EL ZOPILóTE
By Grant Maher
Azuaga is a town in the west of Spain that serves as a central marketplace for livestock raised on the broad, upland pastures watered by the Matachel River. In the dusty streets of this town, the hooded and robed figure of Gregório the Monk went about the business of comforting the sick and dying. Each mid-morning, except Sundays, he would issue forth from la Manda del Opus Dei, a small mud-brick monastery on a barren hill to the north, and descend into the town to bring solace to those in need. At death-bed vigils, he would stay patiently by the dying person, praying and meditating until the final breath was drawn.
“There goes el zopilóte” (the vulture), people would remark to each other when he passed by, for wherever there was death, likely nearby would be found Gregório. It was rumored that he had a supernatural ability to sense where death would next visit, and to be waiting when it arrived. Because of this, the monk was thought to bring bad luck, and made many people uneasy.
Good-natured Gregório held no grudges over his reputation or moniker, and, idling afternoons in the cool tavern, would habitually and notoriously trumpet the merits of his namesake bird, which he held in high regard.
“Gentlemen” he began this afternoon, hoisting a shot of tequila, “A toast to el zopilóte, for of all God’s creatures, he alone is without the sin of murder. No other beast or man is as innocent of evil, or as pure of heart.”
Mutters of dissent went around. Men shook their heads. Old One-Hand Tomàs, lurking in his usual grotto against the back wall of the tavern in semi-darkness, where he would feed like a crab with his one remaining hand, called out from his sanctuary, “Bullshit! You’re soft in the head, priest. Vultures are nothing but feathered vermin, and always will be, so quit that crazy talk or take it somewhere else.” Heads bobbed in agreement.
Gregório threw back his toast alone, and motioned to have his glass refilled. Rosario the waitress sidled up and poured him more of the fiery amber liquid from a heavy octagonal bottle.
“Hear me out. The rabbit, the cow, and the goat must slay grass in order to survive—“
“No shit, they slay grass, eh? Oh, that’s bad,” said Rosario teasingly, eliciting laughter from the diners crowded onto on the oak plank benches around the rough-hewn wooden tables.
Gregorio went on. “Yes, now one might argue that grass merits little consideration, but none can deny that blades of grass are living things, and are murdered when consumed. All herbivores, then, are killers. Carnivores must pursue and dismember their living prey, and are without question steeped in guilty blood. And people, who eat both plant and meat, must by necessity demand the unceasing slaughter of living beings in order to exist.”
“Amen to that! That’s how we make our living, don’t forget,” said Ricardo, a tall rancher with a craggy, weather-etched face. “There’s nothing wrong with bistek, eh?” He motioned to the slab of meat sizzling on his oval platter. On most of the platters in this tavern there lay these big steaks, the specialty of the house, served with black beans and lots of corn tortillas.
Gregorio, unfazed, went on. “The vulture, by contrast, sails high in the azure sky, his mind tranquil and innocent, as any mind must be, at those lofty altitudes so close to God. When, perchance, he spies an animal far below that has perished by some natural cause, he takes with gratitude this gift of providence. He then descends to perform the useful function of digesting and returning the substance of the carcass to nature. The raw materials of the deceased are salvaged, and therefore he turns what was bad into good. Animal or vegetable he need never kill, nor cause to be killed. Thereby, he is blessed with perfect innocence, and surely must be beloved of God. I, an eater of animals slaughtered for my consumption, will never attain anything near el zopilóte’s perfect grace.”
Rosario said, “That’s for sure. You’ll be lucky to make it to heaven. Are you done now, padre? Gracias a Dios!”
“Hombres, want to shoot some vultures today?” called out One-Hand Tomàs again. “There’s plenty at my place for target practice!” The ranchers had a good laugh over this, but it trailed off to a nervous ending. The words of Gregório, although scoffed at, could not be entirely dismissed; some of the men felt twinges of guilt over the many vultures they had shot over the years in idle cruelty, and wondered if Díos should be petitioned for forgiveness—but then the conversation of all tavern-goers turned to things of more consequence.
On this particular afternoon the topic of consequence was a well-known and wealthy local rancher confined in la carcél on suspicion of slaying his young daughter’s suitor. It was said that he had surprised his daughter and her suitor making love in her bedroom and had tried to kill the man with a shotgun.
