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“My sister,” Cayetana gasped, “calls me a puta.” “A puta!” “She says I’m a whore.” “Hmm.” Huila reached behind her and took a soggy mass of cool wet leaves and pressed it into Cayetana’s opening. “Too bad you aren’t. You’d have some money. A better house to live in than this!” “Then I’m not a puta?” “Do you believe you are a puta?” “No.” “Then you are not a puta.
“Parangarícutirimícuaro,”
There was a young man from Parangarícutirimícuaro, Oh to hell with it.
Fear kills you twice, and it gives your enemy pleasure.”
God is a worker, like us. He made the world—He didn’t hire poor Indios to build it for him! God has worker’s hands. Just remember—angels carry no harps. Angels carry hammers.”
PERHAPS, DEEP IN HIS HEART, Tomás wanted no one to be wild if he himself could not run free.
He sat at his breakfast table and ate boiled mango with a spoon. Then he drank a cup of coffee, and ate three eggs fried with beans and chorizo. He ate tortillas. He ate white goat cheese. A slice of melon. A second and third cup of coffee with milky Mexican pralines and a slice of cactus candy. Someone brought him last week’s paper from Alamos, and he sat reading as his delightful Gabriela picked at one poached egg and some toasted bolillo. Té de canela, her favorite cinnamon tea.
