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chapter 8
It was not quite dinner time yet, but I decided to head for the dining room, and as I was about to step out into the courtyard I glimpsed someone in a white shirt go past. It had to be Juan Diosdado, the only one around here who dressed formally. Seeing him brought to mind the incident of a few days before when I'd overheard him referring to someone, presumably me, as el amante de la bruja.
The word amante derives from amar, and I assumed it meant boyfriend. Or did it mean something more? I still wondered about that, and, it left me with a sense of frustration to be so uncertain as to what had been said.
Don Pablo was sitting by himself at the table when I entered the dining room, and I asked him about the word. "¿Qué quiere decir amante?" I asked.
"¿Amante?" Don Pablo looked at me. "Pues, novio."
"Just another word for boyfriend?"
"Yes, that's about it."
"No, it's not!" interjected doña Josefina as she entered from the kitchen.
"Then what else could it mean?" don Pablo glanced up, a bit intimidated by her.
"The two words are not to be confused," she instructed him. "Novio refers to a courtship between a gentleman and a lady which may lead to marriage. Amante, on the other hand, would suggest the lady is a loose woman."
Just to make sure I had it right, I asked, "So it's improper to refer to a woman's boyfriend as her amante?"
"Very improper," she affirmed, then added as an afterthought, "Where did you hear it used?"
I hesitated for a moment, but before I could think of a response, Carlos strolled into the room. I wondered how much of our conversation he might have overheard.
Then came Domingo, soon followed by the bird honchos, Palomo and Morito, and then everyone else came trooping in. It was close to dinner time, and the room was filling up.
Huero Marco arrived with an attractive woman with jet black hair and dark brown skin whom he introduced as his wife. The two of them together made me fantasize of how Chayo and I might look as a couple. They lived in Morelia, and he spent his weekends at home while he worked here. He and Carlos would be here for another year on their current project, then they'd be sent elsewhere.
Tonight everybody was present, including some I hadn't seen before, probably friends or relatives. There were twelve or fourteen people in all, much more than the usual. Cuauhtémoc, who often perched on the back of a chair between Palomo and Moreno, found himself without a place this evening, and he strutted about on the floor, no doubt feeling a bit put out.
"Quite a character, that rooster," chuckled the fellow seated next to me. It was Pedro Mendoza, a friend of don Pablo who raised horses at Jicalán, a nearby village.
The first time I'd seen don Pedro was the same afternoon as my duel with Cuauhtémoc, when the mysterious one-eyed man had appeared in the courtyard. Don Pedro didn't look at all like him, except that both wore a patch over one eye and both were in their late fifties.
Tonight's meal was something special, though I wasn't sure what the occasion was. Don Pedro had told me, but I hadn't quite understood and I was too self-conscious to ask him to repeat himself.
The food began to arrive, carried in by the cook and her twelve-year-old daughter, Tina, who sometimes assisted her mother on busy occasions. Side conversations subsided into a clatter of plates and silverware as general attention was drawn to the steaming dishes being passed around.
Doña Josefina enjoyed her role as hostess, keeping the conversation going with numerous topics which I followed more easily than when I had first moved in. "Olaf visited Volcán Paricutín yesterday," she said unexpectedly, and all eyes turned to me as I suddenly found myself the center of attention. "Perhaps he would like to tell us his impressions?"
What could I possibly tell them that they didn't already know? Most of these people had probably visited the site numerous times. Doña Josefina and her husband had at least been in their twenties back in the 1940's when the ash and cinders came raining down on Uruapan, and it was a frequently discussed topic, and they were knowledgeable on this subject. For a moment I wasn't sure what to say. Perhaps as a foreigner, however, I could give them a fresh perspective.
I began telling of my walk with Chayo through the Tarascan village and of my first experience of riding horseback. I went on to describe my first impressions of the lava field, as well as making some comments on volcanoes in general.
"I've heard of that new theory called plate tectonics," said Carlos, who was a civil engineer. "Does that have anything to do with the eruption of Paricutín?"
"Yes," I said, and explained that the earth's crust was made up of plates which were constantly in motion. I spoke cautiously at first, fearing that I might bore my audience. Fortunately they were quite interested. Even the bird honchos, who weren't terribly intellectual, were listening attentively, so I continued at some length. "Out in the Pacific Ocean there's a deep trench. That marks the place where a plate is turned downward into the earth's crust. It begins an underground journey, and when it reaches a certain depth, several hundred kilometers down, it melts. The molten rock eventually forces its way upward, and, when it reaches the surface, it erupts! A new volcano!"
