The Power and the Glory (1987) by Graham Greene

Author:Graham Greene
Format: epub
Published: 1987-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

THREE

A VOICE near his foot said: “Got a cigarette?” He drew quickly back and trod on an arm. A voice said imperatively: “Water, quick,” as if whoever it was thought he could take a stranger unawares, and make him fork out.

“Got a cigarette?”

“No.” He said weakly: “I have nothing at all,” and imagined he could feel enmity fuming up all round him like smoke. He moved again. Somebody said: “Look out for the bucket.” That was where the stench came from. He stood perfectly still and waited for his sight to return. Outside the rain began to stop: it dropped haphazardly and the thunder moved away. You could count forty now between the lightning flash and the roll. Forty miles, superstition said. Half-way to the sea, or half-way to the mountains. He felt around with his foot, trying to find enough space to sit down—but there seemed to be no room at all. When the lightning went on he could see the hammocks at the edge of the courtyard.

“Got something to eat?” a voice said, and when he didn’t answer, “Got something to eat?”

“No.”

“Got any money?” another voice said.

“No.” Suddenly, from about five feet away, there came a tiny scream—a woman’s. A tired voice said: “Can’t you be quiet?” Among the furtive movements came again the muffled painless cries. He realized with horror that pleasure was going on even in this crowded darkness. Again he put out his foot and began to edge his way inch by inch away from the grille. Behind the human voices another noise went permanently on: it was like a small machine, an electric belt set at a certain tempo. It filled any silences that there were, louder than human breath. It was the mosquitoes.

He had moved perhaps six feet from the grille, and his eyes began to distinguish heads—perhaps the sky was clearing: they hung around him like gourds. A voice said: “Who are you?” He made no reply, feeling panic, edging in: suddenly he found himself against the back wall: the stone was wet against his hand—the cell could not have been more than twelve feet deep. He found he could just sit down if he kept his feet drawn up under him. An old man lay slumped against his shoulder: he told his age from the feather-weight lightness of the bones, the feeble uneven flutter of the breath. He was either somebody close to birth or death—and he could hardly be a child in this place. He said suddenly: “Is that you, Catarina?” and his breath went out in a long patient sigh, as if he had been waiting for a long while and could afford to wait a lot longer.

The priest said: “No. Not Catarina.” When he spoke everybody became suddenly silent, listening, as if what he said had importance: then the voices and movements began again. But the sound of his own voice, the sense of communication with a neighbour, calmed him.

“You wouldn’t be,” the old man said. “I didn’t really think you were.

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