The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [93]
“You are not Catholic,” Gastélum noted, halting the Engineer’s chivalric gestures.
“Excuse me?”
Loreto extracted her hand and drifted away like a malevolent fogbank.
“I was simply noting, for the record, that you are not Catholic,” said the priest. “It is a point of reference. For my reports.”
“Reports?”
“Oh yes,” the priest said, “I am the Vatican’s eyes and ears in Sonora. Did you not know? Unlike you Protestants, we have a Holy Father who is interested in the well-being of all his children. It is my duty to report. Name names and tell tales.” He smiled. Chewed.
“Holy Father?” Aguirre said, just to say something.
“The pope, pendejo,” said Tomás.
“I know that!” Aguirre snapped.
But Tomás had followed Loreto out of the room.
Father Gastélum added: “We have a second father, perhaps not as holy—heh, heh, forgive me a slight jest—in Mexico City. Ahem.”
The two men eyed each other.
Aguirre said, “And you make reports.”
“I do.”
“To Porfirio Díaz.”
“Our leader.”
“The dictator.”
“Dangerous words.”
“The truth.”
“Do you have a clear view of truth, my son?”
“I do when it has to do with that murdering thief in Mexico City!”
“I will note it.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I serve only God . . . and the republic.”
“I serve God and liberty!”
“Ah, liberty. Yes, Lucifer and his fallen angels said something quite similar.”
“I’ll be damned!”
“Perhaps,” said the priest. “I shall watch the gates of Hell in the future and see if you pass through.”
Aguirre flushed red.
“And does the great Don Tomás,” the priest asked, “share your revolutionary views?”
Aguirre thought it was too dangerous to answer.
“I see,” said the priest.
Aguirre could think of nothing to offer.
“I take your silence for a confession,” Gastélum confided. “Very interesting.”
Finally, Aguirre managed to say, “Have some more pastries.”
“Ay, sí.”
“Have some coffee.”
“Gracias, mi hijo,” intoned the priest. “I believe I shall.”
Elsewhere in the house, the drama continued:
“Loreto!” Tomás cried.
She was standing inside the downstairs bathroom, regarding the amazing flush toilet. She pulled the chain and observed the water swirling in the bowl.
“Isn’t this delightful?” she said.
The children were apparently breaking everything they could reach. A loud crashing and crunching came from upstairs.
“Goddamn it!” Tomás bellowed.
He stormed to the stairs.
“Juan! Juan! Juan Francisco!”
“Sí, Papá?”
“Come down here! And bring the others! Now!”
“Sí, Papá.”
And here they came, a parade of chagrined children: Juan, Lety, Martita, Alberto, and Tavito.
Their father glared at them. What monsters.
“Out!” Tomás yelled.
The children trooped out the door. When Huila saw them, she told Teresita, “Wait here,” and hurried into the house. The children eyed Teresita as they stood around the plum tree.
Suddenly, Buenaventura popped up like some demonic puppet and said, “Qué hubo, tú pinche puto?”
“Me?” said Juan Francisco.
“Me?” mocked Buenaventura.
“Watch your mouth,” Juan said.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Don’t repeat me!”
“Don’t repeat me!”
“Aguas, cabrón!”
Teresita rose, but it was already too late to stop them.
Padre Gastélum was in the kitchen, posing nobly for the cook staff while eating various delights they offered up to him. Mexicans had long understood that you could barter your way into Heaven, and they fed the skinny priest slivers of white crumbling wet cheese with green chiles drooping over them, fried little flauta tacos, orange slices with red-pepper powder, cactus candy, candied yams, jícama in lime juice. He was delighted to accept a small glass of cognac when the tray of French chocolates appeared. The girls were thrilled when he made the sign of the cross over each plate and over them. The Blessing of the Chocolates. The Blessing of the Goat Cheese. The Blessing of the Little Black Cigar.
In another room, Loreto slapped Tomás.
He spluttered an obscenity.
She