Ordinary folk may delight in a great man’s fall, but this specific great man was much loved by the populace for his gentle humility and proven charity, and so the gossip that went about was more inclined to malign the alleged victim, 18 year-old Rodólfo Sanchez, than the accused.
“I’ll bet you that the Sanchez boy tried to rape the daughter,” said Angelina, a heavy-set matron with curly hair. “I don’t trust his family. They don’t go back very far around here, and who knows from what stock they came from? And of course, the girl was not known as the kind to open her legs before marriage.”
Her friend Dolores, who sported a tie-dyed mumu that she filled out very fullsomely, agreed. “I’ve heard that they were originally from Cordoba, and moved here after some kind of a scandal. Maybe the boy’s old man was a bad apple, too.”
“Let’s not speak evil of the dead, shall we?” said Gregório, who had sat with the elder Sanchez as he lay dying from cancer two years before. “And let she who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Angelina made a fish-face. “You’re one to talk about sin, Gregório. You’ve got some kind of nerve! I’d cast a stone at you-- you’ll sleep with anything that moves, from what I hear. You’re a disgrace to the cloth.”
Dolores got up and put a hand on his shoulder. “So, what’re you doing tonight, you big, bad missionary man?” she drawled, batting her eyelashes.
Ricardo said “And here’s the twist in this case—which I heard straight from Rafael the deputy, who was in here just an hour ago. The police say that the rancher killed the boy, but they have no body. Supposedly he shot the kid, but they can’t find him, and they’ve searched the whole spread with dogs twice. No body, no crime, is how I understand it. They’ll have to let him go.”
“The sooner the better,” said Rosario, and the group muttered its assent. “He’s good people.”
Gregório was moved at this point to walk from the tavern to la carcél, which was no more than two blocks away, to speak himself with the accused man, and perhaps hear a confession. He found the rancher, a thick man with dolorous eyes named Don Candelário Perez, practically in tears. From behind the bars of his cell he told the following tale:
“When I found the boy with Carmelita in her upstairs bedroom at about eight that evening, after I had returned unexpectedly from an appointment, I attempted to block the doorway and so trap him in the room. However, he pushed past me with great energy, only partially dressed, and ran down the stairway to the first floor, and then out the front door. As I exited after him, shouting loudly, I took up the shotgun that stands there by the door and continued my chase into the side yard, where the boy was scrambling up my ivy patch, heading for the woods. I had just enough time to sight on him at about forty paces and give him both barrels.”
“So! It’s true; you shot him. What kind of pellets did you have in the gun?” asked Gregório.
“Just some birdshot—a pheasant hunting load,” said Don Perez, “which doesn’t excuse my action. To shoot someone! I had never considered myself capable. But I was out of my head with anger, just out of my head.” He put his forehead against the bars.
“Go on, please,” said Gregório softly.
Don Perez continued. “Sanchez did not react to the shots at all. Perhaps I missed him? Although, I must admit, it is unlikely. I am an expert wing-shot. He kept running, and I followed him into and then out of the woods by the crash and rustle of his noise, but then I lost him in the dark pastures beyond. Exhausted, I waited on a barren hillside for about half an hour, listening in vain for any tell-tale sounds, before returning to the house. There Carmelita, weeping, demanded to know the fate of her lover. We had a vicious argument, after which my wife demanded that I call the authorities and report the incident, which I did.”
“You did the right thing, Don Perez. I commend you for that,” said Gregorio. “But then, what happened? How is it you were arrested?”
Don Perez sat down heavily on his cell bunk, head in hands. “On the following day, Rodólfo did not return to his mother’s home and I was brought into custody on suspicion of murder by Rafael the deputy. They think that I met up with Rodólfo in the woods that night and finished him off, and then buried him or something. But did I kill the boy? Sure, I filled him up with birdshot, but he ran like a champion afterwards and I cannot see how he was mortally wounded. And, I swear I did not find him or conceal his body. I just wish he could be found so we would know one way or the other. If I have killed him, I will of course take responsibility and accept my punishment.”
Promising to return the following day, Gregório then left him, turning west down the Cálle Guadiana towards the outskirts of town and the Perez ranch, which he had become curious to see. The sight of the hooded monk walking solemnly past her home, which happened to border this road, elicited from the recently-widowed mother of Rodólfo Sanchez a series of little muffled screams as she covered her face in horror or despair. Gregório paid her no attention, as he was not coming to see her just yet.
