Fiesta Moon (22 page)

A barking dog penetrated the numb, empty fog left in the wake of his prayer. His mind and body had been strained from thought and strength, and he lifted his head from the cradle of his folded arms. He blinked, wiped his eyes, and blinked again in disbelief.

A group of a dozen or so men, women, and children were approaching on the dirt road that wound its way up the hill to Hacienda Ortiz. The women, most wearing crowns of braids that made them appear taller than the men, wore the long, colorful skirts of the Indios, while their male compadres sported
calzones,
pajamalike trousers, with loose-fitting shirts, banded at the waist with woven sashes. Patches abounded, but their poverty failed to silence the jovial gestures and expressions as they talked among themselves.

God?
Mark was too spent to get wordy, but this sure had the makings of answered prayer. At the end of the entourage there was a man leading a donkey, another an ox, and each was harnessed to some kind of sledlike flatbed. Another pushed a wheelbarrow. Behind them chugged Juan Pablo's beat-up pickup.

By the time the group reached the hacienda, a force more powerful than the sun warmed Mark from the inside out, restoring his broken body and spirit. He resisted the urge to rush the suddenly quiet and somber group in a hugging frenzy, waiting for Juan Pablo, the only one Mark knew, to park.

But it was Juan Pedro, rather than his plumber brother, who climbed out.

“Buenas tardes,
amigo,” the electrician said, taking Mark into a big bear hug. “The peoples of Mexicalli,” he continued, blasting Mark's face with liquored breath, “hear of your misfortune and are here to help
el
Señor
del Cerdito.”

The señor of the pig?
Mark's translation barely registered when an elder of the group handed Juan Pedro a stoneware jar, which Juan in turn placed in Mark's hands.

“First,” the spokesman said, “we give you the money we have saved for the fireworks of the festival.” He removed the lid, revealing wads of small, smudged bills. “There are coins as well in the bottom.”

“
No es mucho, pero quizás Gonzalez bajará su precio,”
the Indio spoke up.

Maybe Gonzalez will lower his price?
Mark gave himself a mental shake, certain his translation was wrong. No one else knew that Gonzalez had upped the price. Gooseflesh pimpled his sun-hot skin.

“How did they know about Gonzales?” he asked Juan Pedro.

“Pues . . .”
Juan Pedro gave a shrug, as if such knowledge were a given.
“Todos
. . . all know it is his way.”

“
Reputación mala
,” the senior villager chimed in.

But Mark knew the higher source behind this show of support. He steeled his jaw, making certain he wouldn't make a blubbering fool of himself.

“Pues,
do you wish for us to move the materials into the courtyard?” Juan Pedro asked.

Thanks, Lord.
It was a pitiful response for an overwhelming blessing, but there was a time for all things, and this was the season to work.

Mark motioned toward the pile. “By all means . . . and
gracias,”
he said, taking in the ragtag group with his gaze.
“Muchas, muchas, muchas gracias.”

Mind clicking into gear, he studied the situation, trying to assess who needed to do what. “Maybe if the women and children separate the lumber into various sizes . . . ”

Juan Pedro waved Mark away with his hand.
“
Bueno, amigo, this is not the first time we have done such work. You go call Gonzales and make him to lower his price. I am your jefe for this day.”

Mark didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he wasn't sure he could put much stock in the assurances of a drinking, if not inebriated, electrician. But having been tarred with the same brush himself more than once, he considered this a day for second chances.

He gave Juan Pedro a hearty thumbs-up, when a childlike chorus drew Mark's attention toward the orphanage. Coming up the hill he saw a jeans-clad Corinne leading a gaggle of singing goslings carrying baskets and thermos jugs.

Cristo, me ama, Cristo me ama, Cristo me ama, la Biblia dice así.

The words slammed into Mark, twisting and skewering his chest until the pain became unbearable. As if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, he beat a blurred path to the house, praying that he'd not stumble . . .
anymore
.

