In Evil Hour Read Online Free

but he took a handkerchief out of his pants, unfolded it scrupulously, dusted off the step, and sat down with his legs apart. Father Ángel saw then that it wasn’t a revolver but a flashlight that he wore in his belt.
    “What can I do for you?” the priest asked.
    “Father,” the manager said, almost breathless, “forgive me for butting into your affairs, but tonight it must have been a mistake.”
    The priest nodded his head and waited.
    “
Tarzan and the Green Goddess
is a movie approved for all,” the manager went on. “You yourself recognized that on Sunday.”
    The priest tried to interrupt him, but the manager raised one hand as a signal that he hadn’t finished yet.
    “I’ve accepted the business of the bell,” he said, “because
it’s true, there are immoral movies. But there’s nothing wrong with this one. We intended to show it on Saturday for the children’s matinee.”
    Father Ángel explained to him then that, indeed, the movie had no moral classification on the list that he received in the mail every month.
    “But having a movie today,” he went on, “shows a lack of consideration since there’s been a death in town. That, too, is a part of morality.”
    The manager looked at him.
    “Last year the police themselves killed a man inside the movies and as soon as they took the body out the show went on,” he exclaimed.
    “It’s different now,” the priest said. “The mayor’s a changed man.”
    “When they hold elections again the killing will come back,” the manager replied, exasperated. “Always, ever since the town has been a town, the same thing happens.”
    “We’ll see,” the priest said.
    The manager examined him with a look of grief. When he spoke again, shaking his shirt to ventilate his chest, his voice had acquired a tone of supplication.
    “It’s the third movie approved for all that we’ve had this year,” he said. “On Sunday three reels were left because of the rain and there are a lot of people who want to know how it comes out.”
    “The bell has already been rung,” the priest said.
    The manager let out a sigh of desperation. He waited, looking at the prelate face on and no longer thinking about anything except the intense heat in the study.
    “So there’s nothing that can be done?”
    Father Ángel shook his head.
    The manager slapped his knees and got up.
    “All right,” he said. “What can we do.”
    He folded his handkerchief again, dried the sweat on his neck, and examined the study with bitter care.
    “This place is an inferno,” he said.
    The priest accompanied him to the door. He threw the bolt and sat down to finish the letter. After reading it again from the beginning, he completed the interrupted paragraph and stopped to think. At that moment the music from the loudspeaker stopped. “We would like to announce to our distinguished clientele,” an impersonal voice said, “that tonight’s show has been canceled because this establishment also wishes to join the town in mourning.” Father Ángel, smiling, recognized the manager’s voice.
    The heat grew more intense. The curate continued writing, with brief pauses to dry his sweat and reread what he had written, until two sheets were filled. He had just signed it when the rain let loose without warning. A vapor of damp earth penetrated the room. Father Ángel addressed the envelope, closed the inkwell, and was ready to fold the letter. But first he read the last paragraph over again. Then he opened the inkwell and wrote a postscript:
It’s raining again. With this winter and the things I’ve told you about, I think that bitter days await us
.

F RIDAY DAWNED warm and dry. Judge Arcadio, who boasted of having made love three times a night ever since he’d made it for the first time, broke the cords of the mosquito netting that morning and fell to the floor with his wife at the supreme moment, wrapped up in the embroidered canopy.
    “Leave it the way it is,” she murmured. “I’ll