"Another volcano?" doña Josefina asked. "You mean this will happen again?"
"Probably not for another couple centuries," I said.
"But it will happen?"
"Most assuredly so," I said.
"Where will the next volcano erupt?"
"Anywhere," I said. "It could even be right in the middle of Uruapan, in the central plaza."
Several people laughed. Some others looked disturbed.
I was about to reassure them that the chances of a volcano erupting here in the middle of the city were extremely remote, but before I could say that, someone else spoke.
"So you came here to study the geology?"
"Yes, and also to learn about the culture," I said, guessing that they'd heard enough about geology for now. I didn't want to bore them and I added that I was also interested in indigenous traditions, and wanted to see more of the Tarascan villages.
"Stay away from those Indians," came a voice from the far end of the table. It was Juan Diosdado, the only person wearing a white shirt and tie.
Doña Josefina gave Diosdado a scornful look. "What foolishness are you talking this time?" she demanded.
"I'm telling Olaf in case he doesn't know," he said. "Those Indians are all a bunch of lazy, filthy no-goods."
What struck me as ironic was that this man himself had black hair and skin as dark brown as any Indian. I said, "How can you say that? You're an Indian too."
I heard someone gasp. Several maybe. Others were snickering. I glanced around the table and saw that most were grinning broadly.
"I am NOT an Indian!" Juan shot back, "I'm an EDUCATED man!" He practically shouted the word educated.
"You are educated?" Carlos asked sarcastically. Carlos was normally so good natured that his derisive remark surprised me.
"I certainly am," Juan Diosdado replied pompously, and began listing the schools he'd attended and the degrees and honors he'd received. The list was long, and went on and on. It sounded to me as if he were starting to repeat himself.
Some groaned. Others sighed. Marco's wife rolled her eyes.
I glanced at the calendar portrait of Cuauhtémoc, the Aztec war chief, and I also thought of Chayo. "Soy muy indigena," she'd told me the day before. She was proud to be Indian, and I'd naïvely assumed all Mexicans were, but this fellow was obviously not. He was still rambling on with his list of schools and honors. Marco had told me Diosdado was a bookkeeper and that he was a whiz at arithmetic, but that was about as much as anyone ever gave him credit for.
"You've told us all this before," doña Josefina said, "Many times!"
"Good! Then you must know," he said, and glanced around with smug self-satisfaction.
The words 'I am not an Indian!' reverberated through my mind, and I started to speak, but was cut off, first by one, then by another as people showered invective upon him. But at last:
"Let's hear what Olaf has to say," the hostess said.
All eyes turned to me, and the room went quiet. I took a deep breath and I said to the fellow: "You look more Indian than anyone at this table."
Dead silence. Not even a gasp or a groan.
Had I said a no-no? A social blunder of unforgivable magnitude?
Silence continued. It lasted for a painful eternity. All I could hear was the sound of people sucking in their breath. I felt my face turning red with embarrassment. Were they perhaps about to tell me to leave this place, find myself other lodgings?
Then, like the storm which follows the lull, there came a massive, roaring outburst of laughter.
Carlos, who was sitting across from me, had just taken a sip of coffee which he now coughed, choked and sneezed onto his plate. It took him some time to recover. He kept choking and laughing and gasping for breath, all at the same time.
Doña Josefina and don Pablo were also laughing, and so were Marco and his wife, and the bird honchos and everyone else. Some twelve or fourteen people were laughing till their sides were splitting. Above the din, I heard the chicken crowing.
The laughter echoed back from the courtyard, as though there were a huge crowd out there joining in. The Chichimecas, perhaps? The corrugated metal roof was vibrating overhead, also expressing itself. The very foundations of the building shook with approval. Even the Aztec warrior in the picture was cracking a smile.
Tears rolled down don Pablo's cheeks. Doña Josefina was drying her eyes with a napkin, and she leaned over to gently wipe the tears off her husband's face as she herself continued to laugh.
Could it really be this funny? I'd intended to show Diosdado the fallacy in his thinking, but this incredible response took me totally by surprise. I looked first at one, than at another. Maybe it was something else that they were laughing about. Had I missed it? But everybody kept looking at me, so it had to have been my remark that caused this enormous reaction.
