In Flames by Richard Hilary Weber Page B

the gallery, wiping his eyes, and I felt the sack of stones pressing down on my body, and I hated myself for every ounce of this new burden.
    Otherwise the gallery opening ended in success, at least a dozen
San Iñigo Beach Beauties
sold, and much rum consumed. A shower of affectionate kisses and hugs fell on me from Elaine. “Later,” she whispered.
    Before closing, I retreated to the gallery office and sat staring at my cell phone, confused and irresolute, an inner conflict I hadn’t anticipated when I signed the gallery papers.
Dan Shedrick, cultural consultant
,
le gallerist
…I attached the smartphone to my laptop. What exactly had I sent, the act was irrevocable, disgraced priest Cardenio Morena was right about that part. I pressed a hand to my forehead, perspiration seeping between my fingers, and despite the heat, I shivered.
Was it fever?
…so many mosquitoes in San Iñigo. I felt my temperature rising, sensing the brink of a life perhaps altered permanently. There had to be some excuse I could create to stop the padre’s pathetic details from circulating, or at least discredit the worthlessly sad information I’d shoveled into the insatiable great maw of surveillance. I failed to realize this was precisely the sort of personal data they treasured, blackmail simply another tool of tradecraft. I was never an effective liar or much of a smooth talker, and so I emailed a dashed-off written report to Townsley, including a confession of impulsiveness, overeagerness to oblige, a lack of prudence. I revealed myself as the fool I was.
    But Padre Cardenio was wrong about one thing. With the computer dictionary I had enough Spanish to discover heart-wrenching explanation, an account of how a desperate wife expressed her impossible love for a priest. And after I sent my excuses to Townsley, as I scrolled through the phone file of letters from the wife in Cuba, I translated…
My dearest Cardenio, I’m growing old, all alone. I’m not a good person. You can’t imagine how easy it is for someone like me to commit the unpardonable sin of despair. But I think of Fidelita, and how well she’s doing in school, and I think how you and I made her together, so there was once good in both of us, and there can be good again. Pray for me, dearest Cardenio, remember us in your daily Mass, and I ask Fidelita to pray for you, too. Know that I love you both more than my own life.
…
I nursed no doubts about the authenticity of this distressing letter, it wasn’t in a cryptic code, a secret message to a García in the mountains, a notice of weapons dropped on a northern beach, a battle order for rebellion. It was the real-life plight of a single mother in Cuba who fell in love with a Catholic priest, a man who might never see her again or know their child, yet a man who loved them both no less, and maybe even all the more for this cruel separation. With every sentence I read, I felt myself shrinking.
Was sentiment corrupting me?
…Always a danger, Reg warned me against sentiment, worse than bribery, sentiment was stronger because feelings had no set price in cash, you couldn’t simply buy feelings. Above a certain number of dollars, a potential asset open to bribery could be relied upon to turn and, for the right amount, the promising prospect became your willing servant. But sentiment could bloom in a heart simply at the mention of a name, a lost picture seen again, a fragrance recalled. Sentiment didn’t cost a dime. Sentiment was cheap and unpredictable. Sentiment was final. I’d obeyed an order, and the results of my first little coup lay secure in a U.S. government server,
eternamente
. Not like the old days, when paper could be shredded, scraps devoured in flame, evidence vanished, ashes ground out of existence, no surprises found or suspicions confirmed, only a blank slate. Cell phones, emails, these were all traps.
    “Hello, Reg…” I spoke to his voicemail, my tone guarded, pitch subdued, guilt and pity clouding