of sin is alien to Marxism, but not to liberation theologians. To them, not overthrowing the ruling class, not fighting to redistribute wealth, is a sin, a sin of the gravest nature, perhaps the gravest one of all.”
“So they basically advocate some kind of a holy war, a crusade, a Christian jihad?”
“Exactly. And they embrace anything it takes to achieve their ends.”
“Even violence?”
“Even violence. There was a classmate of Gutierrez, a priest by the name of Camilo Torres. He was killed fighting with the guerillas in Colombia. When they found his body he had a weapon in his hands.”
Hector shook his head. “How can the church tolerate something like that?”
“The church doesn’t. Not anymore. Liberation theology has been condemned.”
“Condemned?”
“By the Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, the body that rules on such things.
“And Dom Felipe . . .”
“Devoutly carried out the dictates of his superiors.”
“Which brought him in direct conflict with the liberation theologians?”
“Exactly. But he welcomed the conflict. Dom Felipe saw it as his duty to bring them to heel. He made it clear that priests who were liberation theologians had to renounce the doctrine or leave the Church.”
“Which wouldn’t have made him popular with the people from the Landless Workers’ League.”
“Just so. Simple people—and most landless farmers are simple people—interpreted his action as a rejection, by the Church, of everything that the league stood for. The good Catholics among them became concerned that they might be doing something wrong, even impious. They quit the league in droves.”
“Which gave the league a good reason to dislike Dom Felipe.”
“Exactly.”
“Enough to kill him, do you think?”
“Perhaps, but that’s not my point.”
“What is your point, Father?”
“There are still priests out there who ignored Dom Felipe’s clear instructions. They’re recruiting for the league, battling the landowners, planning the occupation of fazen-das , doing all the things that Dom Felipe expressly told them to stop doing.”
“And what, Father, does all of this have to do with the murder of Bishop Antunes?”
Father Gaspar looked surprised.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m trying to tell you, Delegado, that the man who killed Dom Felipe could have been a priest.”
Chapter Seven
THE DOOR TO ORLANDO Muniz Junior’s bedroom, a door he kept locked and bolted, shattered. Most of it crashed to the floor. What was left flew back on its hinges. Orlando rolled onto his left side and reached for the revolver he kept in the drawer below the lamp, but before he could close his hand around the grip a heavy body fell on top of him.
“Somebody get the lights,” a voice said.
Somebody did, and they dazzled him. He opened his mouth to call for Anselmo, and shut it again when he felt cold metal against his forehead. The muzzle of his own revolver. He heard the weapon being cocked and stopped struggling. They stripped off the sheets that covered him and dragged him out of bed.
Orlando was tall with blond hair and blue eyes and had once been handsome. Once. These days, he had a thick waist, a veined cherry of a nose, coarse skin, and permanently bloodshot eyes.
Some said his early good looks had been passed down from his paternal grandmother, a German immigrant to Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil’s southernmost state. Others, less charitable, ascribed Orlando’s Teutonic genes to a schoolteacher named Ernst Koppel, who’d been beaten to death under mysterious circumstances some six months before Orlando was born. Those same people offered, as support for their argument, the comportment of Orlando’s mother, Solange, who’d been seen to shed more tears at Koppel’s funeral than anyone else including Koppel’s wife of almost a decade. Solange’s husband, Orlando Muniz Senior, didn’t attend the funeral. While it was taking place he was seen in the bar just across
“So they basically advocate some kind of a holy war, a crusade, a Christian jihad?”
“Exactly. And they embrace anything it takes to achieve their ends.”
“Even violence?”
“Even violence. There was a classmate of Gutierrez, a priest by the name of Camilo Torres. He was killed fighting with the guerillas in Colombia. When they found his body he had a weapon in his hands.”
Hector shook his head. “How can the church tolerate something like that?”
“The church doesn’t. Not anymore. Liberation theology has been condemned.”
“Condemned?”
“By the Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, the body that rules on such things.
“And Dom Felipe . . .”
“Devoutly carried out the dictates of his superiors.”
“Which brought him in direct conflict with the liberation theologians?”
“Exactly. But he welcomed the conflict. Dom Felipe saw it as his duty to bring them to heel. He made it clear that priests who were liberation theologians had to renounce the doctrine or leave the Church.”
“Which wouldn’t have made him popular with the people from the Landless Workers’ League.”
“Just so. Simple people—and most landless farmers are simple people—interpreted his action as a rejection, by the Church, of everything that the league stood for. The good Catholics among them became concerned that they might be doing something wrong, even impious. They quit the league in droves.”
“Which gave the league a good reason to dislike Dom Felipe.”
“Exactly.”
“Enough to kill him, do you think?”
“Perhaps, but that’s not my point.”
“What is your point, Father?”
“There are still priests out there who ignored Dom Felipe’s clear instructions. They’re recruiting for the league, battling the landowners, planning the occupation of fazen-das , doing all the things that Dom Felipe expressly told them to stop doing.”
“And what, Father, does all of this have to do with the murder of Bishop Antunes?”
Father Gaspar looked surprised.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m trying to tell you, Delegado, that the man who killed Dom Felipe could have been a priest.”
Chapter Seven
THE DOOR TO ORLANDO Muniz Junior’s bedroom, a door he kept locked and bolted, shattered. Most of it crashed to the floor. What was left flew back on its hinges. Orlando rolled onto his left side and reached for the revolver he kept in the drawer below the lamp, but before he could close his hand around the grip a heavy body fell on top of him.
“Somebody get the lights,” a voice said.
Somebody did, and they dazzled him. He opened his mouth to call for Anselmo, and shut it again when he felt cold metal against his forehead. The muzzle of his own revolver. He heard the weapon being cocked and stopped struggling. They stripped off the sheets that covered him and dragged him out of bed.
Orlando was tall with blond hair and blue eyes and had once been handsome. Once. These days, he had a thick waist, a veined cherry of a nose, coarse skin, and permanently bloodshot eyes.
Some said his early good looks had been passed down from his paternal grandmother, a German immigrant to Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil’s southernmost state. Others, less charitable, ascribed Orlando’s Teutonic genes to a schoolteacher named Ernst Koppel, who’d been beaten to death under mysterious circumstances some six months before Orlando was born. Those same people offered, as support for their argument, the comportment of Orlando’s mother, Solange, who’d been seen to shed more tears at Koppel’s funeral than anyone else including Koppel’s wife of almost a decade. Solange’s husband, Orlando Muniz Senior, didn’t attend the funeral. While it was taking place he was seen in the bar just across
Similar Books
