 'Is that how priests normally greet visitors in Brazil?'