Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [63]
“It’s true that we don’t swear to obey governments, parties, armies, and other visible institutions, all of which are stepdaughters of Satan,” he said quietly, “that we don’t pledge allegiance to any bit of colored cloth, that we refuse to wear uniforms, because we are not taken in by fripperies or disguises, and that we don’t accept skin grafts or blood transfusions, because science cannot undo what God hath wrought. But none of this means that we do not fulfill our obligations. Your Honor, I place myself at your entire disposal and would pay you all due respect even if I had good reason not to.”
He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though to make the secretary’s task easier as the latter provided a musical accompaniment for his peroration on his typewriter. The judge thanked him for his kind words, informed him that he respected every person’s ideas and beliefs, particularly those having to do with religion, and permitted himself to remind him that he was not under arrest for those he professed but because he had been charged with having assaulted and raped a minor.
An otherworldly smile crossed the face of the young man from Moquegua. “A witness is one who testifies, who offers testimony, who attests,” he said, revealing his familiarity with semantics and looking the magistrate straight in the eye. “One who, knowing that God exists, makes His existence known, one who, knowing the truth, makes the truth known. I am a Witness and you two may become Witnesses as well with a little effort of will.”
“Thank you, perhaps some other time,” the judge interrupted him, picking up the thick dossier and setting it before him as though it were a dish of food. “Time is pressing and this is what is important. Let’s get straight to the point. And first off, a word of advice: I strongly urge you, in your own best interests, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
The accused, moved by some secret memory, heaved a deep sigh. “The truth, the truth,” he murmured sadly. “Which truth, Your Honor? Isn’t what you’re after, rather, the product of those calumnies, those fabrications, those Vatican tricks that, by taking advantage of the naïveté of the masses, they try to foist off on us as the truth? With all due modesty, I believe I know the truth, but, with no offense meant, may I ask you: do you know it?”
“It’s my intention to discover it,” the judge replied shrewdly, tapping the folder.
“The truth about the fiction of the cross, the farce of Peter and the rock, the miters, the papal immortality-of-the-soul hoax?” Gumercindo Tello asked sarcastically.
“The truth about the crime you committed by abusing the minor Sarita Huanca Salaverría,” the magistrate counterattacked. “The truth about your assaulting an innocent thirteen-year-old girl. The truth about the beating you gave her, the threats that terrified her, the rape that humiliated her and perhaps left her pregnant.” The magistrate’s voice had risen, accusing, Olympian.
Gumercindo Tello looked at him gravely, as rigid as the chair he was perched on, showing no sign of either shame or repentance. But finally he nodded like a docile cow. “I am prepared for any test to which Jehovah wishes to put me,” he assured him.
“It’s not a question of God but of you,” the magistrate said, bringing him back down to earth. “Of your appetites, your lust, your libido.”
“It’s always a question of God, Your Honor,” Gumercindo Tello stubbornly insisted. “Never of you, or me, or anyone else. Of Him, and Him only.”
“Be responsible,” the judge exhorted him. “Keep to the facts. Admit your guilt and Justice may take your confession into account. Act like the religious man you’re trying to make me believe you are.”
“I repent of all my sins, which are infinite,” Gumercindo Tello said gloomily. “I know very