The only one besides me who wasn't laughing was Juan Diosdado. He sat there, glaring at me, shaking with rage. Finally he stood up and took a step towards me.
I got up to defend myself. Though Diosdado wasn't physically prepossessing, the fury in his eyes was intense, and I wondered if it had been wise to offend him.
The laughter around me subsided and the room was filled with a hush as the man took another step towards me. Clearly, I had no choice but to fight him. Keeping my eyes on his in order to avoid giving hints of what I might do, I hastily planned my moves. I'd let him swing first, parry his blow, and then aim for his solar plexus.
"¡Pégale bien!" Morito's voice broke through the silence. I glanced his way, and he shouted to me again, raising his clenched fist as a gesture of encouragement, "Knock him flat!"
Pedro Mendoza, the one-eyed man, gave me a nod, as did several others.
Juan Diosdado hesitated for a long moment, then abruptly wheeled about and headed towards the door. As he did so, Cuauhtémoc happened to come strutting out from behind the other end of the table, then halted in front of Diosdado.
Diosdado also halted. The bird made no hostile move. He simply cocked his head to one side and looked up at the man. For an instant the two of them stood there motionless, toe to toe.
From where I stood, I couldn't see the expression on Diosdado's face. I wondered why he didn't just walk on past the bird and out the door. Then he drew back his foot and let fly, aiming all his anger at the chicken.
Before I could even gasp, the man had already kicked and missed. The chicken had jumped to one side, and the kick went high into the air. As the man struggled to regain his balance, the chicken dove in and jabbed his beak into the calf of his other leg.
"¡Que cobarde!" It was doña Josefina's voice. She was reproving him for his attempt on a poor defenseless animal.
The bird honchos, Morito and Palomos, applauded wildly.
"¡Ariba mi Cuauhtémoc!"
"¡Ariba mi pollito!"
Others laughed and cheered--for the chicken of course.
But the drama wasn't over. It was just beginning. Diosdado kicked again and missed. Wings whirled as the agile bird bounced back and forth. Now here. Now there. Now jabbing away with his beak, an Aztec warrior chastising his enemy.
There was more applause for the chicken, who was now dancing in front of Diosdado, wings lowered slightly, presenting a perfect target that the man couldn't possibly miss this time. But he did miss. Again and again he missed, to the amusement of the onlookers who laughed at every miss the guy made, and applauded each hit the chicken scored with his sharp beak.
I was the only one who wasn't laughing. Though I knew from personal experience how very agile this bird was, I was frightened he might get hurt. I stood there, gripping my chair and wincing at each kick, fearing this time the chicken would catch it.
Although Cuauhtémoc was truly an obnoxious chicken, I suddenly realized that I didn't want to see him injured. The thought struck me as something of a revelation.
The shouting, cheering and fighting continued.
"¡No te rajes! Indio." Palomo's voice, mocking the man. His raspy laugh followed.
Morito, the other bird honcho, was likewise cheering and mocking and laughing.
I glanced at them, and in that instant while I was distracted--
Thud!
I closed my eyes in horror as the walls shook. It was like a horse kicking the stable down.
Silence. Then:
"Ahhhhhhhh."
Diosdado was grasping his leg, mouth open and emitting a deep, barely audible groan as he staggered back from the concrete wall he'd just kicked, and on that wall, staring him in the face, was the picture of the bird's namesake.
At great effort Diosdado straightened up. He ripped the portrait from the wall, flung it at the chicken, then grabbed a chair and raised it over his head.
Before he could bring it crashing down, I jumped forward and grabbed hold of it. Palomo snatched the chicken out of harm's way, while don Pablo, Carlos and two or three others took hold of Diosdado and wrestled him to the wall till he calmed down.
Carlos helped the injured man to his room while don Pablo called a doctor. I retrieved the picture, wiped it off, smoothed it out and respectfully hung it back on the wall.
When I looked around, the chicken was perched on the backrest of the chair which Diosdado had vacated. The bird had gotten himself a seat at the table after all.
The bird honchos were opening a bottle of tequila. Many of the guests were already gone, some without finishing their meals. I hurriedly downed what was on my plate before getting ready to meet Chayo. I'd been expounding on volcanoes while the rest were eating.
