The Tenth Avatar
GARY NAIMAN
Smashwords ebook published by Fideli Publishing Inc.
© Copyright 2011, Gary Naiman
All Rights Reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-60414-236-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Should the god’s warriors fail and the forces of darkness prevail, the angered gods will unleash The Tenth Avatar to destroy the world and all its people in flames...
Interpreted from The Vedas
Chapter 1 — Kangchenjunga
In nine years of flying, Captain Matao Iimori had never faced a storm with this power. Since encountering the blizzard two hours ago, the FW 200C Condor had lost three thousand feet to fierce wind and ice, dropping it dangerously close to the world’s most treacherous terrain. Blinded by snow, Iimori and his crew fought a desperate battle to hold the eastward heading that would lead them out of Tibet’s turbulent weather into China where a squadron of Zeros waited to escort them to Nanking. There was only one problem. They weren’t in Tibet...
Iimori rested his head against the black leather seat and stared at the snow striking the windshield. A sweet numbness crept through his arms and legs. His eyelids fluttered and began to close. Just a few minutes of blessed sleep. Not too much to ask.
He was about to nod off when something caught his eye. He glanced to his right and saw his co-pilot’s head droop forward, his hands barely grasping the control wheel.
Iimori cursed under his breath and seized the wheel and throttles. “I’ll take it, Fuchida.”
“What?”
“I’ve got the plane.”
Lieutenant Eiichi Fuchida slipped his hands off the co-pilot’s wheel and slumped in his seat. He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his head.
“She’s too heavy. We need to de-ice again.”
No response.
“Fuchida?”
“Something’s wrong. Dizzy…”
Iimori glanced at the blue lever beside his co-pilot’s arm. He grimaced and flipped it on, sending a rush of oxygen into Fuchida’s mask.
Fuchida shook his head and looked down at the lever. “I…must have bumped it with my elbow.”
Iimori glared at his co-pilot. “You want me to recite that at your funeral! Snap out of it, Fuchida!”
Fuchida straightened up and took a deep breath of oxygen. “I’m sorry, Captain.”
Iimori shook his head and pressed the throttles forward. He pulled back the wheel and felt the cockpit vibrate from the four surging Bramo engines. The defiant altimeter needle continued its downward slip.
The frustrated pilot leaned against the side window and squinted at the plane’s left wing. Through the snow, he could see ominous ice patches on the engine cowlings, only inches from the motors. He glanced at his co-pilot. “What’s the de-icer pressure?”
“Sixty percent.”
“Use it.”
“Captain?”
“Use it!”
Fuchida gripped a black lever on the floor beside his seat. He pushed it forward and watched a small pressure gauge drop from the rush of compressed air into inflatable rubber gaskets on the wings. It would only take a few seconds to know if the surging air was enough to dislodge the ice. He eased back in his seat and stared at the windshield. “Captain, maybe we should drop out of it.”
Iimori’s black eyes flared with anger. He yanked down his mask and vented two hours of frustration. “Every time I see a shadow, I think it’s a mountain. If we drop any lower, we’ll be part of Tibet. The only way out of this mess is up. Now pump that lever!”
Something struck the window beside Iimori’s head. He turned away from his co-pilot and pressed his helmet against the glass. He flinched as a chunk of ice broke off the wing and disappeared into the whiteout. Another chunk peeled off the inboard cowling and flew past his face.
Seven thousand hours of flying had taught Matao Iimori to seize the moment. The gods look unfavorably at cowards. “I’m taking us up.” He jammed the throttles forward, filling the cockpit with a deafening roar.
Fuchida stared in horror at the four surging rpm indicators. Had the man next to him snapped? In a few seconds, those straining needles would collapse to zero. Unable to glide with its heavy cargo, the massive plane would plunge into Tibet’s merciless foothills. Eighteen brave men were about to die because their crazed pilot decided to burn up four good engines for a few thousand feet of insurance.
Fuchida started to speak, but hesitated. Under the ancient code of bushido he must never question a superior officer, even unto death. He had already crossed the line and received a stern warning. Another act of defiance would not be forgiven. He clutched the de-icer lever while recalling the tiny gift inside his flight jacket. Let it go, Fuchida. Think of tomorrow. And home…
Tomorrow would be June 3, 1939. His son’s first birthday. Tamiko would be waiting in front of Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel with Fumumaro in her arms. Fighting back tears, he would step off the bus and embrace his little family amidst a sea of onrushing pedestrians.
He would reach into his flight jacket and pull out the small gold ring he’d purchased before leaving. With his wife’s warm body pressed against him, he would stroke Fumumaro’s black hair and place the ring in his son’s tiny hand. Only a small gift, but the ring’s engraved words would be an eternal reminder of his deepest love…
Always with you…
Father
Before seeing his family, he would join his tired comrades at Yokosuka Naval Station. He would shake their hands and wish them good fortune in the hard days ahead. He would even shake Captain Iimori’s hand.
The team would snap to attention for a final word from Major Tomonaga, their mission commander. The handsome young officer would step smartly down the line, pausing in front of each man to extend an opened hand in gratitude, his black eyes glistening with emotion.
With tears streaming down his face, Eiichi Fuchida would clasp the major’s hand while hearing the proud words that drive men to do the impossible.
“Mission accomplished, Lieutenant Fuchida. Well done…”
Fuchida felt the plane’s nose surge upward. An invisible force pressed him against the leather seat. The cockpit vibrated from the roar of five thousand stampeding horses. His eyes focused on the rising altimeter needle. Seventeen thousand. Eighteen thousand. Eighteen five.
Yes...they were climbing. Fighting their way out of the storm. He could see blue sky breaking through the clouds. Sunlight flashed on his face. Only a few more seconds…
The cockpit shook from a loud thud. Stunned, Fuchida looked at his commander who was staring at the left wing.
“Smoke in number two!” Iimori feathered number two’s throttle while scowling at the black smoke pouring from the left inboard engine. He pulled back the other throttles and pressed the wheel forward to level off, but the damage was done. The faltering engine showered the left wing with sparks.
Iimori tried to steady the pitching plane. A blast of heat struck his face. He leaned against the glass and saw flames spewing from the blackened engine. “Fire in number two!”
Fuchida gripped number two’s extinguisher lever and began pumping a stream of retardant into the burning engine. He said a prayer and stared at the regurgitated foam spraying over the scorched wing. If the retardant failed, and the fuel tank ignited, he would never see his family again.
