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"We would need a hundred men searching for a hundred years to do that."
The landowner silently bemoaned the fact that the cemetery had been constructed on that particular spot; it had a lovely view, and the dead had no use for it.
"On another occasion, I'd like to talk to you about the cemetery," he said to the priest. "I could offer you a far bigger plot for the dead, just near here, in exchange for this piece of land next to the church."
"Nobody would want to buy that and live on the same spot where the dead used to lie."
"Maybe no one from the village would, but there are tourists desperate to buy a summer home; it would just be a matter of asking the villagers to keep their mouths shut. It would mean more income for the village and more taxes for the town hall."
"You're right. We just have to ask the villagers to keep their mouths shut. That wouldn't be so hard."
A sudden silence fell. A long silence, which nobody dared to break. The two women admired the view; the priest started polishing a small bronze statue; the landowner took another sip of wine; the blacksmith tied and untied the laces on both boots; and the mayor kept glancing at his watch, as if to suggest that he had other pressing engagements.
But nobody said a word; everyone knew that the people of Viscos would never say a word if someone were to express an interest in purchasing what had once been the cemetery; they would keep quiet purely for the pleasure of seeing another person coming to live in that village on the verge of disappearing. Even if they didn't earn a penny by their silence.
Imagine if they did though.
Imagine if they earned enough money for the rest of their lives.
Imagine if they earned enough money for the rest of their lives and their children's lives.
At that precise moment, a hot and wholly unexpected wind blew through the sacristy.
"What exactly are you proposing?" asked the priest after a long five minutes.
Everyone turned to look at him.
"If the inhabitants really can be relied on to say nothing, I think we can proceed with negotiations," replied the landowner, choosing his words carefully in case they were misinterpreted--or correctly interpreted, depending on your point of view.
"They're good, hardworking, discreet people," the hotel landlady said, adopting the same strategy. "Today, for example, when the driver of the baker's van wanted to know what was going on, nobody said a thing. I think we can trust them."
Another silence. Only this time it was an unmistakably oppressive silence. Eventually, the game began again, and the blacksmith said:
"It isn't just a question of the villagers' discretion, the fact is that it's both immoral and unacceptable."
"What is?"
"Selling off hallowed ground."
A sigh of relief ran around the room; now that they had dealt satisfactorily with the practical aspects, they could proceed with the moral debate.
"What's immoral is sitting back and watching the demise of our beloved Viscos," said the mayor's wife. "Knowing that we are the last people to live here, and that the dream of our grandparents, our ancestors, Ahab and the Celts, will be over in a few years' time. Soon, we'll all be leaving the village, either for an old people's home or to beg our children to take in their strange, ailing parents, who are unable to adapt to life in the big city and spend all their time longing for what they've left behind, sad because they could not pass on to the next generation the gift they received from their parents."
"You're right," the blacksmith said. "The life we lead is an immoral one. When Viscos does finally fall into ruin, these fields will be abandoned or else bought up for next to nothing; then machines will arrive and open up bigger and better roads. The houses will be demolished, steel warehouses will replace what was built with the sweat of our ancestors. Agriculture will become entirely mechanized, and people will come in to work during the day and return at night to their homes, far from here. How shaming for our generation; we let our children leave, we failed to keep them here with us."
"One way or another, we have to save this village," said the landowner, who was possibly the only one who stood to profit from Viscos' demise, since he was in a position to buy up everything, then sell it on to a large industrial company. But of course he certainly didn't want to hand over, for a price below market value, lands that might contain buried treasure.
"What do you think, Father?" asked the hotel landlady.
"The only thing I know well is my religion, in which the sacrifice of one individual saved all humanity."
Silence descended for a third time, but only for a moment.
"I need to start preparing for Saturday Mass," he went on. "Why don't we meet up later this evening?"
Everyone immediately agreed, setting a time late in the day, as if they were all immensely busy people with important matters to deal with.
Only the mayor managed to rem
