As Quart came out of the lift the man waiting in the lobby stood up. Quart had never seen him before. He was about forty and rather thick around the waist. His lank, thinning hair was lacquered down, and he had a double chin that seemed an extension of his cheeks.
"The name's Bonafe," the man said. "Honorato Bonafe."
Quart thought he'd never met anyone with a more inappropriate name. This person
looked anything but honourable. His cunning little eyes seemed to be calculating how much he'd get for Quart's suit and shoes if he stole them.
"Could we talk for a moment?" Bonafe's smile made him more repellent still. It was a grimace, both obsequious and malicious, like a priest of the old school trying to curry favour with a bishop. In fact, Quart thought a cassock would have suited the man much better than the crumpled beige suit and the leather bag in his hand. His hands were small and podgy, promising a limp handshake.
Quart stopped. He was prepared to listen but didn't drop his guard. He glanced over the man's head at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes till his appointment with Macarena Bruner. Bonafe followed Quart's gaze, said again that he would take only a moment of his time, and raised his hand as if to place it on the priest's arm. Quart stared hard at the hand, stopping Bonafe dead. The hand remained in midair while Bonafe told him what he wanted in a conspiratorial tone. Quart didn't want to listen, but the name Q amp;S magazine set alarm bells ringing. "To sum up, Father, I'm at your disposal."
Quart frowned, disconcerted. He could have sworn the man had winked at him. "Thank you. But I don't see what this has to do with me."
"You don't." Bonafe nodded as if sharing a joke. "But it's all quite clear, isn't it? What you're doing in Seville."
Dear God. Just what he needed: someone like this turning up when Rome wanted the matter resolved as discreetly as possible. Quart wondered how so many people could have found out about it. "I don't know what you mean," he said.
The man looked at him with barely concealed insolence and said, "Really?"
Quart consulted his watch. He'd had enough. "Excuse me, I have an appointment." He walked away, towards the entrance. But Bonafe followed him.
"Do you mind if I walk with you? We could talk as we go." "I have nothing to say."
He left his key at Reception and went out into the street, trailed by the journalist. The dark shape of La Giralda was visible against the remaining light of the sky. At that moment the streetlights came on in the Plaza Virgen de los Reyes.
"I don't think you understand," insisted Bonafe, pulling a copy of Q amp;S from his pocket. "I work for this magazine." He held it out but put it away again when Quart ignored him. "All I want is a short, friendly chat. You tell me a couple of things, and I'll be decent. I assure you, co-operation will benefit us both." On his pink lips, the word "co-operation" acquired obscene connotations.
Quart had to make an effort to contain his revulsion. "Please go away."
"Come on. Just the time to have one drink," he said, at once rude and friendly.
They were now under a street lamp at a corner of the archbishop's
palace. Quart stopped and turned. "Listen, Buenafe"
"Bonafe"
"Bonafe or whatever your name is. What I'm doing in Seville is none of your business. And in any case, I would never dream of telling the world about it."
The journalist protested, quoting the usual journalistic cliches: freedom of information, the quest for truth, the public's right to know. "And anyway," he added after thinking a moment, "better for you lot to be in than out."
It sounded like a threat. Quart was beginning to lose patience. "Us lot?"
"You know what I mean." Again the obsequious smile. "The clergy and all that." "Ah. The clergy."
"I see we understand each other," Bonafe said, his double chin wobbling hopefully.
Quart looked at him calmly, his hands clasped behind his back. "And what exactly do you want to know?" he asked.
"Well. Let's see." Bonafe scratched his armpit beneath his jacket. "What's the view in Rome on that church, for instance. What's the position of the parish priest in terms of canon law And whatever you can tell me about your mission here." His smile was slimy. "That shouldn't be too difficult."
"And if I refuse?"
The journalist clucked his tongue, as if to say that wouldn't do, especially as they'd been getting on so well. "I'll write the article anyway, of course. And he that is not with me, is against me." He stood on tiptoe as he spoke. "Isn't that what it says in the Gospels?"
Quart stared at him for a moment without a word. He glanced to the right and left before moving closer to the journalist, as if to speak in confidence. But there was something in his demeanour that made Bonafe step back. "I really couldn't care less what your name is," said Quart quietly. "I can't decide whether you're rude, stupid, criminal, or all three. In any case, even though I'm a priest, I have a bad temper. So if I were you, I'd get out of my sight. Now."