Overwhelmed by the retardant, the angry flames retreated into the sparking engine, disappearing in a wisp of black smoke. Seconds later, the smoke became a white vapor trail.
Fuchida lifted his trembling hand off the extinguisher lever and peered at the blackened engine. “I think it’s out.”
Iimori slumped in his seat and scanned the instruments. He had paid a dear price for a glimpse of heaven. Airspeed: one-fifty and dropping. Altitude: eighteen-five and dropping. Fuel: one-half and dropping. With only three engines left, the plane’s groundspeed had been reduced by one-fourth, cutting their effective range to fourteen hundred miles. Nanking was two thousand miles away.
Iimori pulled back the wheel and stared at the altimeter. No response. He pressed the throttles forward and tried again, but the needle continued its ominous fall. He glanced at the side window and shook his head. “I can’t see the wing through this damn snow. How does it look on your side?”
Fuchida leaned to his right and squinted at the other wing. He fell back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the windshield. “Fresh ice, Captain.”
Iimori clenched his fist and looked over his right shoulder. “Kigoshi, where are we?”
Second Lieutenant Tadao Kigoshi stared at the windshield, his hand clutching a pair of dividers.
Iimori glared at the petrified navigator. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Then where the hell are we! Snap out of it, Kigoshi! I need a bearing!”
Shaken by the pilot’s tirade, Kigoshi took a deep breath and leaned over his plotting table. He glanced at the compass and placed his dividers on the dimly lit map of Asia. It would be his twelfth attempt to plot their position since entering the monsoon two hours ago. The prior eleven efforts had proved futile, all indicating an ominous southward drift toward the towering Himalaya separating Tibet and Nepal. Impossible. They would have seen them by now. Unless
Kigoshi put down the dividers and stared at the map. He rubbed his tired eyes and picked up the navigation wheel. The instruments were fluttering badly, but they were all he had. Winds from the northeast at ninety. Heading: due east at one ninety before losing engine. Effective groundspeed: one hundred five mph. Estimated angle of drift: thirty-five degrees southeast for two hours. Correction: Zero!
Kigoshi’s eyes widened. The navigation wheel dropped out of his hand.
“Come, Kigoshi! You think this plane runs on piss! The fuel’s below fifty percent!”
Kigoshi picked up a pencil and scribbled the coordinates on a piece of paper. He leaned forward and touched the paper to Iimori’s flight jacket.
Iimori snatched the paper out of the young navigator’s hand. “Three hundred fifteen degrees?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“You want me to turn around and head northwest?”
Kigoshi swallowed hard and nodded.
“Are you mad?”
“Captain, we’re in Nepal. Below the mountains. That’s why we haven’t hit anything.”
“Nepal? Impossible, we couldn’t make it over those peaks?”
Kigoshi clenched his fists. “We didn’t. I think the storm pushed us into Nepal before we reached the Himalaya. They’re above us now. Between us and China.”
Iimori’s jaw dropped. “Are you telling me we’ve been flying in Nepal for two hours? Below the Himalaya?”
“I think so, Captain. If the whiteout would break for a minute, I’d know for sure.”
“Damn you, Kigoshi! What kind of navigator are you!” Iimori crushed the paper in his gloved hand and flung it at Kigoshi’s face. “The hell with your coordinates. I’m correcting northeast. Replot a course for Nanking.”
Iimori looked to his right and saw his co-pilot gaping at him with frozen eyes. “You better get the Major up here. And tell them we need more fuel.”
Fuchida nodded and climbed out of the co-pilot’s seat. He paused beside the shaken navigator and patted his shoulder before brushing past him to the cockpit door.
Kigoshi lowered his head. “I am sorry, Captain. I am dishonored before you.”
Iimori gritted his teeth. He’d pleaded for a more experienced navigator, but was overridden by his mission commander because of Kigoshi’s extensive geographic knowledge of Asia and Europe. So much for geographic knowledge. He took a calming breath and stared at the windshield. “Keep working your map, Lieutenant. And say a prayer for us.”
***
Major Shinichiro Tomonaga put down his pencil and scanned the Condor’s cramped passenger compartment. Across from him, Sergeant Mitsui had dropped off to sleep while the two German Jews used a small flashlight to play a game of gin rummy.
Tomonaga leaned back against the fuselage wall and studied the two parka-clad civilians. How strange they were. One minute playing cards like children, and the next poring through black notebooks filled with cryptic calculations. If it weren’t for General Yasuda’s strict orders to bring them back to Tokyo, he would have gladly left them in Norway. They were men without a country. Men trying to survive another day. Wars were better fought without such hapless creatures. Tomonaga jammed the journal into his pack and rested his head against the metal wall.
He was nearly asleep when a powerful jolt snapped him against his canvas restraining harness. He shook his head and saw Herr Kessler picking himself off the floor. Herr Stein lay beside him covered with scattered playing cards.
After ten hours of rugged flying, Tomonaga’s patience had run out. He raised a clenched fist and shook it at them. “I told you to wear your harnesses! Now put them on!” He reached down for one of the playing cards and flipped it angrily at Stein.
The shaken Jew nodded and sat down. He didn’t understand a word of Japanese, but Tomonaga’s glaring eyes and menacing gestures more than made up for it. Stein picked up the flashlight and clipped on his seat harness while his friend gathered up the cards for a new game.
Tomonaga turned to Sergeant Mitsui who was rubbing his sore head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.” Mitsui continued rubbing his tousled black hair.
“Better wear your helmet. It will keep that hard head from knocking a hole in the fuselage.”
Mitsui smiled under his oxygen mask and slipped on the stained, brown-leather helmet. The protruding ear flaps and mask made him look like a baby elephant.
Tomonaga unclipped his harness and checked the blue oxygen bottle strapped to his belt. He’d done enough flying to know the violent jolt was caused by something internal. He grabbed an overhead strap and pulled himself up.
“Something wrong, sir?” Mitsui looked up at him with concerned eyes.
“Just stretching my legs, Sergeant. Get some sleep.”
Tomonaga worked his way toward the metal door at the rear of the compartment. He lifted the restraining bolt and felt a rush of cold air against his face.
“Major Tomonaga!” Sergeant Morita’s booming voice echoed through the Condor’s cargo hold, sending a dozen Imperial Marines scrambling to their feet.
