The Carreta by B. Traven

Author:B. Traven [Traven, B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2020-11-19T00:00:00+00:00

7

On the left-hand side of the church, about midway between the altar and the door, San Caralampio stood on a pedestal—that is, he did not actually stand on it: he was kneeling. He was made of wood with a halo around his head and had staring glass eyes and a beard. He was clothed in a dark-blue velvet cloak. He knelt with his face turned to an altar; whether it was his own altar was not clear. His palms were together and raised in prayer. Why, and to whom he prayed, no one could say; nor did anyone bother to ask. It was enough that he was there in person for all to see.

Very few of the people in the church regarded him as they would a photograph or a piece of sculpture. Most of them—all the Indians and nine-tenths of the Mexican poor—were firmly convinced that this figure was the actual saint in person, turned to wood or mummied, to whom they had come to offer prayers. But whether they believed or not that this figure was the real San Caralampio, they all without exception were utterly convinced that the soul of San Caralampio had crept into this figure and chosen it for its eternal habitation. If a wafer by a simple ceremony can become the flesh of God, surely a real saint could turn into a wooden figure, whether of his own accord or with the help of a ceremony. The ceremony had probably taken place centuries ago, and since then the figure and the real Caralampio had been one and the same.

When High Mass was over the whole congregation lined up, so that each singly might pay due honor to San Caralampio. The dark-blue cloak enveloped the saint completely and fell far below the feet whose soles were turned toward the people present. Each, when his turn came, walked up close to the soles of the saint’s feet, muttered a prayer or a magic formula or a vow, and then, lifting the cloak up high above the saint’s naked legs, kissed the naked soles three times. Then the worshiper crossed himself several times, muttered a few more formulas, and passed on, while the next advanced to kiss the soles of the saint.

No one, however, was permitted to kiss the soles of these feet for nothing. His retreat was barred by a barrier where a man stood with a box, which he held out on a level with the worshiper’s chest. Anyone who wanted to kiss the saint’s feet had to pay for it. “Plata, por favor” (“Silver, please”), the man whispered into the ears of everybody passing by.

Andrés had seen the mummery and masquerading and capering of his own witch doctors and sorcerers, and now he had witnessed the ceremonial of a Catholic church at a great fiesta. It was not his fault if he drew a comparison which was so apt. It was the fault of those whose duty it had been to give him a proper education.

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