The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [349]
The Little Blessed One then begins to speak, in the solemn, deep voice in which he chants in the church and in processions. “We shall bear him to the Temple that he ordered built and we shall keep a death watch over him for three days and three nights, in order that every man and woman may adore him. And we shall bear him in procession amid all the houses, through all the streets of Belo Monte in order that his body may for the last time purify the city of the wickedness of the Can. And we shall bury him beneath the main altar of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and place on his tomb the wooden cross that he made with his own hands in the desert.”
He crosses himself devoutly and all the others do likewise, without taking their eyes off the pallet. The first sobs that the Little Blessed One hears are those of the Lion of Natuba; his entire little hunchbacked, asymmetrical body contorts as he weeps. The Little Blessed One kneels and the others follow suit; he can now hear others sobbing. But it is Father Joaquim’s voice, praying in Latin, that takes possession of the Sanctuary, and for a fair time drowns out the sounds from outside. As he prays, with joined hands, slowly coming to, recovering his hearing, his sight, his body, the earthly life that he seemed to have lost, the Little Blessed One feels that boundless despair that he has not felt since, as a youngster, he heard Father Moraes tell him that he could not be a priest because he had been born a bastard child. “Why are you abandoning us in these moments, Father?”
“What will we do without you, Father?” He remembers the wire that the Counselor placed around his waist, in Pombal, that he is still wearing, all rusted and twisted, become flesh of his flesh now, and he tells himself that it is a precious relic, as is everything else that the saint has touched, seen, or said during his stay on earth.
“We can’t do it, Little Blessed One,” Abbot João declares.
The Street Commander is kneeling next to him; his eyes are bloodshot and his voice filled with emotion. But he says, with authority: “We can’t take him to the Temple of the Blessed Jesus or bury him the way you want to. We can’t do that to people, Little Blessed One! Do you want to plunge a knife in their backs? Are you going to tell those who are fighting, even though they’ve no ammunition or food left, that the one they’re fighting for has died? Are you capable of such an act of cruelty? Wouldn’t that be worse than the Freemasons’ evil deeds?”
“He’s right, Little Blessed One,” Pajeú says. “We can’t tell them that he’s died. Not now, not at this point. Everything would fall to pieces, it would be chaos, people would go crazy. We must keep it a secret if we want them to go on fighting.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Big João says, and this is the voice that astonishes him most, for since when has this timid giant, whose every word must be dragged out of him by force, ever voluntarily opened his mouth to venture an opinion? “Won’t the dogs look for his remains with all the hatred in the world so as to desecrate them? Nobody must know where he is buried. Do you want the heretics to find his body, Little Blessed One?”
The Little Blessed One feels his teeth chatter, as though he were having an attack of fever. It is true, quite true; in his eagerness to render homage to his beloved master, to give him a wake and a burial worthy of his majesty, he has forgotten that the dogs are only a few steps away and that they would be bound to vent their fury on his remains like rapacious wolves. Yes, he understands now—it is as though the roof had opened and a blinding