Tomonaga closed the bulkhead door and stared at the bowing marines. “How are we doing?”
Morita straightened up and mumbled through his mask. “We’re well, sir.”
Tomonaga jammed his fists against his hips. “Doesn’t sound like it.”
Morita’s head snapped back. “WE’RE WELL, SIR!”
“That’s better.” Tomonaga slapped his arms against his parka and faked a shiver. “At least you won’t spoil back here.” He joined the marines in a good laugh and gestured for them to resume their card games.
Tomonaga squinted at the twin rows of canisters behind the crouched marines. “How are they holding up?”
“No problem, sir. I just checked the restraining straps. All secure.”
Tomonaga eyed the canisters like a mother hen. “Did you feel that jolt?”
Morita nodded. “Sounded like an engine.”
Tomonaga folded his arms and eased beside his sergeant. “I’m not worried with Iimori up there, but between you and me, I’ll be glad when we clear this damn weather.”
“The navigator?”
Tomonaga frowned under his mask. “Iimori was right. The kid is too light. I should have taken Genda.”
Morita nodded and glanced at his watch. “Ten hours. I’m starting to feel like a sardine. How long to Nanking?”
Tomonaga was about to reply when the bulkhead door swung open and Fuchida stepped into the cargo hold.
“Captain Iimori needs to speak with you, sir. He’s asking for more fuel.”
Tomonaga nodded and watched Fuchida disappear through the door.
“Trouble?”
“Just a briefing. It’s been two hours since we hit the storm. Maybe we’re coming out of it.”
Morita glanced at his men. “We could use some good news.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Tomonaga lifted the door’s restraining bolt. “Stay well, Sergeant. I’ll try to get you some heat. We should land in twelve hours.”
“Question, sir?”
“Yes?”
Morita leaned closer. “The men keep asking how much gold is in the canisters. They’re placing bets. You know, thirty canisters at seventy-five pounds. That sort of thing.”
Tomonaga nodded. “Sounds like a good way to pass the time.”
“Tanaka thinks it’s two million American.” Morita looked down and waited for a reply.
Tomonaga leaned against him and whispered through his mask. “Tell Tanaka he’s not close.”
Morita’s brown eyes lit up.
“Don’t forget that fuel.” Tomonaga patted Morita’s shoulder and stepped through the door.
Morita watched the metal restraining bolt drop into place. He glanced at his watch. Twelve more hours and they’d be out of this sardine can. Twelve more hours…
He spun around and glared at the huddled marines. “What are you doing on your asses! This pig needs more fuel!”
The stunned marines jumped to their feet and snapped to attention. They watched the sergeant pick up a wrench and step to the line of metal drums strapped to the fuselage wall.
Morita unscrewed the first drum cap and jammed a rubber hose into the opening. “The next one’s yours, Tanaka. Left wing, got it?”
“Hai!” The marine nodded briskly.
Morita backed away and flipped on a pump connected to the right wing tank. “No smoking, gentlemen.” He stared at the drum and listened to the gasoline gurgle through the hose.
Tomonaga stepped into the cockpit and rested a gloved hand on Iimori’s shoulder. “How are we doing?”
“We have a problem, sir.”
“Problem?”
Iimori hesitated. “The storm dragged us into Nepal. We’re shut off from China.”
Tomonaga stared at his pilot.
“It’s my fault. Cut it too close. The damn monsoon pushed us below the mountains.”
Tomonaga leaned forward and squinted at the snow blowing against the windshield. “Can we backtrack?”
Iimori shook his head.
“But we have plenty of fuel?”
Iimori gestured for Fuchida to take control of the plane. He leaned back in his seat and rubbed his tired eyes. “Backtracking means turning around and heading northwest to clear the mountains. Then turning east to get back on course. We’ll waste five hours of fuel.”
“Five?”
“At least.”
Tomonaga pulled down his oxygen mask and stroked his stubbled chin. “What about flying back to Iran?”
“Too late. We passed our point-of-no-return an hour ago.”
Tomonaga noticed the dead rpm gauge. “What happened?”
“Blew number two trying to climb out of this mess. It was the only way to escape the ice.”
Tomonaga leaned toward the left window and peered at the snow blowing across the blackened wing. He caught a glimpse of the dead inboard propeller. “We’re carrying a lot of ice?”
“Too much.”
Tomonaga hesitated. “What do we do?”
“Head northeast. If we can find a pass into Tibet, we’ll shake this damn storm and have a shot at one of the dirt strips near our lines. The Zero’s will cover us until we get help.”
“How close can we come?”
“Close enough. I’m not worried with the Zero’s out there.”
“What about the weather?”
“I think it’s breaking up ahead.”
Tomonaga gripped Iimori’s shoulder and stared at the frozen windshield. “No one said it would be easy.”
“No, sir.”
Tomonaga slipped on his mask. “How far to the mountains?”
Iimori glanced back at his navigator who was poring over his charts. “Well, Kigoshi?”
“Hai!” The young second lieutenant jumped out of his seat and snapped to attention.
Tomonaga locked his black eyes on the fatigued navigator. “How does it look?”
Kigoshi struggled for words. “We should see the eastern Himalaya in a few minutes. Probably Kangchenjunga.”
“Kang— ”
“Kangchenjunga, sir. Twenty-eight thousand, but I think we can skirt it.”
Tomonaga’s eyes widened. “Twenty-eight?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tomonaga fought his anger. “Quite a mess, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll guide us through it.”
Kigoshi didn’t respond. His eyes were focused on the windshield.
Tomonaga turned and saw Iimori and Fuchida staring at the windshield. He leaned forward and noticed a wall of sunlit clouds emerging from the haze. “Good, we’re coming out of it.”
Iimori fell back in his seat and stared at his co-pilot. “How far do you make it?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Give me the damn wheel.” Iimori seized control of the plane and began easing its hundred eight foot wingspan into a steep left bank.
Tomonaga braced himself against the tilting cockpit. “What’s wrong?”
“Mountaindead ahead.”
Tomonaga stared at the windshield in disbelief.
Iimori pressed the throttles forward and nodded at his co-pilot. “You better warn them back there. This damn wind is pushing me straight at it.”
Fuchida couldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the monolith jutting through the broken clouds.
“Fuchida!”
