Of Love and Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page A

and—except for his father—that decision surprised no one, because from the time he was a boy he had had a Jesuit’s outlook on life and had spent his childhood dressing up in bath towels, pretending to be a bishop and saying mass. There was no explanation for his inclinations; in their house no one openly practiced religion, and his mother, although she considered herself a Catholic, had not gone to mass since she was married. Professor Leal’s consolation in the face of his son’s decision was that his son wore a workman’s clothes instead of a cassock, lived in a proletarian barrio instead of a monastery, and was closer to the tragic alarms of this world than to the mysteries of the Eucharist. José was wearing a pair of pants passed down from his older brother, a faded shirt, and a sweater of thick wool knitted by his mother. His hands were calloused from the plumber’s tools with which he defrayed the expenses of his existence.
    â€œI’m organizing some little courses on Christianity,” he said in a sly voice.
    â€œSo I’ve heard,” replied Francisco, who had every reason to know, since they worked together at a free clinic in the parish and he was well informed about his brother’s activities.
    â€œOh, José, don’t go getting mixed up in politics,” Hilda pleaded. “Do you want to go to jail again, son?”
    The last worry in José Leal’s mind was for his own safety. He hardly had enough energy to keep count of the misfortunes of others. He carried on his back an inexhaustible burden of sorrow and injustice and he often reproached the Creator for so severely putting his faith to the test: if divine love existed, so much human suffering seemed a mockery. In the arduous labor of feeding the poor and sheltering the homeless, he had lost the ecclesiastical polish acquired in the Seminary, and had been irreversibly transformed into a rugged man divided between impatience and piety. His father favored him above all his sons, for he could see the similarity between his own philosophical ideals and what he qualified as his son’s barbaric Christian superstition. That assuaged his sorrow; he had come to forgive José’s religious vocation, ceasing to grieve at night with his head buried in the pillow, so as not to worry his wife as he vented his shame at having a priest in the family.
    â€œIn fact, brother, I came looking for you,” said José, turning to Francisco. “I want you to come over to see a young girl. She was raped a week ago, and since then hasn’t spoken a word. Use your knowledge of psychology because God can’t cope with such problems.”
    â€œI can’t come today. I have to go with Irene to take some photographs, but I’ll come see the girl tomorrow. How old is she?”
    â€œTen.”
    â€œMy God!” Hilda exclaimed. “What monster could do that to a poor innocent child?”
    â€œHer father.”
    â€œThat’s enough, please!” commanded Professor Leal. “Do you want to make your mother ill?”
    Francisco poured tea for everyone, and for a while they were all silent, searching for a topic of conversation to ease Hilda’s anguish. The only woman in a family of men, she had succeeded in imposing her sweetness and discretion. They could not remember ever having seen her irritated. In her presence there were no boyish wrangles, no off-color jokes, no vulgarity. When he was a child, Francisco had suffered from the fear that his mother, worn down by their harsh life, might be imperceptibly disappearing, and would one day dissipate like the mist. Then he would run to her side, hug her, cling to her clothing in a desperate attempt to retain her presence, her warmth, the smell of her apron, the sound of her voice. Much time had passed since then, but his tenderness for her was still his most unswerving emotion.
    After Javier married and José left for the