father. Stuck in El Toboso you havenât realized how all along the roads of Spain the ghost of Franco still patrols. Your socks will be our safeguard. A Guardia Civil respects purple socks.â
âBut where do we buy them?â He brought Rocinante to a halt. âIâm not going to tire her for nothing.â
âStay here a moment. I will find a taxi and ask the driver to guide us.â
âWe are being very extravagant, Sancho. Why, you even wanted to stay at the Palace Hotel.â
âMoney is not an immediate problem.â
âEl Toboso is a small place, and Iâve never heard that mayors are paid very much.â
âEl Toboso is a small place, but the Party is a great party. What is more, the Party is a legal party now. As a militant one is allowed a certain licence â for the good of the Party.â
âThen why do you need the protection of my socks?â
But the question came too late. The Mayor was already out of earshot, and Father Quixote was alone with the nightmare that haunted him. There are dreams of which we think even in the light of day: was this a dream or was it true â true in some way or another: did I dream it or did it in some strange way happen?
The Mayor was opening the door beside him. He said, âFollow the taxi. He assures me he will lead us to the finest ecclesiastical clothes shop outside Rome itself. The nuncio goes there and the archbishop.â
When they arrived Father Quixote could well believe it. His heart sank as he took in the elegance of the shop and the dark well-pressed suit of the assistant who greeted them with the distant courtesy of a church authority. It occurred to Father Quixote that such a man was almost certainly a member of Opus Dei â that club of intellectual Catholic activists whom he could not fault and yet whom he could not trust. He was a countryman, and they belonged to the great cities.
âThe monsignor,â the Mayor said, âwants some purple socks.â
âOf course, monsignor. If you will come this way.â
âI wanted to see,â the Mayor whispered as they followed, âif they would demand any papers.â
Rather as though he were a deacon arranging the altar before Mass the assistant laid out on a counter a variety of purple socks. âThese are nylon,â he said. âThese pure silk. And these are cotton. The best Sea Island cotton, of course.â
âI usually wear wool,â Father Quixote said.
âOh well, of course we have wool, but we usually find nylon or silk preferred. Itâs a question of tone â silk or nylon has a richer purple tone. Wool rather blurs the purple.â
âFor me itâs a question of warmth,â Father Quixote said.
âI agree with this gentleman, monsignor,â the Mayor interrupted quickly. âWe want a purple which strikes the eye, as it were, from a distance.â
The assistant looked puzzled. âFrom a distance?â he asked. âI donât quite . . .â
âWe donât want the purple to look accidental. We certainly donât want a non-ecclesiastical purple.â
âNo one has ever found fault with our purple. Even the woollen purple,â the assistant added with reluctance.
âFor our purpose,â the Mayor said, giving a warning frown at Father Quixote, âthe nylon is much the best. It certainly has a shimmer . . .â He added, âAnd then, of course, we shall want . . . what do you call that sort of bib monsignors wear?â
âI suppose you mean the pechera . I imagine you will need that in nylon too so as to match the socks.â
âI have agreed about the socks,â Father Quixote said, âbut I absolutely refuse to wear a purple pechera .â
âOnly in emergency, monsignor,â the Mayor argued.
The assistant looked at them with deepening suspicion.
âI canât see what
Jasmine's Escape
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Jean Grainger
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