In Evil Hour by Gabriel García Márquez, Gregory Rabassa Page A

put myself out of the range of anything because I do everything in broad daylight. The proof of it is that nobody has wasted his time putting any lampoon on my door, and on the other hand, all the decent people on the square have theirs all papered up.”
    “You’re being foolish,” the priest said, “but God has given you the good fortune of getting a man who respects you. For that very reason you ought to get married and legalize your home.”
    “I don’t understand those things,” she said, “but in any case, just the way I am I’ve got a place to sleep and I’ve got plenty to eat.”
    “What if he abandons you?”
    She bit her lip. She smiled enigmatically as she answered:
    “He won’t abandon me, Father. I know why I can tell you that.”
    Nor did Father Ángel consider himself defeated that time. He recommended that at least she come to mass. She replied that she would, “one of these days,” and the priest
continued his walk, waiting for the time to meet with the mayor. One of the Syrians called his attention to the good weather, but he didn’t pay any heed. He was interested in the details of the circus that was unloading its anxious wild animals in the bright afternoon. He stayed there until four o’clock.
    The mayor was taking leave of the dentist when he saw Father Ángel approaching. “Right on the dot,” he said, and shook hands. “Right on the dot, even when it’s not raining.” Set to climb the steep stairs of the barracks, Father Ángel replied:
    “And even if the world is coming to an end.”
    Two minutes later he was let into César Montero’s room.
    While the confession was going on the mayor sat in the hall. He thought about the circus, of a woman hanging onto a bit by her teeth, twenty feet in the air, and a man in a blue uniform trimmed with gold beating on a snare drum. Half an hour later Father Ángel left César Montero’s room.
    “All set?” the mayor asked.
    “You people are committing a crime,” he said. “That man hasn’t eaten for five days. Only his constitution has allowed him to survive.”
    “That’s what he wants,” the mayor said tranquilly.
    “That’s not true,” the priest said, putting a serene energy into his voice. “You gave orders that he wasn’t to be fed.”
    The mayor pointed at him.
    “Be careful, Father. You’re violating the secrets of the confessional.”
    “That’s not part of his confession,” the priest said.
    The mayor leaped to his feet. “Don’t get all worked up,” he said, laughing suddenly. “If it worries you so much, we’ll fix it up right now.” He called a policeman over and gave him an order to have them send some food from the hotel
for César Montero. “Have them send over a whole chicken, nice and fat, with a dish of potatoes and a bowl of salad,” he said, and added, addressing the priest:
    “Everything charged to the town government, Father. So you can see how things have changed.”
    Father Ángel lowered his head.
    “When are you sending him off?”
    “The launches leave tomorrow,” the mayor said. “If he listens to reason tonight, he’ll go tomorrow. He just has to realize that I’m trying to do him a favor.”
    “A slightly expensive favor,” the priest said.
    “There’s no favor that doesn’t cost the person who gets it some money,” the mayor said. He fixed his eyes on Father Ángel’s clear blue eyes and added:
    “I hope you’ve made him understand all those things.”
    Father Ángel didn’t answer. He went down the stairs and said goodbye from the landing with a dull snort. Then the mayor crossed the hall and went into César Montero’s room without knocking.
    It was a simple room: a wash basin and an iron bed. César Montero, unshaven, dressed in the same clothing that he had been wearing when he left his house on Tuesday of the week before, was lying on the bed. He didn’t even move his eyes when he heard the mayor. “Now that you’ve settled your accounts with God,” the