Читать книгу Butterfly Winter - W. Kinsella P. - Страница 22

Even my mother refers to me as Esteban the turnip, though she does it in a loving way, shaking her head at a son she cannot now, nor will ever, understand. I am, indeed, a turnip. I stare dreamily into the distance, conveniently not hearing the racket of my brothers and sisters, of my contemporaries. Julio will come and tug at my ear when it is time to play baseball. I would just as soon not, but for Julio the game is everything. We appear to be extraordinarily talented, at least Julio is, and Julio cannot pitch unless I am his catcher. Many people do not understand this, and since I alone am only an average catcher and a dismal hitter, they try to substitute for me at every opportunity. A foolish ploy. If I am not catching him, Julio throws balls halfway up the backstop, or sometimes behind the batter, or he will deliver a sweet batting-practice pitch across the plate for the batter to wallop wherever he chooses.

We play in the highest ranked league in Courteguay. We are the battery for the San Cristobel Flamethrowers, and Julio is 13–0 with a 1.28 ERA. Scouts from the United States sit in the stands behind home plate, utilize their speed guns, scribble notes and marvel at the talent of Julio as a pitcher. In Courteguay no one cares that we are children playing with adults. However, for the benefit of the scouts, The Wizard has arranged false birth certificates for us, to show that we are sixteen years old, although in reality we are barely nine. The scouts have not yet come to realize that I am a part of the bargain.

On one of the happiest days of my life I remember watching as the wizard tossed blueberries into the stream behind our home. As each berry submerged it became a dazzling blue fish.

‘How do you do that?’ I asked the wizard.

‘I will teach you,’ he said, handing me several fat blueberries.

I tossed one into the stream. It sank like a small rock as the water carried it downstream. I tried again with the same result. The Wizard tossed a berry and it changed immediately to a sparkling fish that leapt gaily in the water, turning its turquoise belly to the sun for a second before swimming away. He handed me a large handful of berries.

‘It takes years of practice,’ he said. ‘But if anyone has the patience, you do.’

My word for today is ullage: the amount of empty space in a closed container. Father Cornelius instructs me that the word is usually used to refer to the empty space in an opened bottle of wine. ‘With each drink poured from the wine bottle the ullage grew larger.’ That is the sentence I spoke for Father Cornelius to let him know I understood the meaning.

Father Cornelius, Father Joachin, and Father Bartholomew who has only one leg, live behind a chain-link fence that surrounds their residence. The house, of flaming white adobe, once sat next to a church, but the church was torn down by a previous administration, or perhaps by the present one, or simply by vandals, who knows?

An El Presidente once stated that: ‘There is no need for God in a warm climate’, and mandated that if the priests wished to remain in Courteguay they must forever remain behind the chain-link fences. They rely on the kindness of former parishioners for food and clothing. They are allowed to converse through the fence but are not allowed to perform religious rites, though I’m told they do, in fact I’ve seen them, in fact I have been a part of those forbidden rituals.