Tomonaga gripped Iimori’s shoulder. “I’ll do it.” He backed away from the stunned crew and turned for the cockpit door.
“Wait, sir!” Iimori looked back at his commander with desperate eyes. “Request permission to break radio silence for a distress call to our planes.”
“But, Captain— ”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Tomonaga glared at his pilot. “Do it.” He turned and scrambled through the cockpit door.
Fuchida pulled out a small black book and began twisting the radio dials. “Our position, Kigoshi!”
Kigoshi scribbled the coordinates on a piece of paper and thrust it into the co-pilot’s extended hand. He gripped the plotting table and gazed at the windshield. “God, I can almost touch it.”
“Shut up!” Iimori turned the wheel to steepen the bank, but the stall-warning buzzer kicked on. He leveled off and stared at the wall of rock and ice stretching across the windshield. They were at least three thousand feet below the ridge crest. He gripped the wheel and listened to Fuchida bark out the distress call.
“Black Dragon calling Sanctuary. Time: eleven-twenty hours. Position: eighty-eight degrees east, twenty-seven degrees north. Heading: eighty-two degrees. In danger of crashing into north ridge of Kangchenjunga on Nepal-Sikkim border. Carrying thirty canisters of gold. If no further message received, assume Black Dragon down and send rescue force per Purple Code Nagumo. Repeat: Black Dragon calling Sanctuary…”
With seconds left, Iimori gritted his teeth and drew his last card. He pushed the wheel forward, sending the huge plane into a power dive. An invisible force pressed him against the seat. He could feel the blood rushing to his face. He looked down at the airspeed indicator. One fifty. One seventy. Two hundred. Now! He said a prayer and yanked the straining wheel against his stomach.
Tomonaga burst into the passenger compartment and grabbed an armful of blankets from under the seats.
“What’s wrong, sir?” Mitsui started to get up.
“Stay down! Tighten your seat harnesses and press these against your faces!” Tomonaga flung the blankets at the three stunned passengers.
Kessler and Stein dropped their playing cards and gawked at him in panic.
“Do it!” Tomonaga staggered past them to the bulkhead door. He lifted the restraining bolt and rushed into the cargo hold as the plane surged upward from Iimori’s desperate maneuver. “Morita!”
Sergeant Morita looked up and saw his commander’s knees buckle from the plane’s sudden climb. He tried to reach him, but the force pinned him to the floor.
“Brace yourselves!” Tomonaga kicked the door shut and clutched the bulkhead.
Iimori pressed the wheel against his stomach and glared at the windshield. He could hear Fuchida shouting the distress call above the engines. Behind him, Kigoshi dug his fingers into the plotting table while muttering a Shinto prayer.
He glanced at the altimeter. Twenty-one thousand. Twenty-one five. Twenty-two. They were going to make it!
The ridge of rock and ice rushed at his face. He pressed his back against the seat and screamed at the lumbering plane. “Come on you German bitch! Only a hundred more— ”
The windshield imploded as tons of ice and snow blasted into the cockpit, killing its three man crew instantly. Behind them, Sergeant Mitsui was crushed beneath the collapsing front bulkhead. Kessler and Stein cried out to their god before vaporizing in a fireball of exploding fuel.
Tomonaga was nearly to his feet when a tremendous force slammed him against the rear bulkhead. He felt the bulkhead give way to a blast of searing heat. His body catapulted into space. A chilled wind struck his face. He could see gray sky.
His right shoulder exploded in pain as his body skipped off the ice and cartwheeled into the air. He tried to cry out, but a crushing impact swept his breath away. Snow ripped across his face and chest. He caromed helplessly forward until his broken body came to rest in the deep snow.
He couldn’t breathe. He rolled on his side and clawed at the snow covering his face. He began coughing, but the pain turned his coughs to agonizing cries.
Before blacking out, Tomonaga saw the Condor’s decapitated tail section grind to a halt several hundred feet away. Beyond it, the snow-filled sky blazed with the plane’s burning front section and wings. He closed his eyes and felt the snow striking his face. The air echoed with explosions and the horrible cries of dying men. Then, there was only the wind….
An unmarked transport has crashed into a mountain on the Nepal-Sikkim border, its burning wreckage scattered across a twenty-three thousand foot ridge in a howling blizzard. A seemingly unnoticed event in a world preparing for war, but one far more important than imaginable for a few desperate men.
The gods had made their choices and taken positions in the clouds around Kangchenjunga. Four mortals would soon come to fight a battle that would determine the fate of mankind.
But we’ve gotten a bit ahead of ourselves. Ten years to be precise. Best to begin at a better time, in a better place...
Chapter 2 — Valencia
An hour had passed since Roberto set out along the banks of the Turia into the rich, green countryside above his native Valencia. His ears rang from last night’s celebration and his head throbbed from too much Rioja.
God, it was hot. He wiped his brow and looked down at the splashing water. The river smelled so cool. Like an oasis in the desert. Enjoy it now, hombre. In a few weeks, the oppressive heat would reduce the Turia to a trickling stream. He yanked off his shirt and slipped down the rocky embankment into the swirling, blue-green water.
An invigorating chill swept through him as the mountain-fed current rushed over his face and body. He swam through the churning water and flipped on his back like a porpoise. The sky was so beautiful. The deepest of blues, and crystal-clear. He floated in space while recalling yesterday’s celebration.
The Festival of Juegos Florales had been far more than a gala party for Roberto Hidalgo. With painters and writers pouring into Valencia to display their works, Roberto and his father had spent three agonizing months creating floats, galleries, and stages worthy of these sensitive artistas.
He smiled to himself while recalling Monsignor Diaz’ stirring tribute to the Hidalgos before awarding them the Church’s gold plaque for architectural excellence. But it was his father’s emotional acceptance speech that won the day. The aging orator had them in tears when he raised his hands to the sun-drenched crowd and praised God for His greatest gift. “España!”
He closed his eyes and felt the cool water lap against his face. It was so refreshing. Like the soft breezes drifting across the plaza at last night’s celebration. He heard the dancers’ heels strutting against the pavement, their castanets clicking like a swarm of mating crickets. And the guitarists’ flamenco chords pulsing through the crowd of handclapping Valencians. Driving them forward like shrieking banshees to clasp arms with their Andalusian brothers and sisters in a swirling rainbow of reds, yellows, blues, and greens. An orgy of love and camaraderie sorely missed in 1929 Spain.
