and honorable warning offered in Iberia when Spanish maids were about to toss the chamber-pots’ contents out the windows.
“Pardon me,” Aguirre said, taking a final surreptitious sniff: garlic and bacon! “I always lose my head when confronted with your lovely bride.” Loreto felt a rush of embarrassed joy, for in claiming to be powerless over himself in the face of her beauty, he had not only absolved himself of adulterous guilt, but complimented her so deeply that she could never explain it even to herself, while equally complimenting Tomás as the most macho man in the region—the man who had landed this astounding powerhouse of beauty and grace, the delicious Loreto! Aguirre basked in this small coup as he stood straight and beamed at everyone.
Tomás slapped him on the back, which was a signal to all others to vanish into the far regions of the house. “Who can blame you, my beloved son of a whore?” Tomás said, all the while implying that he would indeed blame—forever—should lips meet anything other than back of the hand. He led Aguirre into his study and decanted brandy. Aguirre, sitting back in a red-gold chair beneath the library shelf, accepted the snifter and, silently, raised it in a toast to his friend.
“I’m glad you’re here, old friend,” Tomás said.
“I was afraid I’d miss your party,” Aguirre said. “Things are complicated on the roads.”
“Did you see bandits?”
“Only in the form of government agents.”
“That sort of talk could stretch your neck,” Tomás said.
“Oh? Are there spies even in your house?”
Tomás smiled.
“The bandits are all dead,” Aguirre informed him. “And many Indians. Americanos are buying land in Chihuahua and Sonora on deeds from Mexico City.” He waved his hand before his face. “There are
department stores.
”
“What is this?”
“Germans selling coats and underpants and pots and toys all in one great store.”
“No meat?”
“No.”
“No steaks?”
“No! No meat at all.”
“What kind of a store sells no meat?”
“Tomás! Por Dios! Pay attention! A department store.”
“What do they sell?”
“I just told you what they sell.”
“No meat.”
“Correct.”
“German underpants.”
“Well. As a figure of speech.”
“Ah.”
“Things, in other words.”
“Ah!”
“It is very North American.”
“No meat,” said Tomás. “It is the end of ranching.”
“No, no,” the Engineer said. “There will be department stores of meat!”
Tomás raised his glass.
“Let us drink a toast, then, to the future!”
A girl brought in a tray with fluted glasses filled with seviche, and a bowl of the delightful raw shellfish known as pata de mula. Tomás had ordered it sent from Los Mochis. The seafood had arrived in tunnels bored into blocks of ice that were wrapped in burlap and buried in mounds of sawdust. Beside the seviche, there was a glass bowl of toothpicks, a small plate of lime slices, a pinch bowl of crushed salts, and a cup filled with salsa borracha.
Aguirre immediately drenched a disk of pata de mula in lime, skewered it on a toothpick, and began the long wrestling match that passed for chewing when eating the recalcitrant shellfish. Tomás, not to be outdone, slurped up fish and lime juice from his glass, then spooned salsa borracha directly into his mouth. He turned bright crimson and his nose began running. Aguirre slopped salsa onto his seviche and spooned out a great burning gob. Tears came to his eyes. They were both sweating profusely.
“Chingue a su madre,” Tomás said, but he said it the way the men said it, as one Asiatic ululation: “Heeng-yasumá!”
“Yes,” Aguirre concurred, “it is tasty.”
Segundo stopped by and said, “Pata de mula!”
“Dig in,” Tomás invited.
When the chiles hit his tongue, Segundo sighed: “Hijo de su madre.”
It was so painful they had no further words for its wonder.
There was a long pause before Aguirre spoke again.
“This
“Pardon me,” Aguirre said, taking a final surreptitious sniff: garlic and bacon! “I always lose my head when confronted with your lovely bride.” Loreto felt a rush of embarrassed joy, for in claiming to be powerless over himself in the face of her beauty, he had not only absolved himself of adulterous guilt, but complimented her so deeply that she could never explain it even to herself, while equally complimenting Tomás as the most macho man in the region—the man who had landed this astounding powerhouse of beauty and grace, the delicious Loreto! Aguirre basked in this small coup as he stood straight and beamed at everyone.
Tomás slapped him on the back, which was a signal to all others to vanish into the far regions of the house. “Who can blame you, my beloved son of a whore?” Tomás said, all the while implying that he would indeed blame—forever—should lips meet anything other than back of the hand. He led Aguirre into his study and decanted brandy. Aguirre, sitting back in a red-gold chair beneath the library shelf, accepted the snifter and, silently, raised it in a toast to his friend.
“I’m glad you’re here, old friend,” Tomás said.
“I was afraid I’d miss your party,” Aguirre said. “Things are complicated on the roads.”
“Did you see bandits?”
“Only in the form of government agents.”
“That sort of talk could stretch your neck,” Tomás said.
“Oh? Are there spies even in your house?”
Tomás smiled.
“The bandits are all dead,” Aguirre informed him. “And many Indians. Americanos are buying land in Chihuahua and Sonora on deeds from Mexico City.” He waved his hand before his face. “There are
department stores.
”
“What is this?”
“Germans selling coats and underpants and pots and toys all in one great store.”
“No meat?”
“No.”
“No steaks?”
“No! No meat at all.”
“What kind of a store sells no meat?”
“Tomás! Por Dios! Pay attention! A department store.”
“What do they sell?”
“I just told you what they sell.”
“No meat.”
“Correct.”
“German underpants.”
“Well. As a figure of speech.”
“Ah.”
“Things, in other words.”
“Ah!”
“It is very North American.”
“No meat,” said Tomás. “It is the end of ranching.”
“No, no,” the Engineer said. “There will be department stores of meat!”
Tomás raised his glass.
“Let us drink a toast, then, to the future!”
A girl brought in a tray with fluted glasses filled with seviche, and a bowl of the delightful raw shellfish known as pata de mula. Tomás had ordered it sent from Los Mochis. The seafood had arrived in tunnels bored into blocks of ice that were wrapped in burlap and buried in mounds of sawdust. Beside the seviche, there was a glass bowl of toothpicks, a small plate of lime slices, a pinch bowl of crushed salts, and a cup filled with salsa borracha.
Aguirre immediately drenched a disk of pata de mula in lime, skewered it on a toothpick, and began the long wrestling match that passed for chewing when eating the recalcitrant shellfish. Tomás, not to be outdone, slurped up fish and lime juice from his glass, then spooned salsa borracha directly into his mouth. He turned bright crimson and his nose began running. Aguirre slopped salsa onto his seviche and spooned out a great burning gob. Tears came to his eyes. They were both sweating profusely.
“Chingue a su madre,” Tomás said, but he said it the way the men said it, as one Asiatic ululation: “Heeng-yasumá!”
“Yes,” Aguirre concurred, “it is tasty.”
Segundo stopped by and said, “Pata de mula!”
“Dig in,” Tomás invited.
When the chiles hit his tongue, Segundo sighed: “Hijo de su madre.”
It was so painful they had no further words for its wonder.
There was a long pause before Aguirre spoke again.
“This
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