Free The Head of the Saint by Socorro Acioli

his heart.”
    “But I don’t think it was. She says she’s full of remorse, that if she could go back in time she wouldn’t do what she did, that her life would be better with Fernando, that she should have gone with him.”
    “I’ll ask my dad if he knows anything. You think she poisoned the Portuguese man’s fruit juice?”
    “Her husband was Portuguese?”
    “Yeah—and they say Madeinusa is as beautiful as she is because she’s the spitting image of her dad. But we’ll work all that out later. For now I want to know if you’ve got any plans to perform miracles for these women.”
    “I won’t be able to do what I did with Dr. Adriano for all of them. It was easy when I didn’t hear so many voices. Now it’s tough. I’ve got one who’s in love with a southerner from Caxias do Sul, and I don’t even know where that is—how am I supposed to sort that out?”
    “You just have to say the saint is going to help, but don’t make promises. Come up with some prayer or other for them, the sign of the cross on their forehead, whatever.”
    “I think our best way out would be giving them a time frame, saying it will only work after forty days. By then I will have gone.”
    Francisco’s expression changed to one of shock and sadness.
    “Gone?”
    “Wasn’t that the deal? My leg would get better, and I’d go. I’ve already stayed much longer than I planned. I came to look for my father, and I’ve realized that I’m never going to find him.”
    “But we’re friends. You could get yourself a house to live in, a long way from the head. Just come here to work, like going to the office. Your father must be dead; best forget about him.”
    “The only reason I haven’t left is because of the Singing Voice. I want to know who it belongs to.”
    “And what if she’s one of those women outside?”
    “She never prays, she only sings. She’s sweet, and peaceful. There’s no one like her in the world. She’s nothing like those marriage-crazy ones outside.”
    “You can’t know without checking. Can I announce that the consultations start tomorrow?”
    “Yes. But also say they’ll only last two minutes, because the saint gets a migraine if he works too hard.”
    “I’ll charge two
reais
per consultation. Do you reckon that’s a sin, Samuel? Do you reckon we should ask Father Zacarias?”
    Samuel sighed, resigned to going along with his friend’s plan. He knew Francisco needed the money. “I’m sure even God doesn’t know what a sin is anymore, let alone the priest.”

Samuel thought through how the consultations would work: he would receive each of the women inside the head, ask her to tell him the name of her intended—if there was one—and ask her to write the name on a piece of paper, which he would then rub on the right-hand side of the head. If the girl had no object for her affections, her own name would do, but in that case he would rub it on the left. The choice of sides was only to give an impression that there was some method to what he was doing, but it was no more than killing time. After rubbing the piece of paper, he would announce that the effects could take up to forty days. Within two minutes the consultation would be brought to a close. They would bring in between thirty and forty
reais
per hour, which wasn’t bad, not bad at all.
    They decided not to explain their scheme to Father Zacarias, who might ask questions and complicate everything. All they told him was that the saint had asked that all weddings be carried out in Candeia’s little church—the women were told this, too. That way the priest was happy, and if he knew anything more about their moneymaking plan he didn’t let on—dealing with the saint was the messenger’s job.
    The first three days of consultations were tiresome for Samuel, who had to repeat the same things over and over again, answering the women’s anxious questions, explaining that it might be a while before anything happened.
    With some of the