That first morning at the archives I showed the Secretary my letters of introduction and he took them to the Archivist. The letters formed a formidable portfolio; there was a letter from the President of my University, a Monsignor of the Church of Rome, who signed with a magnificent flourish; there was a letter from the Bishop of the Diocese, complete with Diocesian Seal; there was an embossed letter from the Canada Council; there was a note from the Canadian Ambassador in Madrid; and finally there was an outline of my work schedule in English, French, Spanish and Latin, all dutifully signed by the Vice-President (Research) who like all the others, respectfully requested, in the name of learning and in four languages no less, all local librarians to help me.

It was the sort of introduction researchers kill for and I expected to be invited into the Archivist's office for an official welcome; more, I expected a red carpet to be rolled out and my name to be introduced by scrapes and bows and a clarion trumpet call; Miserias was, after all, such a small town for such an important investigation as the one I was carrying out. But no! The Secretary reemerged from the Archivist's office after a respectable interval of five minutes or so, handed me back my passport to fame, and informed me that I was permitted to stay for one day on a non-renewable, twenty-four hour visitor's pass.

No drums. No trumpets. No introduction. No stack privileges. No taking out books. No searching among the manuscripts. No fame. Nothing. A measly twenty-four hour pass. Miserias was living up to its name.

"How can I read through a whole Archive in a day?" I asked the Secretary, who shrugged his shoulders and mumbled: "If the Archivist doesn't hand you a signed Research Permit, you get a non-renewable, twenty four-hour pass. That's Archive rules. I don't make them and I certainly don't break them."

"I don't know. It's a busy time of year. We're taking stock. Recataloguing... I have express orders not to let anyone in without the Archivist's permission."

There was a pause. The Secretary took out a packet of cigarettes (black tobacco), selected one without offering the packet to me, lit it, and puffed a vigorous cloud of smoke, like a shadow halo, above my head.

"Nobody. Understand? Not nationals. Not foreigners. Especially not foreigners." His eyebrows joined together in a ferocious frown and he stared at me down a long, thin nose, as though sighting down the barrel of a gun, daring me to challenge him.

I was taken aback. I retreated a step and stared at him. I didn't want to argue or protest; somehow, I thought it would make his day.

I accepted the twenty-four hour pass, and began to work in that area of the Archives to which I was given access. I went through the main filing cabinet for a couple of hours and cross-checked their index system against the one my friends from the University in Madrid had sent. I saw a couple of items that I knew would prove useful (if only as camouflage for the real reason I was here), and I noted them down.

Next morning, dressed in a sweater and my old blue jeans, I returned to the Archives. The Secretary stared at me. "What do you want now?" he barked. In the early morning light, it would have been easy to believe that he had three heads; and not one of them could believe my rashness in returning.

"No way!" he growled. "You're out of luck. You've had your twenty-four hour pass. You're only allowed one. I've been told not to let you in. Be on your way now."

"Look! I really have to see the Archivist. I need to work here. More important. This place needs me."

"I've told you already: the Archivist is not available. He's not seeing anyone."

I left him standing there, grinning to himself, his nostrils twitching, and I went to a bar just opposite the Archives where I ordered a coffee. I took a seat by the window from which I could see part of the street and I sat there, staring into space.

I drummed my fingers on the table. Catchy rhythms. Impatient finger-dancing. Arguments, word-games, whirled through my head.

Research! Everything, even the Secretary's reaction to my visit, confirmed my suspicion that there were documents relating to Miserias's rule of anarchy during the Civil War hidden somewhere in the Archives. And who knew what further wonderful material I might find, with a little industry and a reasonable amount of luck. But academic research in the arts is not well-respected anymore, not even original archival research. I had my ideas, my theories; they lacked that one smidgin of proof: a letter, a confession... And I was running out of funds; thus, if I had no immediate research to keep me busy ... I would just have to keep consuming endless coffees in an everlasting string of bars. And all bars get to be the same, once you've sat in them long enough. Except for the price. And when you're out of cash, better a small time, small town bar than the highlights of the capital at five times the price. So, research or not, there were reasons for staying. And anyway, Secretary or no, I was determined to see that Archivist and present him with my letters, my glorious letters from Monsignor and the Bishop.

Just then who came into the bar, if not the Secretary? He glared at me, woofed grimly, showing yellowed fangs, then sat sideways on to me and ordered a glass of white wine.

"Hullo, hullo," I thought, "Drinking on duty? Who's looking after the the door to hell then?"

The Secretary called for a deck of cards and began to shuffle the pack. A few minutes later a second man joined him. And a third. They called for a fresh bottle of wine and some food and settled down to play.

I called the waiter over, paid him, and left the bar. I could feel the Secretary's eyes burning into my back as I left.

