Free The Seville Communion by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page A

haven't requested anything. Rome's far away, and this is my church."
    "Your church."
    "Yes."
    Quart counted silently to five. He could feel Gris Marsala watching them expectantly.
    "This is not your church, Father Ferro. It's our church," he said.
    For a moment, the old priest stared in silence at the shreds of envelope on the floor. Then he turned his scarred face without looking at any precise point, and Quart saw a strange expression, between a smile and a frown.
    "You're wrong there too," Father Ferro said at last, as if that settled it. Then he walked off down the nave towards the vestry.
    Quart forced himself to make one last attempt at conciliation. "I'm here to help you, Father," he said to Father Ferro!s receding back. He'd made the effort, now he could let things take their course. He'd done his bit for humility and priestly solidarity. Father Ferro didn't have the monopoly on anger.
    Father Ferro had paused to genuflect before the high altar, and Quart heard him laugh briefly and unpleasantly. "Help me? How could somebody like you help me?" He turned to face Quart, and his voice echoed around the nave. "I know your type . . . What this church needs is a different kind of help, and you haven't brought any of it in those elegant pockets of yours. So leave now. I have a baptism in twenty minutes."
    Gris Marsala walked with Quart to the door. He had to summon all his self-control to conceal his dislike of the old priest. He only half-listened to her attempts to make excuses for Father Ferro. He was under a lot of pressure, she said. Politicians, bankers, the archbishop, they were all circling like vultures. If it hadn't been for Father Ferro, the church would have been demolished long ago.
    "Thanks to him, they may end up pulling it down anyway. With him inside," said Quart, venting his ill-feeling.
    "Please don't say that."
    She was right. Once more in control, Quart reproached himself. He inhaled the scent of orange blossom as they came outside. A builder was busying himself next to the cement mixer. Quart glanced absently in his direction as they walked through the orange trees in the square.
    "I don't understand his attitude," he said. "I'm on his side. The Church is on his side."
    Gris Marsala looked sceptical. "And which Church might that be? The Church of Rome? Or the archbishop of Seville? Or you yourself?"
    She shook her head. "No. He's right. Nobody's on his side, and he knows it."
    "He seems to be trying to make things more difficult for himself."
    "They're difficult enough already. He's in open opposition to the archbishop. And the mayor is threatening libel action - he thinks Father Priamo insulted him a couple of weeks ago during the homily in the Sunday service."
    Quart stopped, interested. Monsignor Spada's report hadn't mentioned anything about this.
    "What did he call him?"
    She smiled wryly. "He said he was an unscrupulous and corrupt politician and a vile speculator." She looked at Quart to see his reaction. "If I remember correctly."
    "Is that the kind of thing he usually says in his sermons?"
    "Only when he gets really mad." Gris Marsala became thoughtful. "I suppose lately it's happened rather often. He talks about the merchants in the temple, that sort of thing."
    "The merchants," repeated Quart.
    "Yes. Among others."
    "Not bad," said Quart. "It would seem our Father Ferro is an expert at making friends."
    "He does have friends," she protested. She kicked a bottle top and watched it spin away. "And he has parishioners. Good people who come here to pray and who need him. You shouldn't judge him by what you've just seen."
    This sudden warmth made her seem younger. Quart shook his head, embarrassed. "I'm not here to pass judgement." He turned to look at the belfry, not wanting to meet her eye. "It must be others who are doing that."
    "Of course." She stopped in front of him, her hands in her pockets. He didn't like the way she was watching him. "You're the type who writes his report and then washes