Monsignor Quixote by Graham Greene Page A

him when they were alone in the room, which Father Quixote admitted was rather gloomy. ‘We come to Madrid where there are dozens of good and inexpensive hotels, and you land us in this unspeakable hostelry.’
    â€˜Rocinante was tired.’
    â€˜We shall be lucky if our throats aren’t cut here.’
    â€˜No, no, the old woman is honest, I know.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    â€˜I could tell from her eyes.’
    The Mayor raised his hands in despair.
    â€˜After all that good wine,’ Father Quixote said, ‘we shall sleep well wherever we are.’
    â€˜I shan’t sleep a wink.’
    â€˜She is one of your people.’
    â€˜What on earth do you mean?’
    â€˜The poor.’ He added quickly, ‘Of course they are my people too.’
    Father Quixote felt much relieved when the Mayor lay down on his bed fully clothed (he feared that his throat would be cut more easily if he undressed), for Father Quixote was not used to taking off his clothes in front of another, and anything, anything, he thought, might happen before nightfall to save him from embarrassment. He lay on his back and listened to a cat wailing on the tiles outside. Perhaps, he thought, the Mayor will have forgotten my purple socks, and he indulged himself in a waking dream of how their journey would go on and on – the dream of a deepening friendship and a profounder understanding, of a reconciliation even between their disparate faiths. Perhaps, he thought before he fell asleep, the Mayor was not altogether wrong about the Prodigal Son . . . all that happy ending, the welcome home, the fatted calf. The close of the parable did seem a little unlikely . . . ‘I am unworthy to be called your monsignor,’ he muttered as he lost consciousness.
    It was the Mayor who woke him. Father Quixote saw him, like a stranger, in the last light of the expiring day, and ‘Who are you?’ he asked with curiosity, not fear.
    â€˜I am Sancho,’ the Mayor said. ‘It is time for us to go shopping.’
    â€˜Shopping?’
    â€˜You have become a knight. We must find your sword, your spurs, your helmet – even if it is only a barber’s basin.’
    â€˜Barber’s basin?’
    â€˜You have been asleep and I have lain awake for three hours in case they tried to cut our throats. Tonight it will be your turn to keep vigil. In this dirty chapel that you’ve landed us in. Over your sword, monsignor.’
    â€˜Monsignor?’
    â€˜You have certainly slept very deep.’
    â€˜I’ve had a dream – a terrible dream.’
    â€˜Of your throat being cut?’
    â€˜No, no. Much worse than that.’
    â€˜Come. Get up. We have to find your purple socks.’
    Father Quixote made no protest. He was still under the agonizing spell of his dream. They went down the dark stairs into the dark street. The old woman peered out at them as they passed with an appearance of terror. Had she been dreaming too?
    â€˜I don’t like the look of her,’ Sancho said.
    â€˜I don’t think she likes the look of us.’
    â€˜We must find a taxi,’ the Mayor said.
    â€˜First let us try Rocinante.’
    He only had to press the starter three times before the engine woke. ‘You see,’ Father Quixote said, ‘there was nothing really wrong. She was just tired, that’s all. I know Rocinante. Where do we go?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I thought you would know.’
    â€˜Know what?’
    â€˜An ecclesiastical tailor.’
    â€˜How should I know?’
    â€˜You are a priest. You are wearing a priest’s suit. You didn’t buy that in El Toboso.’
    â€˜It’s nearly forty years old, Sancho.’
    â€˜If you and your socks last as long as that you will be more than a centenarian before you wear them out.’
    â€˜Why have I to buy these socks?’
    â€˜The roads in Spain are still controlled,