Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich
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inferno. “What do you say?”
“Me?” he grinned. “I’d say, how much?”
“How much what?”
“How much do I owe you, cabrón?”
Everyone exploded in laughter.
“Thirty for the two,” I said without missing a beat.
He pulled out his wallet and held out a hundred-peso bill.
“I don’t have change,” I said.
“Keep it.”
I stared at the folded bill pressed between his long fingers embellished with golden rings. Every single voice in my head told me not to take it. Then he dropped it. I watched it float to the ground like a kite in a windless day. It landed between his shoe and my box.
He smiled. Then I glanced at Ximena, standing beside him, looking at me with her sad cat eyes. I hated her. I hated her more than anything in the world. No. I hated Joaquín more.
One of the men smacked Pedro on the back. “Come on, turn that shit on the stereo off and call the musicians over. We need a good song.”
“Yeah, el corrido de Joaquín Carrillo.”
“You wish,” Pedro waved to the musicians at the end of the plaza.
I glanced at the hundred pesos and back at the men. I was invisible again. Only Regina was looking at me. She nodded and mouthed the words: Take it.
I picked up my box, grabbed the money and walked away. I kept walking all the way to my house, the hundred-peso bill crumpled in my fist. I kept seeing Ximena and Joaquín. I was burning out of control. I wanted to hurt. Kill.
When I turned on my street, Chapopote came trotting toward me, his sloppy tongue dangling from the side of his mouth, his tail wagging. I ran at him and kicked him in the side with all my rage. He yelped and ran off. I chased him, my shoeshine box rattling against my side. I couldn’t catch him. I unlocked the gate and set my shoeshine box outside the front door.
The light in the living room was on. My parents! I ran inside thinking of the surprise in my mother’s face, her eyes, her smile. But it was only my abuela and Jesusa watching the stupid novela.
On Sunday morning Abuela, Gaby and I went to church. At one time, maybe like two hundred years ago, the church must have been a grand old place. It had been built with huge volcanic rock and the wall behind the altar was like a pirate’s treasure, all gold and jewels. But the pews were scratched up and the ceiling and walls were stained from leaks and mildew.
The church was crowded. All the places in the front were taken so we had to sit near the middle, which was great. With my parents, we always sat in the front. I hated that. Father Gregorio had a way of making eye contact with me whenever he talked about good and evil. I knew he was addressing everyone, but it always felt as though he were talking only to me. And when he paused to prepare the communion vessel, he stared at me as if the communion—and sometimes the entire ceremony—was being performed just to save my soul from the terrible sins I had supposedly committed. But the truth was that I wasn’t much of a sinner. I mean, I did curse but never as much as the other kids, especially Mosca. He had a real mouth. I just told a few innocent lies. I guess my worst sins had to do with Ximena.
There were like twenty or thirty newcomers sitting up front. Well-dressed families—old people, grandparents, couples, kids. They were just regular people, but they looked different. Some of the men kept their sunglasses on. The women had their hair done real fancy. They wore a lot of gold. You could almost smell their money over the incense. I didn’t see Joaquín or his friends from Saturday night.
Father Gregorio focused his mass on how we all need to strive for what he said is the inner person, which is Christ, or something like that. He spoke unusually slow and quoted Saint Paul over and over. But the main point was that carnal life is a passing stage of the inner life. Or something. It was a sad mass. His voice was deeper than usual. At one point he reminded us of Enrique Quintanilla and Rocío Morales. He said death was the ultimate sacrifice, and their souls were now with Him. Then he asked us to pray for them and their families. He said we were a community of believers, that we were all the children of God, and had to trust the Lord’s plan and not question his motives for the things that happen to us.
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