Her grandmother always said that many hands made light work. If ever there was a day the old adage proved true, it was today, Corinne thought as she handed out another tray of hot dogs fresh from the stone barbecue pit that had been built into the corner section of the courtyard. It hadn't been used in years, but the bed was sound, and the heavy iron grate had been cleansed by fire and a fervent prayer on her part.

“That's the last of them,” she announced.

Father Menasco helped himself to two of the crispy wieners before passing the tray on to the picnicking villagers. Most sat on the tarps that Corinne and Soledad had spread on the softer yard beyond the patio proper and chattered with an enthusiasm that belied their long afternoon's work.

“This is such a treat,” he said. “Boiled hot dogs are good, but cooked over a fire . . .” The priest smacked his lips.

“God provides.” Still, Corinne shook her head in wonder. “To think that this morning we were wondering what to do with the extra cases of hot dogs that came with our food order . . .”

Corinne had only brought the older children, those who could be trusted to help rather than get in the way. They had a grand time hauling the weeds, brush, and trimmings that the women cleared around the house and yard to the compost heap in the back by Toto's vacant pen.

She and Soledad had done what they could with the yard in their spare time, but the years of neglect had made the task formidable.

As formidable as the project woes that Mark faced. It had been all she could do to hold back guilt upon hearing how the Cuernavaca contractor had jacked up the price now that the job was underway. If she had known, she certainly would have stopped Mark from signing the contracts. But she hadn't known.

At least the villagers had taken some of the sting from the disaster. The materials were sorted and moved inside, and the stones from the gate debacle stacked in readiness for reuse. Even the twisted gate was deemed salvageable.

Next to her, Father Menasco pushed himself up and tossed his plate into the container that Soledad had put out for the trash. “I'd best be getting the little ones back to the orphanage before you and I are both in the oven.”

“I could probably get them all in my SUV,” Corinne suggested, watching the youngsters frolic in the far yard with Toto. They'd almost taught him to fetch, although once in a while, instead of returning the chunk of wood to the thrower, the pig sought out Mark and dropped it at his feet. “It would be quicker.”

She'd never seen Mark so . . . what was the word? It might be
humble,
except that it was more than the fact that he kept thanking people over and over as he worked shoulder to shoulder with them. Reserved? Aside from his gratitude, he hadn't had a lot to say . . . except to the children. Whenever one chased Toto to where the pig dropped the stick at Mark's feet, Mark went into a clownlike tizzy of “Oh, no, not
you
again,” to which the children responded with cackles of delight.

She frowned, puzzled. He was always polite, charming, and full of boyish mischief. Maybe it was what she
didn't
see that was different. Had she only been looking for fault before?

God, we already talked about this. I know You're right. I know I've had a plank in my eye.

And I haven't said a word about how I warned him to deal locally,
she added, not for God's benefit, but for hers. Just because she'd confessed didn't mean she wasn't clinging to a few fragments of guilt for looking for the worst in Mark and overlooking her own flaws.
Lord, I don't want to become one of St. Matthew's Pharisees with their camels.

“Why don't you and Mark give some of these older folks a ride home instead?” Menasco said, cutting short her confession. “Between your vehicle and the truck, no one will have to walk back to the village.”

An hour later, and after much persuasion, the elder Primitivo, his two brothers, and their wives accepted Corinne's offer to drive them home. Like most of the villagers, the Indio and his brothers made and sold crafts with their women—when he wasn't healing.

In some cases, healing and witchcraft went hand in hand, but Soledad insisted that Primitivo, who had cured her warts, could only be a healer, since witchcraft was illegal. In her estimation, if the old man was a witch, he was a good witch whose power came from the saints he prayed to at his altar.

The lively chatter of the Indios faded the moment the last car door was shut. By the time Corinne put the vehicle in gear, she realized the reason for her passengers' initial reticence and subsequent silence. It was their first car ride.

Behind her, Primitivo squeezed the back of her neck rest with a crushing grip. It did not release until she braked in front of the old man's hut. Upon exiting the vehicle, he regained his composure.

“It is with much thanks that I, Primitivo, invite you to come into my home for coffee.”