He remembered the beautiful woman lying beside him in the darkness, her warm body pressed against him, her soft lips kissing him in the morning light. He’d never known a woman like Laura. So confident and outspoken, yet sensual and passionate in his arms. Always a step ahead, even when they danced the paso doblé. In only three months, he had fallen madly in love with her.
Roberto’s bliss was interrupted when his buttocks grated against the rocks on the river’s edge. Startled, he sat up in the water while a sunbathing frog blinked at him from a nearby rock. It was too hot to croak.
The Turia’s unpredictable current had deposited him on the shore only a few feet from where he’d slipped into the river. So much for dreams, hombre. He stepped grudgingly out of the splashing water and snatched his shirt off a rock. It would only take a few minutes to reach the orange grove at the top of the hill.
“Buenos dias, Roberto!”
He spun around and saw Sancho waving at him from the field on his right. The laborer’s white tunic and pants were streaked with perspiration from hours of digging in the midday sun. “Hola, Sancho! Are you mad, obrero? It’s too hot to work today! Jump into the river, amigo! That sun will burn you to dried leather!”
Sancho smiled through parched lips. “I am already dried leather, Roberto! The land doesn’t reward lazy men! And may I ask where you are going, son of Don Felipe Hidalgo? Perhaps into the shade of that orange grove for a little siesta? Perhaps you have tasted too much Rioja at yesterday’s festival? Is that it, Roberto?” Sancho extended his weatherbeaten sombrero toward the embarrassed young man while breaking into hysterical laughter.
Sancho knew him too well, as did the other laborers who farmed the rich soil of the huertas above Valencia. At twenty-eight, Roberto Hidalgo was living a magnificent dream. A handsome caballero with shining black hair and penetrating black eyes who easily won the hearts of lovely mujeres in the ancient Spanish city that was his home. At yesterday’s festival, señoritas all but lined up for a tango with the wealthy son of Don Felipe Hidalgo, Valencia’s foremost engineer and architect.
Roberto sighed and continued up the hill. If Sancho knew more, he might not be so envious. In a few years, Roberto’s eyes would blur from endless blueprints and measurements. His back and legs would weaken from a thousand sleepless nights hunched over a drafting table. His hair would turn white from stressful deadlines and bidding wars. His heart would short circuit from the debilitating struggle to create structural art in a nation besieged with militant labor movements.
No, Sancho. Easier to rise with the sun and farm the soil, then quench your thirst with a jug of wine and beautiful woman under a starlit sky. Not such a bad life, obrero. Nothing is what it seems.
A warm breeze wafted across the cultivated plain, filling his nostrils with the heavenly scent of wildflowers and fresh oranges. He paused at the edge of the grove and looked east toward Valencia. The ancient city rose proudly from the Mediterranean Sea like a great, sprawling Atlantis, its medieval mosque towers silhouetted against the blue water and sky. God, he loved it here.
He crawled beneath the grove’s sheltering branches and plucked a ripe orange from a nearby twig. He peeled away the fruit’s taut skin and tore off a translucent crescent of orange meat. He bit into it, flooding his tongue with a burst of tart sweetness that made him moan with pleasure. He dug his fingers into the orange and jammed a second crescent of ambrosia into his mouth. Then a third.
With his thirst quenched by the sweet meat and citrus juices, he stretched out on his back and gazed at the latticework of branches and twigs crossing out the sun. He’d promised his father a blueprint of the Miserere renovation by this evening, but his eyes wouldn’t stay open. His father would understand. He always understood…
***
Señor Hidalgo righted himself in the leather chair and blinked his eyes. The mantle clock was chiming five, but he didn’t need a clock to know the time. The sun’s late afternoon rays had reached the stone fireplace facing his desk, bringing to life the stunning portrait above the mantle.
He looked up at the beautiful woman staring down at him with soft, brown eyes. “Buenos dias, mi amor. You were in my dreams today.”
They had met at the University of Madrid in 1896, a simple encounter while studying for exams on the grass beneath the great tower. Elena Montoya was a striking woman capable of melting any man with the slightest fix of her brown eyes, but it was her keen passion for living that drew him to her.
Raised by a stern militarist father, Felipe Hidalgo’s obsession to succeed allowed little time for sensitive things, until the night he kissed her beneath the stars with the Mediterranean Sea lapping at his feet. From that moment, he knew this very special woman would be his shining beacon for life. He was devastated when she left him four years later.
Señor Hidalgo’s lovely wife had been dead twenty-eight years, but he could still smell her sweet skin and taste her warm lips. Soon, they would reunite in a better world to walk along the sea and make love beneath the stars. Until then, he must be driven by two other passions. His work and his son.
He plucked the quill pen from its well and shuffled the papers. He was exhausted, but with only a week remaining to the Council presentation, there was no time for sleep.
“Señor, may I come in?”
Before he could answer, the study doors swung open and a petite woman stepped into the room clad in a silk white blouse and brightly flowered skirt.
“You must eat, señor. You are no longer a young man.”
He shook his head. “I am not hungry.”
“You must eat. We will not have martyrs in this house.” She stepped closer and planted herself beside him.
“Maybe some fruit and cheese.”
“Fruit and cheese? You need warm food. Let me prepare the paella. Then, you can get a good night’s sleep and do twice as much work tomorrow.”
“Sleep is out of the question.”
“Martyr.”
Startled, Señor Hidalgo put down the pen and looked at the attractive woman standing beside him. Maria had been his faithful companion for nearly thirty years. She was a young girl when his wife found her begging in the fields. Aside from delivering Roberto, Maria was the finest gift Elena Hidalgo gave her husband before she died.
“I am too tired to argue. Some paella then, but only a small bowl. And please find Roberto. I would like to eat with him.”
“He should be here soon.”
The Señor fixed his tired brown eyes on her. “It seems Roberto has become quite the lady’s man.”
Maria smiled and shrugged. “You have a very attractive son, like his father.”
He ignored her compliment and looked down at the pile of sketches lying on the desk. “Roberto will need more than looks and charm to survive this cruel world. We’ll eat in here so I can review his work.”
“Yes, señor.”
He broke into a warm smile and took her hand. “Too much loyalty, Maria. You should have found a good husband and bore him children instead of staying with this cranky old man.”