Some minutes later as I was passing the dining hall on my way out, I heard Domingo's guitar, accompanied by several voices. They were singing together, honoring the chicken.
Nací despresiando la vida y la muerte
y si he hecho bravata
continued in Chapter 9
The word amante derives from amar, and I assumed it meant boyfriend. Or did it mean something more? I still wondered about that, and, it left me with a sense of frustration to be so uncertain as to what had been said.
Don Pablo was sitting by himself at the table when I entered the dining room, and I asked him about the word. "¿Qué quiere decir amante?" I asked.
"¿Amante?" Don Pablo looked at me. "Pues, novio."
"Just another word for boyfriend?"
"Yes, that's about it."
"No, it's not!" interjected doña Josefina as she entered from the kitchen.
"Then what else could it mean?" don Pablo glanced up, a bit intimidated by her.
"The two words are not to be confused," she instructed him. "Novio refers to a courtship between a gentleman and a lady which may lead to marriage. Amante, on the other hand, would suggest the lady is a loose woman."
Just to make sure I had it right, I asked, "So it's improper to refer to a woman's boyfriend as her amante?"
"Very improper," she affirmed, then added as an afterthought, "Where did you hear it used?"
I hesitated for a moment, but before I could think of a response, Carlos strolled into the room. I wondered how much of our conversation he might have overheard.
Then came Domingo, soon followed by the bird honchos, Palomo and Morito, and then everyone else came trooping in. It was close to dinner time, and the room was filling up.
Huero Marco arrived with an attractive woman with jet black hair and dark brown skin whom he introduced as his wife. The two of them together made me fantasize of how Chayo and I might look as a couple. They lived in Morelia, and he spent his weekends at home while he worked here. He and Carlos would be here for another year on their current project, then they'd be sent elsewhere.
Tonight everybody was present, including some I hadn't seen before, probably friends or relatives. There were twelve or fourteen people in all, much more than the usual. Cuauhtémoc, who often perched on the back of a chair between Palomo and Moreno, found himself without a place this evening, and he strutted about on the floor, no doubt feeling a bit put out.
"Quite a character, that rooster," chuckled the fellow seated next to me. It was Pedro Mendoza, a friend of don Pablo who raised horses at Jicalán, a nearby village.
The first time I'd seen don Pedro was the same afternoon as my duel with Cuauhtémoc, when the mysterious one-eyed man had appeared in the courtyard. Don Pedro didn't look at all like him, except that both wore a patch over one eye and both were in their late fifties.
Tonight's meal was something special, though I wasn't sure what the occasion was. Don Pedro had told me, but I hadn't quite understood and I was too self-conscious to ask him to repeat himself.
The food began to arrive, carried in by the cook and her twelve-year-old daughter, Tina, who sometimes assisted her mother on busy occasions. Side conversations subsided into a clatter of plates and silverware as general attention was drawn to the steaming dishes being passed around.
Doña Josefina enjoyed her role as hostess, keeping the conversation going with numerous topics which I followed more easily than when I had first moved in. "Olaf visited Volcán Paricutín yesterday," she said unexpectedly, and all eyes turned to me as I suddenly found myself the center of attention. "Perhaps he would like to tell us his impressions?"
What could I possibly tell them that they didn't already know? Most of these people had probably visited the site numerous times. Doña Josefina and her husband had at least been in their twenties back in the 1940's when the ash and cinders came raining down on Uruapan, and it was a frequently discussed topic, and they were knowledgeable on this subject. For a moment I wasn't sure what to say. Perhaps as a foreigner, however, I could give them a fresh perspective.
I began telling of my walk with Chayo through the Tarascan village and of my first experience of riding horseback. I went on to describe my first impressions of the lava field, as well as making some comments on volcanoes in general.
"I've heard of that new theory called plate tectonics," said Carlos, who was a civil engineer. "Does that have anything to do with the eruption of Paricutín?"
"Yes," I said, and explained that the earth's crust was made up of plates which were constantly in motion. I spoke cautiously at first, fearing that I might bore my audience. Fortunately they were quite interested. Even the bird honchos, who weren't terribly intellectual, were listening attentively, so I continued at some length. "Out in the Pacific Ocean there's a deep trench. That marks the place where a plate is turned downward into the earth's crust. It begins an underground journey, and when it reaches a certain depth, several hundred kilometers down, it melts. The molten rock eventually forces its way upward, and, when it reaches the surface, it erupts! A new volcano!"
