about two hundred yards away, where he left it in the shade.
When the truck was where he wanted it, he collapsed onto the bare earth with his arms flung out and his mouth hanging open, gulping hot air into his lungs. The way his heart was beating in his chest, it felt like a cat in a bag. He looked up at the fragments of sky visible through the sparse canopy of leaves.
Once, Brauer had been a very strong man. At the age of twenty, he would put a chain over his bare shoulders and tow a tractor, easily, just to amuse his friends.
Now he was three decades older, a mere shadow of the young Hercules who used to enjoy displaying his phenomenal strength.
Tapioca bent down over him.
‘Hey, boss. You okay?’
Brauer lifted an arm to reassure the kid, but still couldn’t say a word; he could barely gather enough strength to smile and give him a thumbs-up.
Tapioca laughed with relief and ran back to the service station to get some water.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Gringo saw his helper’s sandals raising dust, the boy running knock-kneed, awkwardly, as if he were still a child, not almost a man.
He looked up again at the sky, broken into pieces by the tree. His shirt was soaked, and he could feel the sweat gathering in his navel, then overflowing and running down either side of his belly. Little by little his breathing slowed, and his heart stopped jumping around in his rib cage, returning to its normal place within the frame of bones. His body was seized by the first spasm of a cough, which made him sit up suddenly and filled his mouth with phlegm. He spat it all out, as far as he could. Then he felt for a cigarette and lit it.
After walking around the park where he used to go as a child, the Reverend found a telephone booth to call Pastor Zack. It was a comfort to hear his voice. He was a good friend, and it had been almost three years since they had seen each other.
‘My dear friend, the Lord be praised,’ thundered Zack at the other end of the line.
Zack was a cheerful, ebullient man; it was always good to have him near.
‘The good Lord smiles when he hears you laugh,’ the Reverend always said to him, and Zack would erupt into one of his Cossack guffaws, the only relic of his drinking days, for the Pastor had known how to drink like the good Cossack he was. But he had left all that behind him, with the help of Christ. Sometimes he would look at his big, square hands, strong as a pair of power shovels. They were raising the beams of a church now, but those hands had once beaten women. When Zack remembered that, he would break down and cry like a child, letting his hands hang limp at his sides, not daring to lift them to his face, for fear their past might taint his remorse.
‘I’d cut them off if I could,’ he had once told the Reverend, ‘but they’d be poison, even for a dog.’
The Reverend had taken those hands in his and kissed them.
‘These hands are fit to wash the feet of Christ,’ he had said.
They spoke for a while on the telephone, exchanging their latest news. Pastor Zack and his wife, Ofelia, had a new child, their fourth: a boy named Jonás. But what the Pastor was really excited about was the completion of the church. Another beacon for Christ, deep in the forest, near Río Bermejito, in an indigenous community.
Zack chattered on without pause. Sitting on the little bench in the booth, the Reverend nodded and smiled, as if visible to his interlocutor. At one point, when the Pastor cried out and struck the table, the sound of it was so clear that Zack seemed to be right there beside him.
‘But of course,’ he said, ‘you have to come. It will be a great honour. My church, our church, won’t be properly finished until you step into the pulpit. When you start to preach, even the forest birds will be quiet. And I tell you, they never shut up here, blessed little creatures, even when they’re sleeping. I won’t let you say no. Ah, Reverend, my heart is pounding. You’ll come, won’t you? Say you will. Ofelia, Ofelia,’ called the pastor.
‘Yes, of course I’ll come, but I have to sort a few things out,’ stammered the Reverend.
‘The Lord be praised! What wonderful news! Ofelia, Pearson is coming to visit, isn’t that great?’ Zack burst out laughing. ‘Ofelia’s so happy she’s dancing; if only you could see her. She’s teaching the children here to sing; wait till you hear them, it’s such a sweet choir. Leni could sing too. You’ll bring her, won’t you? Ofelia, Leni’s coming too, bless her. Ofelia adores her. Is she there? I’d like to say hello.’
‘No, no, Leni’s not here now, but I’ll tell her you said hello. She’ll be happy to see you both too.’
They talked a while longer, and the Reverend promised to get there in the next few days.
Reverend Pearson is an outstanding preacher. His sermons are always something to remember, and within his church he is held in high regard.
Whenever the Reverend steps onto the stage – and he always appears abruptly, as if he had been wrestling with the Devil, who had tried to bar his way – everyone falls silent.
The Reverend bows his head and raises his arms slightly, with the palms facing forward, then facing up. He remains like that for a moment, showing the faithful his bald crown, beaded with sweat. When he lifts his head, he takes two steps forward and looks at his audience. The way he looks, you know he’s looking at you, even if you’re sitting in the back row. (It’s Christ who’s looking at you!) He begins to speak. (Christ’s tongue is moving in his mouth!) His arms begin to perform their choreography of gestures, only the hands moving at first, slowly, as if they were caressing the listeners’ weary brows. (Christ’s fingertips on my temples!) Gradually his forearms and upper arms begin to move as well. The torso remains still, but already you can sense a movement in his stomach. (It’s the flame of Christ burning inside him!) He glides to one side: one, two, three steps, index fingers extended, pointing at everyone and no one. He comes back to the centre: four, five, six. And now he’s gliding – seven, eight, nine – across to the other side. His index fingers point at everyone and no one. (It’s Christ’s finger pointing at you!) Then he comes back to the centre again and begins to walk down the aisle. Now his legs join the dance. His whole body is moving, even his toes under the shoe leather. He strips off his jacket and tie. All this without ever ceasing to speak. Because from the moment he lifted his head and looked at the audience, Christ’s tongue has moved in his mouth and will not cease to move. He walks up and down the aisle, goes to the door, and retraces his steps; his eyes are shut and his arms flung wide, his hands moving like radars seeking out the most wretched of all. The Reverend does not need to see. When the moment comes, Christ will tell him who should be taken up onto the stage.
He reaches out at random and grasps the wrist of a woman who is crying and shaking like a leaf. Although the woman feels that her limbs are not responding, the Reverend takes hold of her and sweeps her up like a leaf in the wind. He places her at the front of the stage. The woman is sixty years old; her stomach is bulging as if she were pregnant. The Reverend kneels in front of her. He rests his face against her belly. Now, for the first time, he stops speaking. His mouth opens. The woman can feel the open mouth, the Reverend’s teeth biting the fabric of her dress. The Reverend writhes. The little bones of his spine move like a snake under his shirt. The woman can’t stop crying. Her tears are mixed with snot and drool. She opens her arms; her flesh sags. The woman cries out and all the others cry with her. The Reverend stands up and turns toward the congregation. His face is red and sweaty, and there is something caught between his teeth. It is slimy and black. He spits