When I got there, I took off my old shirt and put on the clean navy blue one I was saving for Sunday. I took my charcoal suit from the cupboard. It was looking a little the worse for wear, but it would do at a pinch. I found a pair of dark grey socks and dressed quickly, putting on my one decent pair of black shoes. My borrowed university tie with its tree, book, and beaver, was still quite respectable, although a little bit crumpled. But as I rearranged my hair in the bathroom mirror, I looked more or less the part I wanted to play.

I hurried back to the Archives, taking care to scurry with my head turned away past the cafe where I had left the Secretary eating, drinking, making merry, and playing cards with his friends. Inside the Archives, behind the grand, oak-beamed doors, with their great, nailed studs and heavy hinges was the the reception desk, and at the desk sat a small, mousy woman. I asked her very politely if I could be permitted to see the Archivist.

There was a long pause. The woman hesitated, wriggling slightly on her chair, and then:

The woman was clearly uncomfortable. I looked at her steadily. She lowered her eyes.

"Federico said you would be back. He told me to tell you that you've had your twenty-four hour pass and that you're not to receive another."

Ah ha! I thought. So that's the game! While the Archivist's away on holiday, Federico is spending his days in the local bar drinking, eating, and playing cards; meanwhile, his wife stands duty for him and nobody is to visit the Archives on serious business.

"Well, it's a great pity. I've come a very long way to peruse the manuscripts in your Archives. I've got a letter of introduction from the Archbishop, and another signed by a very important Monsignor who met and was blessed by the Pope himself during the Holy Father's last visit to Canada. But your husband wouldn't even do me the courtesy of reading them, let alone of showing them to the Archivist."

"Of course it is." I replied, "But if it's the Lord's will that I shall not be permitted to work here, in spite of the Holy Apostolic persuasions of my Archbishop himself, who am I to go against the will of Our Lord and Heavenly Father?"

"Oh, I do; I do. I see. And I quite understand. Never mind. A blessing upon you anyway, my child, for treating me so kindly and letting me see the truth of the matter ..."

I raised my right hand, second and third fingers together, as if about to deliver a blessing, just like the priests do back at the University and ...

"Well, my child, I'm not sure that I'm in the mood to forgive you right now. Especially with you going against the express wishes of my Archbishop. You see, I've travelled here from the other side of the world on important business that links our University and Church with your Archives. And I've travelled such a long way ..."

She opened a drawer of the desk and produced a 24 hour form. She sighed, signed it, tore it along the perforated line and handed me the half I needed to consult the filing cabinets.

"Bless you, my child!" I made a quick sign in the air. "Bless you! The Archbishop will be thrilled when he hears that I've been allowed to work in the Archives. Now: the manuscripts? But how do I get at them?"

"That won't be a problem, Father. Just tell me what you want and I'll get it for you."

"Thank you, my child. May the Good Lord be with you. What will I do when your husband comes back? Are you sure there'll be no trouble with your husband?"

"Father: you can come back here every day you want. There'll be no trouble from my man."

Every morning I would arrive at the archives in my charcoal suit and every morning there would be a 24 hour chit waiting for me on the desk, signed by the woman. Sometimes she greeted me herself. Sometimes it would be her husband. Surly, often unshaven, with a wary, kicked-cur look and a hang-dog voice he would growl:

And I would go into the work-room to the desk which they had arranged for me, and I would begin my work.

"Microfilm, Father? No, sir. There's nobody in town knows anything about microfilms."
"Photocopying, then?"

"There are no photocopying machines here, Father. You would have to travel."
"Well, that will be easy. I'll just take the manuscripts I need on the bus to the nearest city..."

Although husband and wife looked at each other in consternation, they replied in unison:

Then, one morning, while drinking coffee in a little bar I had started to frequent, a group of older men approached me.

"I'm not sure. My work is nearly done. Three or four days; a week, say, at the outside. I'm not really sure."

The oldest villager present turned towards me, pulled himself very tall and very upright, looked at a point just above and beyond my left shoulder, and asked:

My mouth fell open and I gazed at him in amazement. Then, recovering my senses, I looked at each man in the group. One by one, they lowered their eyes and refused to lock eyes with mine.

"Surely," I said, "that is a job for your own village priest? How can you ask a man, a foreigner to boot, to perform mass without first consulting the village priest?"

They exchanged anxious glances. One wiggled his fingers under a suddenly too-tight collar. There was a looking down to the sidewalk, a bowing of collective heads, a scraping and a scratching of the ground with feet. Then:

There was another silence. again, they lowered their heads, shuffled their feet, looked first at their shoes, then at each other; the youngest of them swallowed, seemed to come to a major decision, and spoke in a bitter, determined voice:

"The archivist is the village priest."

"Then you can wait," I said, "for mass, until he returns."

"What if he doesn't return?"

"Of course he'll return. He's got two jobs to do, hasn't he?"

Again, that silence. Suddenly, it was filled with a rush of words:

"He will not return; there is no priest. This is an ungodly village, Father. Here, in the Times of Trouble, the people murdered their father confessor. And since that time, no mass has ever been celebrated in our little church. Not everybody wants you here, even now; in the sunshine and light of the village square, it may be 'Good morning, Father!' and smiles and noddings, but at night, in the darkness, among the shadows, there are those who would welcome a return to brute force and anarchy. There are, however, a righteous few who remain here, in the village, and on their behalf we request this blessing."

