The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [158]
“Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, and heard in answer: “Praised be He.” He was immediately aware of the peace that the Counselor created round about himself. Even the din outside became music here.
“I’m ashamed at having made you wait for me, Father,” he muttered. “More and more pilgrims keep pouring in, so many I can’t speak with them or remember their faces.”
“All of them have a right to salvation,” the Counselor said. “Rejoice for them.”
“My heart rejoices to see that there are more and more of them each day,” the Little Blessed One said. “It’s myself I’m angry at, because I can’t find the time to get to know them well.”
He sat down on the floor, between Abbot João and Big João, who were holding their carbines across their knees. Besides Antônio Vilanova, his brother Honório was there too, apparently just back from a journey, to judge from the dust he was covered with. Maria Quadrado handed him a glass of water and he drank it down slowly, savoring every drop. Enveloped in his dark purple tunic, the Counselor was sitting, very erect, on his pallet, and at his feet was the Lion of Natuba, his pencil and notebook in his hands, his huge head resting on the saint’s knees; one of the latter’s hands was buried in his coal-black, tangled hair. The women of the Choir were squatting on their heels along the wall, silent and motionless, and the little white lamb was sleeping. “He is the Counselor, the Master, the Comely One, the Beloved,” the Little Blessed One thought with fervor. “We are his children. We were nothing and he made us apostles.” He felt a rush of happiness: again the angel’s wing brushing him.
He realized that there was a difference of opinion between Abbot João and Antônio Vilanova. The latter was saying that he was opposed to burning Calumbi, as Abbot João wanted to do, that it would be Belo Monte and not the Evil One who would suffer the consequences if the Baron de Canabrava’s hacienda disappeared, since it was their best source of supplies. He spoke as though he were afraid of hurting someone’s feelings or of uttering such serious thoughts aloud, in so soft a voice that the Little Blessed One had to strain his ears to hear him. How unquestionably supernatural the Counselor’s aura was if a man like Antônio Vilanova was so diffident in his presence, he thought. In everyday life, the storekeeper was a force of nature, whose energy was overpowering and whose opinions were expressed with a conviction that was contagious. And that booming-voiced stentor, that tireless worker, that fountainhead of ideas, became as a little child before the Counselor. “He’s not distressed, though; he’s feeling the balm.” Antônio had told him so himself many times in the past, as they had walked and talked together after the counsels. Antônio wanted to know everything about the Counselor, the story of his wanderings, the teachings that he had spread, and the Little Blessed One enlightened him. He thought with nostalgia of those first days in Belo Monte, of the sense of freedom and openness to others that had been lost. He and the shopkeeper used to chat together every day, walking from one end of Canudos to the other, in the days when it was still small and not yet populated. Antônio Vilanova bared his heart to him, revealing how the Counselor had changed his life. “I was always upset, with my nerves constantly on edge and the sensation that my head was about to explode. Now, just knowing that he’s close at hand is enough to make me feel a serenity I’ve never felt before. It’s a balm, Little Blessed One.” But they could no longer have long talks together, for both of them were now enslaved