“I don't know, Primitivo, it's pretty late,” Mark started, but Corinne cut him off. To refuse would be to insult the elder villager and his wife.

“You have the heart of an angel, Grandfather,” she said, gathering up her purse from the floor.

They ducked under a canopy of vines that shaded the entrance. After Primitivo's coffee, sleep would likely be out of the question.

CHAPTER 18

Mark had only been on the main street of Mexicalli—the one that led from the poorly paved road to Cuernavaca and the one that led to the lakeside development—if one could call the cottages there development. But when Corinne had pulled onto an unpaved, rutted street behind the shops and businesses, it was like entering into yet another world, even further removed from that to which Mark was accustomed.

The white stucco of Primitivo's house turned from yellow to orange with the glaze of the setting sun, except where patches of it had fallen away to reveal the mud-and-stick construction. Near the foundation, rusted corrugated tin scraps from the roof covered some of the holes. Shaded by a vine canopy, atop which some chickens roosted, was the doorway, with a bench on each side. The elder's wife hurried in ahead of them and flipped a switch, flooding the windows with light through the poorly fitted shutters.

Mark gave Corinne a second questioning glance as he motioned for her to precede him into the humble hut.

“It's an offense to refuse hospitality,” she whispered as she passed him.

He knew she was one of those
go-native
sorts, but agreeing to enter a house that looked one good wind from collapse, and for coffee—the homegrown kind that had to be taken black because it ate spoons? Exhaustion or not, it would be three days before he got another night's sleep, he lamented, ducking through the low doorway. A single lightbulb, unadorned by a shade or globe, spread its yellow light over the meager furnishings of what appeared to be a kitchen–family room combination.

Covering a hard-packed earthen floor were woven rugs, once as bright and colorful as the ones sold in the markets along the main highway between Mexico City and Acapulco, now faded and dingy from wear. Blankets and linens rolled up in
petate
mats that were suspended on nails between the rafters suggested that the enclosure also served as bedroom at night. Señora Primitivo dragged a chair and a stool from under a dinged wooden table near the kitchen wall.

A strange scent akin to pine smoke assailed his nostrils, growing stronger once Mark was seated in a rocking chair next to an inner curtained doorway that he assumed led to a back room.

“Mientras . . .
while my wife makes the coffee, I would speak of your troubles,
el
Señor
del Cerdito.”

It was one thing with the kids, but the Señor of the Pig title was wearing thin with Mark. “Please, Señor Primitivo, call me Mark.
Me llamo . . .”
His Spanish floundered.

“
Llámeme
,” Corinne supplied.

“Call me Mark,” he repeated to the man, sparing his companion a grateful look.

Primitivo nodded. “Señor Marco.”

“Gracias.”
There was no point in arguing. With the Indios, he would be lucky to get rid of the pig label.

“You have already helped us greatly regarding our troubles, Grandfather,” Corinne put in.

Primitivo fetched a bottle and three chipped stoneware cups from a shelf by the window over an apartment-size gas stove, where his wife put on water to boil. Next to it was a porcelain-covered sink unit fitted with a pitcher pump.

As their host poured a clear liquid from a bottle that had served another use—what that might have been, Mark had no idea, as the label was long gone—Corinne stopped him.

“No
refino
for me, please. I prefer to wait for the coffee and leave the drink of your ancestors' spirits to their descendants.”

Refino
? Mark took his cup, aware that Corinne watched him, and sniffed it. The astringent bombardment of his nose left no doubt that it was some sort of liquor—strong liquor.

“You must have some happy ancestors, Primitivo,” he quipped, lifting the cup to his lips. Whatever it was, it would disinfect any lingering germs in the stoneware. He'd take a small sip to appease his host and dump the rest when no one was looking.

It was just a sampling, but when it reached the back of his throat, having savaged and pickled his tongue in passing, Mark's body temp registered four-alarm status. But it was already searing its way to his stomach, tripping a choking mechanism in the process. Somehow at least a pint of it diverted to his nasal cavities, where another wildfire broke out.