She smiled and pushed back a wayward strand of black hair. “This is my home, señor. I am very happy here, but I would be happier if you would eat a good meal.”
“Then I’ll try to make you happy.”
“Good, señor.”
Señor Hidalgo waited for Maria to leave the room before slumping in the chair, his face twisted in pain. He reached down and probed the small, throbbing lump in his left side. A trickle of perspiration ran down his forehead. Dr. Vivar’s words echoed in his ears from this morning’s examination…
I’m sorry, Felipe.
Then, there is no hope?
There is always hope, but you should put things in order. The cancer is in your glands and is spreading quickly.
How long?
Perhaps a year...
The Señor looked up at the portrait. He had planned to transfer the business to Roberto in five years, but that was no longer possible. The transition must begin now.
He wouldn’t tell Roberto about the cancer. The days ahead would be hard enough without compounding them with a son’s pity. At twenty-eight, Roberto Hidalgo must become a man, and the Señor must become more a father, and less a mother, to his beloved son.
Yes, they would discuss these things tonight. He ignored the pain and snatched the pen off the desk.
Roberto scrambled out of the grove and stared at the orange-streaked clouds above the sea. The air had cooled and a gentle breeze was blowing from the east. Behind him, the last rays of sunlight had disappeared behind the distant Meseta hills. Valencia was bathed in shadows, except for the Micalet’s shining tower.
“Shit!” He bolted down the hillside toward the darkened city. Through the corner of his eye, he could see Sancho and his comrades, still laboring in the cooling twilight. Those poor creatures would till that soil until the last trace of daylight was gone. Incredible, considering they owned none of the land.
A full moon was rising over the great city when he ran across Viveros Park toward the wood and stucco home nestled beneath the conifer trees. He stopped at the wrought iron gate and swiped the perspiration off his face. Through the windows, he could see a light shining in his father’s study. A candelabra flickered in the dining room. The night air hummed with a million passionate cicadas. He tucked in his shirt and rested a hand on the gate’s metal latch.
Despite his best efforts, the un-oiled gate screeched when he opened it. The alarm had been sounded. He crept up the cobblestone walk and edged toward the front door like a torero facing the bull at the moment of truth.
“Where have you been?”
So much for stealth. Maria was standing in the darkened doorway with hands on hips.
“I fell asleep in the groves.”
Maria shook her head. “Your father has been asking for you since five. He wanted to eat with you. Not very considerate, Roberto.”
He stunned her with an embrace. “Maybe I should take a bath first.”
“Shame on you. You smell like the river.” She forced back a smile and slapped him on the rear when he went by.
Refreshed by a bath and change of clothes, Roberto took a deep breath and gripped the twin, carved door handles leading to his father’s study. He pushed the doors open and stepped into the dimly lit room. His father was writing feverishly at his desk.
“Good evening, Father.”
The Señor flung his quill pen in the air and jumped back in his chair. “My God, Roberto! Do you want to give me a heart attack?”
Roberto raised his hands apologetically and eased into one of the chairs facing the desk. “I didn’t know you were still working.”
The Señor reached down and snatched the quill pen off the polished wood floor. “How can you say that? Do you think Don Alejandro and the Carlitas are sitting on their verandas eating grapes? They’re killing themselves like me. Do you know why?”
Roberto held back a smile. “Because you taught them everything they know?”
The Señor nodded proudly while fumbling through the drawings on his desk. He lifted one of them next to the green-shaded desk lamp so his son could see it. “This is my sketch of the restored Miserere. It must blend perfectly with your blueprint.”
“Yes.”
The Señor studied the sketch for a moment before looking at his son. “We should compare them now. Where is the print?”
“Print?”
“Of the Miserere?”
Roberto looked down. “I’m afraid the festival got the best of me.”
The Señor slipped off his reading glasses. “Are you telling me the print is not drafted?”
“I’m sorry. I was going to work on it today, but— ”
“No excuses, Roberto!” The Señor jammed the quill pen into its inkwell. The skin beneath his thinning white hair flushed bright red. “You promised me it would be finished tonight. Don’t you know a man is judged by his word?”
“Father, I— ”
“Enough!”
Roberto stared at his father in stunned silence.
The Señor’s face twisted in a frown. “When you were a child, you did frivolous things, and I laughed. For twenty-eight years, I have laughed. But no more. You are no longer a child, Roberto. You are a man with responsibilities. I don’t want your meaningless apologies. I want that print!”
Roberto had not seen his father explode like this before. He stood up and gestured for the old man to calm down. “I’ll draft it tonight. We can review it first thing in the morning. I’ll work all night if necessary.” He turned to leave the room, but the Señor’s angry voice stopped him.
“Wait!”
Roberto turned to face the man he suddenly feared. “I don’t think we should talk until you’ve had some sleep.”
The Señor stood up and gestured toward the two leather chairs beneath the portrait. “There is something we need to discuss, and this is a good time.”
Roberto shook his head and dropped into one of the chairs while his father walked across the room and sat facing him.
For a moment, Señor Hidalgo stared blankly at the portrait while searching for the right words. He sighed and looked at his son. “I’m fifty-nine, Roberto. This is work for a younger man.”
Roberto looked at him in disbelief. “Nonsense. Your best days are ahead. Don’t worry so much. I’ll finish the blueprint tonight and we’ll modify it tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll win the bid after what we did at the festival. Then, we can restore cathedrals and missions until my hair turns white like yours.”
The Señor shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m tired, Roberto. Remember, I’ve had two responsibilities.”
Roberto cracked a smile. “Your business and your son. You have done both well.”
The Señor stared at him. “Have I?”
“How can you say that? No son could have a better father.”
“Kind words, Roberto, but it’s time to put them to the test.”
“Test?”
The Señor looked down at his gnarled hands. “It’s time for you to take over.”
“Take over?”
“Yes.”
Roberto ran his hand through his black hair. “Aren’t we rushing things a bit? Maybe in a few years when I’m more prepared. Besides, what will you do? You’re too young to give up your work. If you’re tired, hire an assistant to do the leg work and drafting.”
Señor Hidalgo watched his son fidget in the chair. Not a good sign from a young man who should be overjoyed at the chance to inherit Valencia’s most honored architectural firm. “I don’t need an assistant, Roberto. I need a successor, and he is my son. It’s time, Roberto. You’ve attended the best schools and trained with the finest architects in Spain, including myself. There is nothing you can’t design and build from mind’s eye. You have a wonderful gift, and it’s time to use it.”
