• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"That's right, Norberto," Adolfo interrupted. "I'm a man. One who barely has time for cockfighting, let alone whoring. So you see, brother, there's nothing to worry about."

Norberto stepped closer. "I'm looking in your eyes again now. And I believe there is something to worry about."

"It's my worry, not yours."

"That isn't true," Norberto said. "We're brothers. We share pain, we share secrets, we share love. We always have. I want you to talk to me, Dolfo. Please."

"About what? My activities? My beliefs? My dreams?"

"All of it. Sit down. Tell me."

"I don't have time," Adolfo said.

"Where your soul is concerned you must make the time."

Adolfo regarded his brother for a moment. "I see. And if I did have time would you be listening to me as a brother or as a priest?"

"As Norberto," the priest replied gently. "I can't separate who I am from what I am."

"Which means you would be my living conscience," Adolfo said.

"I fear that that position may be open," Norberto replied.

Adolfo looked at him a few seconds longer. Then he turned away. "You really want to know what I was doing tonight?"

"Yes. I do."

"Then I'll tell you," Adolfo said. "I'll tell you because if anything happens I want you to know why I have done what I've done." He turned back and spoke in a low voice lest the neighbors hear through the thin walls. "The Catalonian men on the boat that sank, Ramirez and the rest of them, planned and carried out the execution of an American diplomat in Madrid. In my pocket I have their taped conversation about the murder." The cassette rattled as he patted it through his sweater. "The tape is in effect a confession, Norberto. My commander, the General, was right about these men. They were the leaders of a group that is attempting to bankrupt our nation in order to take it over. They killed the diplomat to make sure that the United States does not become involved in their conquest of Spain."

"Politics do not interest me," Norberto said quietly, "you know that."

"Perhaps they should," Adolfo replied. "The only help that ever reaches the poor of this parish comes from God and that doesn't put food on the table. It isn't right."

"No, it isn't," the young priest agreed. "But 'Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.' "

"That's true in your profession, not mine," Adolfo said angrily.

He went to go but Norberto grasped his arm. He held it firmly. "I want you to tell me, Adolfo. What part did you have in the killing?"

"What part did I have?" Adolfo said quietly. "I did it," he blurted out. "I'm the one who destroyed the yacht."

Norberto recoiled as though he'd been slapped.

"Millions of our people would have suffered had those monsters lived," Adolfo said.

Norberto made the sign of the cross on his forehead. "But they were men, Adolfo. Not monsters."

"They were ruthless, unfeeling things," Adolfo snapped. He didn't expect his brother to understand what he had done. Norberto was a Jesuit, a member of the Society of Jesus. For over five hundred years the order's adherents had been trained to be soldiers of virtue, to strengthen the faith of Catholics and to preach the Gospel to non-Catholics.

"You are wrong." Norberto trembled as he squeezed Adolfo's arm even tighter. "These "things," as you call them, were people. People with immortal souls created by God."

"Then you should thank me, brother, for I have returned their immortal souls to God."

There were tears in the priest's eyes. "You take too much on yourself. Only God has the right to take a soul."

"I have to leave."

"And those millions you speak of," Norberto continued, "their suffering would only have been in this world. They would have known perfect happiness in the presence of God. But you-you risk damnation for eternity."

"Then pray for me, brother, for I intend to continue my work."

"No, Adolfo! You mustn't."

Adolfo gently pulled away his brother's fingers. He squeezed them lovingly before dropping them.

"At least let me hear your confession,"