The Last Supper: And Other Stories by Howard Fast Page A

word, but we knew what she meant, He was a telephone cable repair man, out on a late call, and he had just climbed down from the cable pole. The light lit him and magnified him as he stood there, legs spread, arms akimbo, a coil of wire over one shoulder, a climbing rope slung over the other, his tools in his leather belt and his feet in heavy leather climbing boots. He stood there like a rock, his whole muscular body and his fine chiseled Indian face of one piece and part, his cotton shirt open at the neck, his lips parted in the slight smile of recognition that honest folk have for one another so late, at night. Gomez greeted him softly and with dignity, and he in turn returned the greeting with the same calm dignity. There was no comment made, and Gomez needed to make none. We said goodnight to Gomez, and we went home …
    A day or so later, my wife, not willing to let the matter rest as it was, went to see Serente and begged him to take money from us to go through with the operation on the little girl; but as in my own case, he was able to convince her that it was impossible. He pointed out to her that he did not even know where these people lived; he had no address for them; they had a few acres of land, somewhere out in the hills; and unless they came to his office again, he could not reach them. Better than I was able to, he pointed out the overwhelming difficulties in what had seemed to us to be a very simple matter. He also stressed that there was no proof at all that the operation would be successful. “You offer charity,” he said to her. “You do it because you are kind and good. But I think you know what charity is. Charity is like facing a thousand hungry people with a crumb of food. You will think I am cruel to say it, but the bad thing about charity is that it pours water on anger. There is no hope for this land but anger—terrible, terrible anger.”
    To us, our frustration was a lash on pity and sentimentality. In Mexico, where the great god of dollar can buy twelve and a half pesos, the poorest American tourist is overcome with delusions of grandeur until the moment when he looks at himself. It is true that many never look at themselves, but some do—and for those there is at least a flash of insight in which they see themselves as others see them.…
    About ten days more passed before we saw Serente again. His practice was an uneven one. If somewhere in the hills there was a sudden sweep of dysentery, of virus or of one of many other diseases, a flood of patients would overwhelm his office. The poor Mexicans knew he was Spanish—and Spaniards are not liked by Mexicans, whose memory is a long one—but they also knew that he never turned patients away, and there was many another doctor who would not look at a patient unless the pesos laid on his palm first, so his practice slackened only rarely. But then, one day, he turned up at our apartment at about two o’clock, haggard with the pressure, of work, and said to me,
    â€œEither I get away for a few hours, or I go out of my mind. What do you have for this afternoon?”
    â€œLike all afternoons here, I work hard at resting.”
    â€œOh. Why can’t I be a tourist?”
    â€œYou don’t have the personality for it. Where do you want to go?”
    â€œTo a strange, wonderful place called Xocalco, an ancient city on top of a mountain. It is about thirty kilometers from here, and it will do us good to spend an hour there. It is very restful. Will your wife release you?”
    â€œI think so. But I’m told I’m a sick man, so I wonder about climbing mountains.”
    â€œThis one, we can climb most of the way in my car. It will do you good, believe me as a doctor.” My wife agreed with him, and in a little while, Sexente and I were in his car, speeding through the green, gleaming rice fields and then climbing into the great wall of mountains that lies south and west of Cuernavaca. Then