Roberto wasn’t listening. He was staring at the portrait above the fireplace. “She was so beautiful.”
“What?” The Señor looked up at the portrait. “Oh…yes. I miss her more than you know. That is not easy to say after twenty-eight years, but it’s true. Your mother has never left me because I see her every day.”
“In the portrait?”
“And in you, my son.” The old man rested his head against the leather seat. “Your mother enjoyed her short life to the fullest, and you are too much like her.”
“Too much?”
The Señor slumped in his chair. “You’re a free spirit, Roberto. A lover of life. You’re not ready for what’s coming.”
“Coming?”
“I’m afraid we will have a new government soon. Do you know what that will mean for people like us?”
Roberto shrugged. “Probably nothing. We’re not landholders like the latifundistas and textile barons. We provide a service everyone needs. Old buildings must be renovated, and new buildings designed. It doesn’t matter who’s in power. Communists, fascists, nationalists— they’ll all need our services.”
A look of shock swept across the Señor’s face. “When you take over Arquitectura Hidalgo, Spain’s political decay won’t seem so slight. After working with me for ten years. I’m surprised you’re so naive. Don’t you realize our designs are meaningless unless they’re built?”
“Of course I do.” Roberto’s face reddened.
“Have you noticed the way the laborers behave since these damn unions have grown so powerful?”
“They want land and money. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s our land and money!” The Señor grimaced from a shooting pain in his side.
“Is something wrong?”
“Plenty is wrong, Roberto. The labor unions become more hostile each day. The new government will do anything to appease them. Don’t you understand what a socialist government will mean?”
Roberto recalled Sancho laboring in the midday heat. “A better world perhaps.”
Señor Hidalgo slammed his fist on the chair arm. “You won’t speak so boldly when they begin draining the Hidalgo estate for their social programs.”
Roberto shook his head. “I don’t agree. It’s time for Spain to care for its poor. It would be a breath of fresh air after so many years of greed.”
The Señor glared at his son. “I’m sorry to hear this, Roberto. Your road will be tougher than I thought.”
“Certainly not because of a few communistas and socialistas? Hell, I prefer them over land barons and bankers.”
“You’re talking like a child.”
“Impossible! Spain’s children are too hungry to talk.” Roberto’s black eyes flickered with anger.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m not a child. Don’t treat me like one.”
Señor Hidalgo leaned back and sighed. “Listen to me, Roberto. Whatever your personal feelings, there are hard truths that must be faced. Arquitectura Hidalgo demands it.”
Roberto glanced at the mantle clock. “It’s late. I should start on that print.” He patted the chair arm and stood up to leave.
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
Señor Hidalgo stood up and stared at his son. “What you said about the communistas and socialistas…”
“Yes?”
“Never speak those words in this house again. We’re Spaniards, Roberto. Patriots! There is no room for intruders and extremists in Spain. They are without honor and belong in the mud with the lizards.”
Señor Hidalgo watched his son storm out of the room. He brushed away a tear and walked back to his desk.
3 — Corpus Christi
“Thank you, Don Alejandro.” The Monsignor rose from his chair and nodded to the handsome, silver-haired architect standing at the easel.
“Are there any questions, Monsignor?”
Monsignor Diaz glanced at the six black-robed clerics seated to his left. “No, señor. You have been immaculately clear. God go with you.”
Don Alejandro nodded politely and gestured for his aide to place their drawings and sealed bid on the table next to Don Carlita’s. “My phone number is on a card inside the bid envelope. We are very anxious to begin the work.”
“I understand.”
The Monsignor waited for Don Alejandro and his aide to exit the meeting hall before nodding to the usher. “And now, we will welcome the final proposal from Architectura Hidalgo.”
Roberto followed his father into the great hall where the Monsignor and priests were seated in a semicircle facing a table and easel. The setting reminded him of a painting he’d seen in Madrid entitled, The Inquisition.
Señor Hidalgo bowed to the Monsignor and stepped to the easel, followed by his son. He pulled a pointer from his leather portfolio and fixed his brown eyes on the seven judges while Roberto placed the first sketch on the easel and stepped quietly aside.
It only took a few moments for the cunning old man to snare them with his passionate oratory and imaginative drawings. Knowing his father’s flare for dramatics, Roberto bit his lip and quietly flipped the sketches while waiting for the grand finale. He knew it was near when the Señor hesitated and stepped toward the seated clerics. His father always stepped forward when he was about to deliver the coup de grace.
The Señor clasped his hands and looked up at the stained glass window above the meeting hall. “It was on a day like this I saw the sketches appear in a beam of colored sunlight. I was praying for guidance beneath the stained glass windows of Valencia Cathedral.”
The hall echoed with whispers from the shocked clergy.
“In that moment, I felt God’s presence and knew He had chosen me to restore the Church of Corpus Christi— and the Miserere.”
The Monsignor stood up. “You would restore the Miserere?”
Señor Hidalgo raised his eyes to the portrait of The Virgin Mary on the far wall. “I will restore the Miserere for nothing, in memory of my beloved wife who died giving birth to my only son. I miss her so…” He lowered his head and stepped off the podium amidst a burst of tearful applause.
When word of the Council’s acceptance came that afternoon, Señor Hidalgo broke down and wept like a child. After consuming a bottle of wine and bowl of rabbit stew, he staggered up the winding staircase to his bedroom under the watchful eyes of Maria and his exhausted son.
Roberto was nearly out the front door when his father shouted down to him from the top of the stairs. “This is no time to celebrate! I’ll expect a work plan and estimate for the Miserere by eight in the morning!”
Stunned, Roberto watched the old man disappear through the door of his bedroom. The transition of responsibility had begun.
The sun was setting behind the Meseta range when Roberto escorted Laura into the Restaurante Flamenco in Valencia’s old quarter.
“Roberto!” Señor Adolfo Losas stepped between the linen-covered tables and extended a warm hand.
“Hello, my friend.” Roberto clasped Losas’ hand.
“It has been over a month. I thought you were angry with my food.”
“Never, Adolfo. Your paella is the finest in Spain.”
Adolfo stepped back and eyed the handsome couple. “And such a beautiful companion.”
Laura smiled under her veil. “You are very kind, señor.”
“But you look so sad, Roberto.”
