A Flag for Sunrise by Robert Stone

priest said. “A little worrying, eh?”
    “Please have some tea.”
    “I have to go. It’s the day of the procession in town.”
    “Oh drat,” Justin said. “It just got away from me. I haven’t missed it once since I’ve been here and today I forgot.” She shrugged sadly.
    “I can take you in tonight,” he said. “For the festival afterwards. You see, I’m coming back to take some children from the company school. So we’ll stop for you if you like.”
    “That’d be great. Would you?”
    “Yes, of course. Of course. In fact I came now to ask you.”
    “Well,” Justin said, laughing, “yes, please.”
    “Great,” the priest said. “I’ll go now and then after six we’ll pick you up.”
    “Wonderful.”
    “Well, until then,” he said, and went down the steps, leaving the image of his shy smile behind him.
    “Wonderful,” she said.
    Wonderful. “Wonderful wonderful,” she repeated dully under her breath. “Goddamnit, what a fool I’m becoming.”
    As she watched Godoy get into his jeep, she felt mortified and panic-stricken. She hurried from the veranda before he could turn and see her.
    For a while she busied herself with sweeping out the empty dispensary, spraying the stacked linens for mildew, poking in the corners for centipedes or scorpions. Within the hour a man came from the village with a red snapper and a basket of shrimp; Justin went down the steps to pay him. The man brought a message from the Herreras, a mother and daughter who did cooking and cleaning for the station, that they would not be coming for several days. They had not come for some time before—nor had the young women who worked as nurse’s aides, two girls from the offshore islands whom Justin herself had taught to read and write, her barefoot doctors. It was just as well since there was no work for them.
    Somewhat later Lieutenant Campos drove by to give Sister Justin a quick glimpse of herself in his silvered sunglasses.
    She cleaned and scaled the snapper, washed the shrimp and showered in her own quarters. Changing, she put on a cool khaki skirt, a red checked shirt, an engineer’s red scarf over her hair. When she went back into the kitchen, she found Father Egan mixing cold well water into his rum.
    “Are we friends today?” she asked him.
    “There’s a level, Justin, on which we’re always friends. Then there’s a level on which we can’t be.”
    Justin received this response in silence. Mystical as ever, she thought. She picked up the cleaned fish, stood holding it for a few moments, then set it down again.
    “Sister Mary Joseph is after us to close. You probably know that.”
    “Yes,” the priest said. “Of course it’s up to you.”
    “Why is everything up to me?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel. “I mean, what’s happening with you? It’s very worrying.”
    “Don’t reproach me,” Father Egan said. “I’m reinforcing this mutiny with my frail presence. It’s up to you because you’re a sensible girl.”
    “Must you keep drinking?”
    “Never mind that,” Father Egan said.
    She walked over to the kitchen table and leaned on her fist, watching him.
    “You’ve been so darn irrational I can’t cope. And I know you’ve been worse since that night you had the boat out. I wish I knew what that was about.”
    “Under the seal,” Egan said. “The rest is silence.”
    Sister Justin shook her head to clear it of his madness.
    “I don’t feel very sensible now,” she said. “I feel like a complete idiot.”
    “Not at all,” Egan said. “Do you want to know what I think?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “I think you’re very intelligent and moral and all good nunnish things. You had an attack of self-righteousness and you decided to try the impossible. Nothing wrong with that, Justin. Fine tradition behind it.”
    “You encouraged me.”
    “Yes. Well, I wanted to stay too. And I respect you, you see. Believe it or not.”
    “I thought I could pull it off.”
    “Because you