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times,” he said, “let’s not distract the president with such trifling matters.” ’
    Simón stopped eating and, for the first time, joined in the conversation. Dupuy and Ethel were afraid he would say something rash. And indeed he did.
    ‘Torture, comandante , is not a trifling matter, regardless of the ends for which it is employed.’
    The president twisted his mouth into an expression of disgust, but it was Dupuy who reprimanded him.
    ‘This is none of your business, Simón.’
    ‘This is everyone’s business. I can’t be expected to hold my tongue when a crime is being committed.’
    ‘Calm down, hijo .’
    The monsignor raised the index and middle fingers of his right hand as though exorcising Simón. ‘There are things which, though they may seem like crimes, are actually simple justice. You need to understand. The momentary pain of one man, one sinner, can save the lives of hundreds of innocent people. Try to think of it that way.’
    ‘The question is not one of quantity, Monsignor. As far as I am concerned to torture a single human being is the same as torturing all of them. As I’ve heard it said in the parish church in my town: when they crucified Christ, they crucified all humanity.’
    ‘You cannot compare the two. There was only one Christ. He was God made flesh.’
    ‘True, but two thousand years ago, nobody knew that.’
    Emilia’s breathing was ragged and she was beginning to sweat. She looked as though she might faint. Everyone turned and she felt embarrassed to be the centre of attention.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m feeling a little dizzy.’
    ‘Simón, take her up to her room,’ the father commanded. ‘Give us a moment to compose ourselves.’
    ‘It’s probably the champagne,’ said Emilia. ‘I don’t drink. I’m not used to it.’
    The mother too got up from the table, looking nervous.
    ‘I’ll just go and see what’s happening.’
    The president’s wife smiled, dismissing the episode lightly.
    ‘Perhaps she’s expecting. Perhaps her little dizzy spell might be considered a godsend—’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dupuy interrupted, embarrassed. ‘Neither she nor her husband are ready to start a family. I’ve said as much to both of them and they agree.’
    ‘Babies come without being called,’ the monsignor said. ‘We must respect the will of the Almighty.’
    From that point, the dinner began to go downhill and by the time the mother came back with the good news that Emilia was much better and had fallen asleep, there was nothing more to say. Dupuy was left with the unpleasant feeling that the president blamed him for the pall cast by his son-in-law over the evening.
    As he was leaving, the monsignor asked Dupuy in confidence whether he had had Simón’s background thoroughly vetted. ‘He’s a member of your family, Doctor, so he can’t be a Commie, though – God forgive me – he talks like one.’
    More than once, Dupuy had noticed that his son-in-law made no attempt to keep his irresponsible thoughts to himself. He would have to bring the boy to heel. With things as they were, there was no place for dissidence, for argument. How could Simón not understand that in saving the country from toppling into the abyss, any and all means were acceptable? If it was necessary to torture people to purge the country, then there was nothing to be done but torture them. The sacrificial sufferings of Joan of Arc and of Miguel Servet had served only to make the Church stronger. True, good men sometimes paid for sinners, but such things were inevitable in wartime. The junta could not publicly admit to the summary trials and executions since this would simply allow the enemy to launch into an endless, disruptive debate. The only thing to be done was exterminate the subversives quickly and quietly. If a military leader preferred to take them prisoner and use them as slave labour, so be it, provided he