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The woman laughed and murmured something like "It's still morning." But we were already on our way.
"Padre, the woman spoke of a young man who cured her husband. Was it he?"
"Yes, it was."
I began to feel uneasy. I remembered the day before, and Bilbao, and the conference in Madrid, and people speaking of miracles, and the presence that I had sensed as we embraced and prayed.
I was in love with a man who was capable of performing cures. A man who could help others, bring relief to suffering, give health to the sick and hope to their loved ones. Was I distracting him from his mission just because it was at odds with my image of a house with white curtains, cherished records, and favorite books?
"Don't blame yourself, my child," the padre said.
"You're reading my mind."
"Yes, I am," the padre said. "I have that gift too, and I try to be worthy of it. The Virgin taught me to penetrate the turmoil of human emotions in order to control them as well as possible."
"Do you perform miracles, too?"
"I am not able to cure. But I have one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit."
"So you can read my heart, Padre. And you know I love him, with a love that is growing every minute. We discovered the world together, and together we remain in it. He has been present every day of my life--whether I wanted him there or not."
What could I say to this priest who was walking beside me? He would never understand that I had had other men, that I had been in love, and that if I had married, I would be happy. Even as a child, I had found and forgotten love in the plaza of Soria.
But the way things looked now, I hadn't forgotten that first love very well. It had taken only three days for all of it to come rushing back.
"I have a right to be happy, Padre. I've recovered what was lost, and I don't want to lose it again. I'm going to fight for my happiness. If I give up the fight, I will also be renouncing my spiritual life. As you said, I would be putting God aside, along with my power and my strength as a woman. I'm going to fight for him, Padre."
I knew what that little man was doing here. He had come to convince me to leave him, because he had a more important mission to accomplish.
No, I couldn't believe that the padre walking at my side wanted us to marry and live in a house like the one in Saint-Savin. The priest had said that to trick me. He wanted me to lower my defenses and then--with a smile--he would convince me of the opposite.
He read my thoughts without saying a word. Or perhaps he was trying to fool me. Maybe he didn't know what others were thinking. The fog was dissipating rapidly, and I could now see the path, the mountain peak, the fields, and the snow-covered trees. My emotions were becoming clearer, as well.
Damn! If it's true that he can read someone's thoughts, then let him read mine and know everything! Let him know that yesterday he wanted to make love to me--that I refused and that now I regret it.
Yesterday I had thought that if he had to leave, I would still at least have the memory of my childhood friend. But that was nonsense. Even though he hadn't entered me, something even more profound had, and it had touched my heart.
"Padre, I love him," I repeated.
"So do I. And love always causes stupidity. In my case, it requires that I try to keep him from his destiny."
"That won't be easy, Padre. And it won't be easy in my case, either. Yesterday, during the prayers at the grotto, I discovered that I too can bring forth these gifts that you were talking about. And I'm going to use them to keep him with me."
"Good luck," said the padre, with a smile. "I hope you can."
He stopped and took a rosary from his pocket. Holding it, he looked into my eyes. "Jesus said that we should not take oaths, and I am not doing so. But I'm telling you, in the presence of all that is sacred to me, that I would not like him to adopt the conventional religious life. I would not like to see him ordained a priest. He can serve God in other ways--at your side."
It was hard for me to believe that he was telling me the truth. But he was.
"He's up there," the padre said.
I turned. I could see a car parked a bit further ahead--the same car we had driven from Spain.
"He always comes on foot," he said, smiling. "This time he wanted to give us the impression that he'd traveled a long way."
THE SNOW WAS SOAKING my sneakers. But the padre was wearing only open sandals with woolen socks. I decided not to complain--if he could stand it, so could I. We began to hike toward the top of the mountains.
"How long will it take us?"