Far away in the slanting mid-afternoon sun, high in the sky, Gregório’s eyes had fixed upon a dark speck circling against a backdrop of blue. He walked steadily towards this speck as a marine navigator will fix upon the North Star to guide his ship. Leaving the town, he angled straight across brushy draws and up and down thinly wooded, sere hills, always glancing up to check his reference point, which held steady and, Gregório knew, would not waver. After an arduous hike and not a few thorns, he at last stood craning his neck, directly underneath the circling speck. He then leveled his gaze at his surroundings and asked himself, and his guide, “What is here, brother? What do you see?”
He stood near the edge of a steep and rocky defile, which marked one side of an arroyo which gashed the hillside. Peering over the lip, he viewed the broccoli-like tops of green oaks which grew up from the floor of the arroyo, but which did not reach the top of the rocky wall. After much careful examination, Gregório descended to the base of this cliff, and after still more looking around, discovered young Rodólfo Sanchez wedged high in the branching foliage of a gnarled old oak, which had effectively hidden him from man and dog, but not from the keen eyes of the vulture. Moreover, he was still breathing, although bloody and unconscious.
After three days of convalescence in the local hospital, Rodólfo felt well enough to receive visitors. Gregório took a seat by the window, intending to stay the whole day, and teased out an account of what had taken place at the Perez ranch.
Rodólfo was a cocky lad, even after his close call with death. “If old man Perez knew half the things Carmelita and I had already done, he’d have a coronary,” he said while sitting up at lunch. “I mean, he needs to understand that these are not the olden times, sabes? Young people are not these naïve virgins that he imagines us to be. And that wasn’t our first time in her bedroom. We just got unlucky, I guess.” Rodólfo dug into his chicken pot pie with relish. “I love it when they serve English food. You want to try a bite, patron?”
Gregório tried a bite, and agreed that it was delicious. “Surely you know that Don Perez is very remorseful about hurting you, despite the fact that you have brought him great anguish?”
Rodólfo looked at the bulky bandages that covered the left side of his chest. “I don’t really blame the old man. No hard feelings. I have asked the cops to let him go, but they still want him to answer to charges. There’s nothing I can do about it.” Rodólfo started in on his side salad.
“So tell me then, what does it feel like to get shot?” asked Gregório.
“Truth to tell, I hardly noticed being shot at all. Something hit me, like a handful of sand, but I gave it no thought. I didn’t realize I’d been shot until I stopped running and found my shirt completely wet with blood. I didn’t even know where all the blood was coming from. Later I found out I had been punctured by about a hundred pellets all along my left side and leg. The surgeon said he picked birdshot out of me for almost an hour.”
“And then, how did you wind up in the tree?” asked Gregório, snagging a half-banana from the lunch tray and starting to peel it.
“Well, I thought I had better get back to my mother’s house and get cleaned up. I wasn’t thinking too clearly; I couldn’t grasp the situation all that well. I began to walk back towards the lights of town as best as I could, and that’s all I remember until I woke up in this hospital room. I’ve thanked you at least ten times already for finding me, patron, but I’ll say it again—thank you. You saved my life. And thanks to God for the tree, and the vulture who circled over me.”
Gregório smiled. “I’m glad you remembered to thank the Big Man.”
In the aftermath of his crime, Don Perez served a four month sentence for aggravated assault, paid a hefty fine, and had his shotgun confiscated. Young Sanchez never returned to woo Carmelita, and instead went to Cordoba to study law. Carmelita took on a cautious new suitor.
Credited with saving the boy, Gregório’s reputation with the townspeople improved. “There goes el zopilóte,” the gossips would still say, but with a new tone of pride. The mother of young Sanchez, in her gratitude, began to host Gregório at her home, often overnight. Predictably, he continued to orate in the Azuaga tavern about the admirable qualities of his namesake bird, with the difference that now some would believe, and with him toss back tequila in his honor. There was even talk, encouraged by Gregório, of erecting a small bronze statue in the town square in honor of el zópilote, and speculation about who would be commissioned for the work became a popular topic in the tavern.
If one were to visit Azuaga today, one might indeed encounter in the square a unique bronze statue, either of man or bird, or some curious combination thereof.