"Another volcano?" doña Josefina asked. "You mean this will happen again?"
"Probably not for another couple centuries," I said.
"But it will happen?"
"Most assuredly so," I said.
"Where will the next volcano erupt?"
"Anywhere," I said. "It could even be right in the middle of Uruapan, in the central plaza."
Several people laughed. Some others looked disturbed.
I was about to reassure them that the chances of a volcano erupting here in the middle of the city were extremely remote, but before I could say that, someone else spoke.
"So you came here to study the geology?"
"Yes, and also to learn about the culture," I said, guessing that they'd heard enough about geology for now. I didn't want to bore them and I added that I was also interested in indigenous traditions, and wanted to see more of the Tarascan villages.
"Stay away from those Indians," came a voice from the far end of the table. It was Juan Diosdado, the only person wearing a white shirt and tie.
Doña Josefina gave Diosdado a scornful look. "What foolishness are you talking this time?" she demanded.
"I'm telling Olaf in case he doesn't know," he said. "Those Indians are all a bunch of lazy, filthy no-goods."
What struck me as ironic was that this man himself had black hair and skin as dark brown as any Indian. I said, "How can you say that? You're an Indian too."
I heard someone gasp. Several maybe. Others were snickering. I glanced around the table and saw that most were grinning broadly.
"I am NOT an Indian!" Juan shot back, "I'm an EDUCATED man!" He practically shouted the word educated.
"You are educated?" Carlos asked sarcastically. Carlos was normally so good natured that his derisive remark surprised me.
"I certainly am," Juan Diosdado replied pompously, and began listing the schools he'd attended and the degrees and honors he'd received. The list was long, and went on and on. It sounded to me as if he were starting to repeat himself.
Some groaned. Others sighed. Marco's wife rolled her eyes.
I glanced at the calendar portrait of Cuauhtémoc, the Aztec war chief, and I also thought of Chayo. "Soy muy indigena," she'd told me the day before. She was proud to be Indian, and I'd naïvely assumed all Mexicans were, but this fellow was obviously not. He was still rambling on with his list of schools and honors. Marco had told me Diosdado was a bookkeeper and that he was a whiz at arithmetic, but that was about as much as anyone ever gave him credit for.
"You've told us all this before," doña Josefina said, "Many times!"
"Good! Then you must know," he said, and glanced around with smug self-satisfaction.
The words 'I am not an Indian!' reverberated through my mind, and I started to speak, but was cut off, first by one, then by another as people showered invective upon him. But at last:
"Let's hear what Olaf has to say," the hostess said.
All eyes turned to me, and the room went quiet. I took a deep breath and I said to the fellow: "You look more Indian than anyone at this table."
Dead silence. Not even a gasp or a groan.
Had I said a no-no? A social blunder of unforgivable magnitude?
Silence continued. It lasted for a painful eternity. All I could hear was the sound of people sucking in their breath. I felt my face turning red with embarrassment. Were they perhaps about to tell me to leave this place, find myself other lodgings?
Then, like the storm which follows the lull, there came a massive, roaring outburst of laughter.
Carlos, who was sitting across from me, had just taken a sip of coffee which he now coughed, choked and sneezed onto his plate. It took him some time to recover. He kept choking and laughing and gasping for breath, all at the same time.
Doña Josefina and don Pablo were also laughing, and so were Marco and his wife, and the bird honchos and everyone else. Some twelve or fourteen people were laughing till their sides were splitting. Above the din, I heard the chicken crowing.
The laughter echoed back from the courtyard, as though there were a huge crowd out there joining in. The Chichimecas, perhaps? The corrugated metal roof was vibrating overhead, also expressing itself. The very foundations of the building shook with approval. Even the Aztec warrior in the picture was cracking a smile.
Tears rolled down don Pablo's cheeks. Doña Josefina was drying her eyes with a napkin, and she leaned over to gently wipe the tears off her husband's face as she herself continued to laugh.
Could it really be this funny? I'd intended to show Diosdado the fallacy in his thinking, but this incredible response took me totally by surprise. I looked first at one, than at another. Maybe it was something else that they were laughing about. Had I missed it? But everybody kept looking at me, so it had to have been my remark that caused this enormous reaction.
The only one besides me who wasn't laughing was Juan Diosdado. He sat there, glaring at me, shaking with rage. Finally he stood up and took a step towards me.
