A Man I Cannot Understand

After following this man across all manner of terrain and through all sorts of wild adventures that have taken me well beyond the normally boring confines of my mundane journalism career, I have decided a few things about him. At first I was positive he was a complete farce without a scrap of morality to his name. However, as I observed him, my ideas were gradually changed. The way he acted toward the Mestizo when he was first within his clutches was far from virtuous or generous. He tried to escape and leave him many times. If he had I would have not thought the less of him, as he was clearly about to be betrayed. Yet his willingness to stay showed a part of him that I had not seen. I had glimpsed it with his daughter, but I was too far away from him and incapable of discerning more of his dialogue with her. I had dismissed this simply as a sly and underhanded act with some other subversive goal in mind especially in light of my discovery of his lustful tendencies. That small act of love was overshadowed at the time, but looking back it was worth more than I credited it. I saw still more of this in the true humility he showed in the prison with all of the wounded creatures there. This humility showed itself once more in this man's return to the land that had caused him so much pain from relative comfort and security. He returned not for his benefit, but for that of a dying criminal. I had not expected true humility from such a prideful coward, but his choices seem to have shaped his nature from the man I imagine he must have once been. He is not so much of a coward as the man they call Padre Jose.

But this man, this whiskey priest, is far from good, as his pseudonym aptly implies. In spite of the good I have seen him achieve, he seems to have an incurable apathy and a un-shifting lack of repentance toward his sins. I do not understand this. He stated to all those round him in the prison that he was a bad priest, and he meant it. This gave me cause to believe him capable of humility. However, this one fraction of a virtue seems incapable of spreading and changing the rest of him to bring him into repentance and a desire to change. He seems to be caught up in a misguided belief that if the products of one's sins are something beautiful then the sins themselves must also be beautiful. This is the nature of our world. Ugly, base, disgusting things perpetually turn into things of incredible beauty. But who can divine the infinitely greater beauty of an act of pure charity, humility, love, or generosity?

I spoke to the Lieutenant the night before this walking contradiction, this Whiskey Priest, was to be killed. Even this man of the most profound atheism and vanity seemed moved by the humanity, if not the religion, of this man. Yet he seemed similarly unable to understand this man. It seems that this man's final request: to confess his sins to Padre Jose, that most despicable of cowards, was ignored by the turncoat himself. If the Lieutenant is to be believed, the Whiskey Priest stepped up to the block the next day without having felt a drop of repentance.

When it comes down to it, in the end, I must confess I understand this man less than I did a month ago. At the end of his journey I feel as if, by his example, I have been granted no consolation, no reprieve from the doubts about how best to live my life that have plagued me. I do not wish to say I have learned nothing, for I have learned a great deal about this man and about the nature of all men, but I cannot say that his example makes sense to me ultimately. I thought, for a time, that I might have had a trove of treasure from which to dig ideas and concepts that could be formulated into a book. Now I am left bewildered. I have no choice but to return to my life prior to these events almost empty-handed, and with no more material than what is sufficient to spew forth an article filled with what would appear to the casual observer to be no more than one month's worth of material.

A Fool Soars to new Depths

Ah! I have seen so much! I must select somewhat arbitrarily from my journey certain events of interest. Unfortunately, the rest must be left for a later date (perhaps I will find the funding to make my findings into a book). I have begun to lose track of how long I have been following this man. In fact, it is likely I will not be writing any form of article when I return, seeing as I most definitely will not have a job upon reentry into my prior dull existence. A man usually loses a job when he goes galavanting after alcoholic former clergymen. It is not generally held in the highest regard by today's publishers.

The thread running through the events I will share is a thread of complete stupidity. If I had any doubts in my mind concerning the effectiveness of our beloved police force they have all but evaporated. They unwittingly lead me straight to the man. I stood dumbstruck as they completely failed to identify him when he stood right in front of their eyes. The Lieutenant was selecting a new hostage from a small town to punish should evidence of the priest's whereabouts not be furnished. The priest himself was examined as a candidate. He might have been a willing hostage to aid in his own capture if the Lieutenant had not kept him from it. This he made sure that he did. Foolish man! He had him on a platter. The priest positively reeked of guilt. And the Lieutenant missed him. An onion may cover the stench of alcohol, but it can never cover the stench of this mans sins. And sins he certainly has committed. Many call a priest father, and many he calls children, but there is one now who has true rights to addressing him by that title, and one he likewise has right to call child. How many more owe him this respect if it can indeed be called that?

Yet, of all the Lieutenant's blunders, this is hardly the most careless. I mentioned before his proud nature. It would appear as though it will become his downfall. After tracking the Whiskey Priest for quite some time, it appeared to me that he had made his last mistake. He had reached the end of the rope in agonizing defeat over a silly misdemeanor he could easily have avoided had he learned to avoid the seductive call of strong drink. It seemed to be the end. He was imprisoned in the jail of the Lieutenant himself. Surely he would not fail to recognize his face this second time. Surely he would accomplish his goal in a fashion that would have him laughing the next morning for the wonder of its simplicity. If he would but look at the priest's face. I watched in awe as this man's finest hour slipped from between his fingers more easily than I would have though possible. Never underestimate pride. If a man aspires to seek a man among the poor, he would do well to pay attention to them. If a man is careful only in the mighty ideas his fickle mind has concocted, he will miss the details that any detective will tell him are the most vital pieces of information.

