"I hope you didn't get the wrong impression of the church," she said. After a pause she added, "Or of Father Ferro."
To dispel his uneasiness Quart resorted to humour: "Don't tell me you too are a member of Father Ferro's fan club."
His hand was hanging over the arm of the chair, and he knew, despite the dark glasses, that she was looking at it. He moved it discreetly and interlaced its fingers with the fingers of his other hand.
Macarena Bruner said nothing for a few moments. She pushed her hair from her face again. She seemed to be debating how to continue the conversation.
"Look," she said at last, "Gris is my friend. And she thinks your presence here might be useful, even if your view isn't sympathetic."
Quart realised she was being conciliatory. He raised his hand and saw her follow its movement with her eyes. "You know," he said, "there's something about all this that I find somewhat irritating But what should I call you? Senora Bruner?"
"Please, call me Macarena."
She took off her glasses, and Quart was taken aback by the beauty of her large, dark eyes with glints of honey. Praise God, he would have said aloud had he thought that God bothered Himself with that kind of prayer. He forced himself to hold her gaze as if the salvation of his soul depended on it. And maybe it did if there was a soul, that is, and a God.
"Macarena," he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. As he did so, he smelled her perfume: gentle, like jasmine. "There's something irritating about this whole business. Everyone assumes I'm in Seville to give Don Priamo Ferro a hard time. I'm not. I'm here to write a report on the situation. I don't have any preconceptions. But Father Ferro won't co-operate." He sat back. "In fact, nobody will."
Now it was her turn to smile. "It's understandable. Nobody trusts you."
"Why?".
"Because the archbishop has been speaking ill of you. He calls you a scalp hunter."
Quart grimaced. "Yes. We're old acquaintances."
"Father Ferro could be made to see things differently," Macarena said, biting her lower lip. "Maybe I can help."
"It would be better for everyone, especially him. But why would you do this? What would you gain?"
She shook her head as if that was irrelevant, and her hair once more slid over her shoulder. She pushed it back, looking intently at Quart.
"Is it true that the Pope received a message?"
Macarena Bruner was
obviously aware of the effect her eyes had on people. Quart swallowed. It was partly her eyes, partly her question.
"That's confidential," he answered, trying to soften his words with a smile. "I can neither confirm nor deny it."
"It's a secret that's being shouted from the rooftops."
"In that case, I don't need to join in."
Her dark eyes shone thoughtfully. She leaned on the arm of the sofa, which made her blouse move suggestively. "My family has the final say regarding Our Lady of the Tears," she explained. "That means my mother and I. If the building is condemned and the archbishop allows it to be demolished, the final decision about the land is left to us."
"Not entirely," said Quart. "According to my information, the council has some say."
"We'd take legal action."
"Technically you're still married. And your husband" "We've been living apart for six months," she interrupted, shaking her head. "My husband has no right to take any action independently." "He hasn't tried to change your mind?"
"Yes." Macarena's smile was contemptuous now, distant, almost cruel. "But it makes no difference. The church will outlive all of this."
"Strange choice of words," said Quart, surprised. "You make it sound as if the church is alive."
She was staring at his hands again. "Maybe it is. Lots of things are alive and you wouldn't think it." She was lost in thought for a moment, then suddenly came to. "But what I meant was that the church is needed. Father Ferro is too."
"Why? There are plenty of other priests and churches in Seville."
She burst out laughing. A loud, frank laugh. It was so contagious that Quart almost laughed too. "Don Priamo's special. And so is his church." She was still smiling, her eyes fixed on Quart. "But I can't explain it in words. You have to go and see it."
"I've already been. And your favourite priest kicked me out."
Macarena Bruner burst out laughing again. Quart had never heard a woman laugh in such a forthright, appealing way. He realised he wanted to hear her laugh more. He was astonished at himself. In his well-trained brain, alarm bells were ringing. It was beginning to seem as if he had wandered into the garden that his old mentors at the seminary had warned him to keep a healthy distance from: serpents, forbidden fruit, incarnations of Delilah and the like.
"Yes," she said. "Gris told me. But do try again. Go to Mass and see what goes on there. Maybe you'll understand."
"I will. Do you go to eight o'clock Mass?"
The question was well-meaning but Macarena's expression suddenly became suspicious, serious. "That's none of your business," she said-, opening and closing her sunglasses.