“Just tired. Nothing a bottle of wine won’t cure.”
Adolfo broke into a wide grin and winked at Laura. “I have a quiet table in the back. With candle or without, whatever you prefer.”
Laura nodded politely.
He led them through the busy restaurant to a small rear table while deftly snatching a bottle of Rioja and two empty glasses from a passing waiter’s tray. A bit off color perhaps, but Señor Losas didn’t care. If not for the Hidalgo’s extreme generosity in restoring his restaurant after last year’s fire, Adolfo Losas would probably be back in Andalusia strutting an exhausting flamenco for a few flung coins.
They opted for no candle. With a guitarist strumming a soft medley of love songs, Roberto reached across the table and clasped her warm hands. “We should have gone to my apartment first.”
Laura frowned and eyed the plate of veal on the table next to them. “I’m hungry, Roberto.”
“I’m hungry too, mi amor— but not for food.”
“You’re too impatient.” She pulled her hands away.
“But honest.”
Laura removed her veil and took a sip of wine. She pushed the glass aside and stared at him with soft brown eyes. “We need to talk.”
Roberto shrugged. “We can talk there.”
“I’m serious, Roberto.”
“So am I.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Persistent young bull.”
After assuring Adolfo their early exit had nothing to do with his food, they took a taxi to Roberto’s apartment on Avenida Navarro Reverter. When he opened the door at the top of the stairs, the young Spaniard flinched from a sharp, acrid odor. “God, the developing solution.”
“Mi Dios, Roberto. You’ll kill us with your damn chemicals.”
“Don’t turn on the light. It might cause an explosion.”
“Mi Dios.”
Roberto rushed to a table cluttered with brown bottles. He grasped a metal pan and carefully poured its milky contents into a funneled glass jug. He put down the pan and jammed a rubber stopper in the jug.
“That smell is disgusting.” Laura groped across the dark room to its shuttered window. She swung open the shutters and took a breath of fresh air while studying the last glimmer of daylight above the rooftops across the street.
Roberto eased behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “Better?”
“Except for that damn smell.”
“It will be gone in a minute.”
She sighed and leaned against him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Is your father ill?”
“Ill?”
“He looked so tired coming out of the church. I haven’t seen him like that. He’s always so full of passion and fire.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine after a good night’s rest. We’ve both been working too hard.” Roberto pressed his lips to her ear. “But never mind him. If it’s passion and fire you want, try his son.”
“Insatiable young bull.” She removed her hat and dropped it on the chair beside the window. Her slender waist slipped through his hands as she turned to face him. “You eat too much squid, young Hidalgo. What will we ever do with you?”
“Do you know how much I love you?”
“I think you say that to all the mujeres you lure into this smelly den.” She pressed her firm body against him and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Laura, I”
“You talk too much.” She pushed away from him and sat on the bed while shamelessly removing her blouse, skirt, and undergarments. Stretching naked on the bed, she rolled on her side and touched her fingers to her lips, gently blowing him a kiss. “Well, what are you waiting for, little boy? Or would you prefer a tense young virgin?”
Roberto’s heart pounded against his ribs. He yanked off his clothes and slipped beside the beautiful woman lying on his bed. He took her in his arms and kissed her warm lips.
Her hand slipped between his legs. “I think you prefer older women.” She laughed and dragged her tongue down his neck and chest— then lower.
“You’re shameless. Thank God, you’re so shameless.”
“Do you like this, Roberto?” Her seductive voice drove him mad as her tongue darted between his legs.
They kissed each other’s quivering bodies until the urge became unbearable. She dug her nails into his back and slipped beneath him. Her warm, moist lips pressed against his ear. “Now, Roberto, I want to feel you inside me.”
He eased into her while uttering a soft moan. Their bodies swayed together in the cool darkness until the ecstasy exploded inside them. Clinging to each other, they gave themselves up in a moment of splendor only lovers can know…
Roberto glanced at the moonlight coming through the opened window. “I guess it’s too late for dinner.”
“I see your priorities have changed.” Laura squeezed his hand.
“Maybe Adolfo will take pity on us before he closes for the night.” Roberto tried to sit up, but Laura’s soft arm pressed him back on the bed.
“I’m not hungry.”
“But, you said— ”
“Let’s just talk.”
Roberto put his arm around her and stared at the darkness. “What should we talk about?”
“I think your father is right.”
Roberto’s face twisted in a frown. “Please, not again. This is the third time you’ve brought that up today.”
“I’m sorry, but someone has to make you understand that your father is trying to help you. It’s not good to see the Hidalgos fighting.”
Roberto looked away in frustration. “How many times do I have to tell you, there are no problems between us. He’s just tired. He’ll be fine after some rest. Then, he’ll come to his senses and drop this crazy thing about retiring.”
She leaned on her elbow and stared at his moonlit face. “It’s not that simple. Your father isn’t well.”
“Are you loco? At dinner, the man ate like a horse and drank a bottle of wine. Now he snores in his bed like a bull. Oh, almost forgot. He’s demanded a work plan by tomorrow morning. Does that sound like a sick man?”
She brushed back a strand of light-brown hair. “He loves you very much, Roberto. You owe him more than unkind words.”
His face flushed. “Don’t you think I know that? Now please drop it.” He crawled out of the bed and pulled on his trousers.
“You think I’m enjoying this? It’s for your own good, Roberto. You’re no different than the rest of us. Spain is changing for the worst. We have to join hands. We have to be prepared.”
“I’m prepared. And more than most. Hell, I’m even looking forward to it.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. The Church is warning everyone. The socialists have taken over. They’ll destroy Spain.”
His flush deepened. “What do you expect them to say? It will mean less pesetas for their swollen pockets.” He looked into her eyes. “Think of it, Laura. A new republic. No more hypocrisy. Help for the poor. Medicine for the sick. Now that would be a godly thing. Who knows, I might even attend Mass again.”
She fell back on the pillow and sighed. “I wouldn’t say these things if I didn’t care.”
He sat on the bed and ran his hand along her bare leg. “Oh, if those priests could see you now.”
She slapped his hand away. “Why can’t you be serious?”
He shook his head. “Life is too short to worry so much. That’s why we’re in trouble. If you want to make things better, give each citizen a bottle of wine, a lover, and enough pesetas to get through the day. You’ll see, it will be a happier world.”