"He was a fraud, Father. A quack. A cheat. Celibate? He slept with our women and left bastards all over the place. Sober? He was drunk when he said Mass. And he stank of brandy when he listened to our sins in the confessional! Kind and forgiving? He only forgave those sins that benefitted the church and then at a price the poor could not afford. Learned and intelligent? He allowed the archives to slip into ruin. You've seen them yourself. Nobody knows, even now, just what's in there."

At first, they were hesitant. Then the youngest one began to tell his version of the story:

"One night, the local troops were called to a neighbouring village to settle some dispute. When they came back, the priest was dead. He had been taken from his house . . ."

Another took up the story:

". . . and crucified, upside down, in the village square."

"His ears were stuffed full of his rosary beads."

"He was no true priest."

"He was an impostor."

"He was a liar and a cheat."

I looked down at my shoes.

"So there's no archivist? No priest? Is everyone in this village living a lie?"

"Everyone. Except you. Stay here, Father. The village needs you. After all these years, our women have finally found a priest they can trust again. You could do much good here, Father. The righteous have been lacking a spiritual leader for far too long."

This was one of those times when I wished I smoked. I could have taken out my pipe, stuffed the bowl slowly with tobacco, packing it down firmly until the tension was just right, then, selecting a match, drawing slowly, watching thin smoke arise without a real fire . . . I looked up at the sky, saw a hawk, wing tips fluttering, suddenly plummet towards the ground, then:

"I'm sorry," I said. "I cannot make such a decision on the spur of the moment. I must consult with my superiors. You must give me time."

So there I was, packing. I went back to the archives, late that night. When I slipped inside the door, I thought for a second I saw something slide into the shadows behind me. But when I checked, there was nothing there; I must have been mistaken. I was a little bit nervous, and kept looking over my shoulder as I folded the best of the manuscripts and put them under my shirt, next to my body. Then, I threw all the other papers back in the chest, muddled them about, and left everything much as I found it: in a mess.

"No one," I thought, "will ever know that the village's precious treasures are missing. Not without a competent catalogue, and I haven't found anything resembling an accurate listing yet."

The manuscripts were folded up and placed as neatly and as carefully as I could manage in the side pocket of the smaller of my two bags. I intended taking them to the nearest town, photocopying them, and then returning them by registered mail to the village. I waited until evening. Then, as the lights started to go out in the village, I left with my bags and headed towards the main road. It had been cloudy that day, with rain forecast for the night. Now it was drizzling and there was nobody about. I was sure that, with the evening so cold and wet, someone would take pity on me and I would get a lift from a motorist or a passing truck. Even if I didn't, I would have been quite happy to walk a while and catch a bus, from the next village, first thing the following morning.

It was funny, walking out there, in the rain. I was sure that nobody would miss me until Saturday night or Sunday morning. They had all seemed so worried about getting a new priest. And then, they had been content to give me some breathing space, while I thought out the situation.

Behind me, on the road, I thought I heard the sound of a footstep. But when I turned, there was nothing there. I stood for a while, looking back into the blackness. Nothing.

"When I get to the city," I thought, "I'll photocopy the manuscripts and mail them back. I won't use registered mail, though, I don't want to leave anything to trace me. It should be safe enough in the ordinary post.

I think I'll worry about the flight later. The villagers here have made such fools of themselves; they'll never go to the authorities and tell them what's happened. I doubt very much if they'll send the police after me, even if they do finally suspect something. The best place to hide myself will probably be the capital; it's easy enough to stay hidden there and no one will ever find me amongst all those millions.

When I get back to Canada, I'll be established. Certainly a major article; perhaps three or four. Maybe a book; a critical edition, say? Anyway, no one at the university's ever found anything like this. I'll soon have promotion; tenure within two years, I shouldn't wonder.

I might even become famous in my own limited academic world. A professorship; a major faculty appointment in a first class university; whatever I do it will mean no more one year terminals on anonymous, out-of-the-way campuses . . .

If anyone sees me leaving here, I'll say I'm going to consult with the Archbishop. And if anyone back home asks too many awkward questions, I can always invent some story. I'll say I bought the manuscript in a local flea market or that I was given it by an old man who took me for his adopted son. I'll dream something up.

Meanwhile, within an hour or so, I'll be gone from here. Nobody will see me if I keep to the shadows. And nobody will ever know anything about this adventure of mine, except God. And after what these villagers did to the last priest He sent to live here, I don't think He's going to worry too much over the ethics of one borrowed manuscript!"

That, more or less, was what I was thinking when, unmistakeable, the sounds of footsteps rang out on the road behind me. Then, from behind a tree in the road ahead, came the glow of a cigarette butt, the flash of a torch, and the triple-barking of a trio of guard dogs.