The Lucky and the Proud

If at first I had slight suspicions, they have now reached fruition. My luck is beyond, and yet falls short of what I could ever have hoped. I can say with absolute surety that I will experience great difficulty in writing this month's article. I do not fear a lack of inspiration or of content in the least, however it may no longer be possible to contain what I have discovered in an article the size of two pages at most. While I have not unearthed as much as there is to know (or even close to that amount), I have learned that this man is something well worth writing about. He is the Whiskey Priest! I overheard his conversation with that small girl who offered him shelter. This is the man that has gotten the police of this area, and especially a particularly dogged Lieutenant into a fury of activity that I have not seen them in for years since the first purges of all things Catholic. And it is here that my luck begins to run dry.

Being a man well practiced in evasion and secrecy, he has proved himself most difficult to track. He vanished soon after I realized who he was. I was forced to tag along with Mexico's most intelligent and efficient police force as the bumbled along behind their Lieutenant until I had leads upon which to begin my own search. I fooled their preoccupied and egotistical leader into thinking the governor had called upon me to accompany him and document his "brilliant and ingenious plan" to rid his country of its "true enemies," the ones that threatened its "lofty and virtuous ideals." Proud and idealistic men fall head-over-heals when you appeal to their vanity in such a manner as this. He swaggered off quite sure of himself and gave me free reign to do as I pleased. I did not have to wait long to find the Whiskey Priest. Quite apart from their knowledge, Mexico's finest lead me right to the man.

A Swig of Suspicion

I woke up quite suddenly and noticed that the sun was slightly lower in the sky than it had been. I seemed to have dozed off. Then I remembered where I was and why I was there. I glanced at the dentist's shop and then up the road a short ways where two mules, a young boy, and the more shy of the two men I had seen earlier were plodding along. I had no desire to miss my opportunity to get at least some scrap of writing material out of him and I was far too lazy to try to pursue new avenues of interest. I got up and set off at a quick pace in order to overtake him and his companion.

When I was a stone's throw from them at most the wary man pulled a drink from a case and took a swig. I would not have made much of it save that he took special care to conceal it from the boy. That could only mean one thing. He had some form of alcohol. The Mexican government, along with banning Catholicism which resulted in the killing of countless priests, had also placed a ban on alcohol. Now my interests had been truly piqued.

I hurried to catch up to him. The man was looking down at his case again. He seemed to be missing something. He gave a start when I came up beside him and immediately snapped the case shut. The boy hardly gave me a second glance. I asked him where he was going and upon hearing his answer exclaimed excitedly that our destinations were the same. I began asking him all manner of innocent questions to warm him up. Yet, no matter how many I asked, he barely warmed up at all. I felt like he saw right through my innocuous small talk. I changed tactics. I asked him what he had in his case. He said it was none of my business. I asked him what he would do if I told the authorities that I suspected he had alcohol in it. His face grew ever so slightly pale, but he retained his composure. The man said I had no such proof and I could not go about everywhere just throwing out bold accusations. I gave a well-practiced false laugh and told him I had only been joking. Deciding it was not wise to press the matter at the moment, I diverged to different topics in another unsuccessful attempt to relax his inhibitions (no pun intended).

We soon entered the town where we were to stop. It was getting dark and I thought it unwise to stay with him. I broke off down a side street exclaiming false goodbyes. I had no intention of letting the only interesting and perhaps even scandalous tidbit of news I had had all month slip through my fingers. I quickly circled back round to find this suspicious man once more. After a lengthy and uneventful visit to the mule-boy's home, my suspect set out on his own. He came to a house by the river and appeared to be asking a small girl for a favor. She pointed to a barn. The man walked toward it, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did so. I slipped behind a neighboring house before his eye could catch me. Truly this was a curious thing.

The Agony of Journalism in Mexico

Sometimes I feel like finding something to write about in this godforsaken country is virtually impossible. I just wander around in the heat looking for something that is capable of even vaguely pulling at my imagination. Then I sit at my desk wondering why I chose such a dull subject. It was after a few hours of doing just this and becoming thoroughly disgusted at my idleness in doing so that I decided to venture down to the riverbank for some fresh air (relatively speaking).

Here I found not much of interest. Perhaps I could write about the old boats that lazily drifted along the river and occasionally stopped in at our pointless town. Normally their lack of punctuality made this rather difficult, but seeing as the General Obregon was currently docked this might be possible. I might even be able to procure some interesting news from its captain if I made myself enough of a nuisance. We journalists have quite a knack for making ourselves such. Maybe he would have news of the man around whom rumors had been swirling ever since the government had initiated its inquisition: the so-called "whisky-priest."

As I pondered, weak and weary, something managed to tug on my interest just enough to encourage me to shift it out of the periphery of my vision. Two men were having a conversation. I say both were conversing. In reality one of them was having most of the conversation. They soon lost my interest and I turned my attention back to the General. Deciding it was hardly worth the effort to badger its captain I turned to go back home after a not unexpectedly fruitless sojourn to the river. I found myself not far behind the two men whom I had seen talking earlier. They turned in to a dentist's shop after a short while. Here was something I had not yet reduced to the pinnacle of utter boredom in my monthly articles - dentistry. Not wanting to seem intrusive I waited outside to talk to one of the men when he should exit.