She ran home, but she did that often, these days.
Thousands of kilometers to the north, past huge smoking cities and lime-colored cliffs, past thousand-year-old trees and day-old babies, a billion young sardines swam idly in a cool deep sound and waited without awareness of their impending destiny.
Father Peralta permitted himself a quiet, inward smile of satisfaction. It had been a good mass and a fine sermon. Now he would listen to the simple confessions of his simple people, and then maybe he could get some work done with the new books that had been sent by the university.
He settled himself comfortably ha the box. There
97
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .
had been a big celebration in the village two nights ago—a wedding—and a small fight had broken out. Nothing serious, but unusual for San Quintin. This day would be longer than most.
The voices he knew. Martin, Benjamin, Marceal, Carmen, little Josefa Flores . ,.
“Father, Maria Partida got a new dress last ‘week. I envied her for it.”
“Perhaps you just admired it, nifia” “No, Father. I desired it badly.” Father Peralta thought. The Flores were not as well off as some of the other villagers.
“This is a small thing, nina, that will pass quickly. Do not worry on it.”
There was a pause from the other side. A long pause.
What is it, child?”
“Last week, Father, Jose and Felipe—” Jose and Felipe. Peralta knew them. Good boys, made a little wild by too much money too soon. And those motorcycles, ay!
“—they laughed at Grandfather when he was going out to fish. I thought some terrible things about them, Father.”