The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [136]
“I’m not worthy, Little Blessed One,” the former slave said from the doorway, his voice choking. “Praised be the Blessed Jesus.”
“I’ve prepared an oath for the Catholic Guard,” the Little Blessed One answered softly. “More solemn than the one taken by those who come to be saved. The Lion has written it out.” He handed Big João a piece of paper, which disappeared in his huge dark hands. “You are to learn it by heart and have each man you choose swear to obey it. Then, when the Catholic Guard is formed, they will all take it publicly in the Temple and we’ll have a procession.”
Maria Quadrado, who had been standing in one corner of the room, came over to them with a cloth and a vessel full of water. “Sit down, João,” she said tenderly. “Have a drink first, and then let me wash you.”
The black obeyed her. He was so tall that even sitting down he was the same height as the Mother Superior of the Sacred Choir. He drank thirstily. He was perturbed and drenched with sweat, and he closed his eyes as Maria Quadrado passed the cool damp cloth over his face, his neck, his kinky locks sprinkled with gray.
Suddenly he reached out an arm and clung to her. “Help me, Mother Maria Quadrado,” he implored, transfixed with fear. “I’m not worthy of this honor.”
“You’ve been the slave of one man,” she said, caressing him as though he were a child. “Will you not accept being the slave of the Blessed Jesus? He will help you, Big João.”
“I swear that I have not been a republican, that I do not accept the expulsion of the Emperor or his replacement by the Antichrist,” the Little Blessed One recited with intense devotion. “That I do not accept civil marriage or the separation of Church and State or the metric system. That I will not answer the census questions. That I will never again steal or smoke or drink or make wagers or fornicate out of vice. And that I will give my life for my religion and the Blessed Jesus.”
“I’ll learn it, Little Blessed One,” Big João stammered.
At that moment the Counselor arrived, preceded by a great din. Once the tall, dark, gaunt figure entered the Sanctuary, followed by the little lamb, the Lion of Natuba—a vague four-footed shape that seemed to be leaping about—and the Sacred Choir, the impatient clamor of voices continued on the other side of the door. The little lamb came over and licked Maria Quadrado’s ankles. The women of the Choir squatted down, their backs against the wall. The Counselor walked over to Big João, who was on his knees with his eyes fixed on the floor. He appeared to be trembling from head to foot; he had been with the Counselor for fifteen years now, and yet each time he was in his presence he still suddenly felt like a worthless creature, a worthless thing almost.
The Counselor took Big João’s two hands and obliged him to lift his head. The saint’s incandescent pupils stared into the depths of the ex-slave’s tear-filled eyes. “You are still suffering, Big João,” he said softly.
“I’m not worthy to watch over you,” the black sobbed. “Order me to do anything else you like. Kill me, if need be. I don’t want anything to happen to you through any fault of mine. Remember, Father, I’ve had the Dog in my flesh.”
“You will form the Catholic Guard,” the Counselor answered. “You will be in command of it. You have suffered a great deal, and you are suffering now. That is why you are worthy. The Father has said that the just man will wash his hands in the blood of the sinner. You are a just man now, Big João.”
He allowed him to kiss his hand and with an absent look in his eyes waited till the black had left off weeping. A moment later,