I got up to defend myself. Though Diosdado wasn't physically prepossessing, the fury in his eyes was intense, and I wondered if it had been wise to offend him.
The laughter around me subsided and the room was filled with a hush as the man took another step towards me. Clearly, I had no choice but to fight him. Keeping my eyes on his in order to avoid giving hints of what I might do, I hastily planned my moves. I'd let him swing first, parry his blow, and then aim for his solar plexus.
"¡Pégale bien!" Morito's voice broke through the silence. I glanced his way, and he shouted to me again, raising his clenched fist as a gesture of encouragement, "Knock him flat!"
Pedro Mendoza, the one-eyed man, gave me a nod, as did several others.
Juan Diosdado hesitated for a long moment, then abruptly wheeled about and headed towards the door. As he did so, Cuauhtémoc happened to come strutting out from behind the other end of the table, then halted in front of Diosdado.
Diosdado also halted. The bird made no hostile move. He simply cocked his head to one side and looked up at the man. For an instant the two of them stood there motionless, toe to toe.
From where I stood, I couldn't see the expression on Diosdado's face. I wondered why he didn't just walk on past the bird and out the door. Then he drew back his foot and let fly, aiming all his anger at the chicken.
Before I could even gasp, the man had already kicked and missed. The chicken had jumped to one side, and the kick went high into the air. As the man struggled to regain his balance, the chicken dove in and jabbed his beak into the calf of his other leg.
"¡Que cobarde!" It was doña Josefina's voice. She was reproving him for his attempt on a poor defenseless animal.
The bird honchos, Morito and Palomos, applauded wildly.
"¡Ariba mi Cuauhtémoc!"
"¡Ariba mi pollito!"
Others laughed and cheered--for the chicken of course.
But the drama wasn't over. It was just beginning. Diosdado kicked again and missed. Wings whirled as the agile bird bounced back and forth. Now here. Now there. Now jabbing away with his beak, an Aztec warrior chastising his enemy.
There was more applause for the chicken, who was now dancing in front of Diosdado, wings lowered slightly, presenting a perfect target that the man couldn't possibly miss this time. But he did miss. Again and again he missed, to the amusement of the onlookers who laughed at every miss the guy made, and applauded each hit the chicken scored with his sharp beak.
I was the only one who wasn't laughing. Though I knew from personal experience how very agile this bird was, I was frightened he might get hurt. I stood there, gripping my chair and wincing at each kick, fearing this time the chicken would catch it.
Although Cuauhtémoc was truly an obnoxious chicken, I suddenly realized that I didn't want to see him injured. The thought struck me as something of a revelation.
The shouting, cheering and fighting continued.
"¡No te rajes! Indio." Palomo's voice, mocking the man. His raspy laugh followed.
Morito, the other bird honcho, was likewise cheering and mocking and laughing.
I glanced at them, and in that instant while I was distracted--
Thud!
I closed my eyes in horror as the walls shook. It was like a horse kicking the stable down.
Silence. Then:
"Ahhhhhhhh."
Diosdado was grasping his leg, mouth open and emitting a deep, barely audible groan as he staggered back from the concrete wall he'd just kicked, and on that wall, staring him in the face, was the picture of the bird's namesake.
At great effort Diosdado straightened up. He ripped the portrait from the wall, flung it at the chicken, then grabbed a chair and raised it over his head.
Before he could bring it crashing down, I jumped forward and grabbed hold of it. Palomo snatched the chicken out of harm's way, while don Pablo, Carlos and two or three others took hold of Diosdado and wrestled him to the wall till he calmed down.
Carlos helped the injured man to his room while don Pablo called a doctor. I retrieved the picture, wiped it off, smoothed it out and respectfully hung it back on the wall.
When I looked around, the chicken was perched on the backrest of the chair which Diosdado had vacated. The bird had gotten himself a seat at the table after all.
The bird honchos were opening a bottle of tequila. Many of the guests were already gone, some without finishing their meals. I hurriedly downed what was on my plate before getting ready to meet Chayo. I'd been expounding on volcanoes while the rest were eating.
Some minutes later as I was passing the dining hall on my way out, I heard Domingo's guitar, accompanied by several voices. They were singing together, honoring the chicken.
Nací despresiando la vida y la muerte
y si he hecho bravata
continued in Chapter 9
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