John Irving - Avenue of Mysteries

“They certainly were frightening, weren’t they?” Edward Bonshaw said, still staring at the conquering soldier.

“They certainly intended to be,” Vargas told the Iowan.

They were following Alejandra’s hips down a long and decorous hall. Of course they couldn’t pass a portrait of Jesus without comment. “Blessed are —” Edward Bonshaw began to say; the portrait was of Jesus delivering the Sermon on the Mount.

“Oh, those endearing beatitudes!” Vargas interrupted him. “My favorite part of the Bible — not that anyone pays attention to the beatitudes; they are not what most Church business is about. Aren’t you taking these two innocents to the Guadalupe shrine? A Catholic tourist attraction, if you ask me,” Vargas went on to Señor Eduardo but for everyone’s benefit. “No evidence of the beatitudes at that unholiest of basilicas!”

“Have tolerance, Vargas,” Brother Pepe pleaded. “You tolerate our beliefs, we’ll tolerate your lack thereof—”

“The virgins rule,” Lupe interrupted them, holding tight to the coffee can. “Nobody cares about the beatitudes. Nobody listens to Jesus — Jesus was just a baby. The virgins are the ones who pull the strings.”

“I suggest you don’t translate for Lupe — whatever she said. Just don’t, ” Pepe said to Juan Diego, who was too transfixed by Alejandra’s hips to have been paying attention to Lupe’s mysticism — perhaps the contents of the coffee can contributed to Lupe’s irritating powers.

“Tolerance is never a bad idea,” Edward Bonshaw began. Ahead of them, Juan Diego saw another Spanish soldier, this one standing at attention by a double doorway in the hall.

“This sounds like a Jesuitical trick,” Vargas said to the Iowan. “Since when do you Catholics ever leave us nonbelievers alone?” As proof, Dr. Vargas gestured to the solemn conquistador standing guard at the doorway to the kitchen. Vargas put his hand on the soldier’s breastplate, over the conquistador’s heart — if the conquering Spaniard had ever had a heart. “Try talking to this guy about free will,” Vargas said, but the Spaniard seemed not to notice the doctor’s overfamiliar touch; once again, Juan Diego saw the statue’s distant gaze come into focus. The Spanish soldier was looking at Lupe.

Juan Diego leaned down and whispered to his sister, “I know you’re not telling me everything.”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she told him.

“Aren’t they sweet — those children?” Alejandra said to Vargas.

“Oh, God — the penis-breath wants to have kids! This will ruin my appetite,” was all Lupe would say to her brother.

“Did you bring your own coffee?” Alejandra suddenly asked Lupe. “Or is it your toys? It’s—”

“It’s for him !” Lupe said, pointing to Dr. Vargas. “It’s our mother’s ashes. They have a funny smell. There’s a little dog in the ashes, and a dead hippie. There’s something sacred in the ashes, too,” Lupe added, in a whisper. “But the smell is different. We can’t identify it. We want a scientific opinion.” She held out the coffee can to Vargas. “Go on —smell it,” Lupe said to him.

“It just smells like coffee, ” Edward Bonshaw tried to assure Dr. Vargas. (The Iowan didn’t know if Vargas had any prior knowledge of the contents of the coffee can.)

“It’s Esperanza’s ashes !” Brother Pepe blurted out.

“Your turn, translator,” Vargas said to Juan Diego; the doctor had taken the coffee can from Lupe, but he’d not yet lifted the lid.

“We burned our mother at the basurero,” Juan Diego began. “We burned a gringo draft dodger with her — a dead one,” the fourteen-year-old struggled to explain.

“There was a dog in the mix — a small one,” Pepe pointed out.

“That must have been quite a fire,” Vargas said.

“It was already burning when we put the bodies in it,” Juan Diego explained. “Rivera had started it — with whatever was around.”

“Just your usual dump fire, I suppose,” Vargas said; he was fingering the lid of the coffee can, but he still hadn’t lifted it.

Juan Diego would always remember how Lupe was touching the tip of her nose; she held one index finger against her nose when she spoke. “Y la nariz,” Lupe said. (“And the nose.”)

Juan Diego hesitated to translate this, but Lupe kept saying it, while she touched the end of her little nose. “Y la nariz.”

“The nose?” Vargas guessed. “ What nose? Whose nose?”

“Not the nose, you little heathen!” Brother Pepe cried.

“ Mary’s nose?” Edward Bonshaw exclaimed. “You put the Virgin Mary’s nose in that fire?” the Iowan asked Lupe.

“ He did it,” Lupe said, pointing to her brother. “It was in his pocket, though it almost didn’t fit — it was a big nose.”

No one had told Alejandra, the dinner-party girlfriend, about the giant statue of the Virgin Mary losing its nose in the accident that killed the cleaning woman at the Jesuit temple. Poor Alejandra must have imagined, for a moment, the actual Virgin Mary’s nose in the awful fire at the basurero.

“Help her,” was all Lupe said, pointing to Alejandra. Brother Pepe and Edward Bonshaw managed to guide the dinner-party girlfriend to the kitchen sink.

Vargas lifted the lid of the coffee can. No one spoke, though they could all hear Alejandra breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth as she tried to suppress the urge to vomit.

Dr. Vargas lowered his mouth and nose into the open coffee can. They could all hear him take a deep breath. There was no other sound but the carefully measured breathing of his dinner-party girlfriend, who was struggling not to be sick in the sink.

The first conquistador’s sword was withdrawn from its scabbard and clanged against the stone floor in the foyer at the foot of the grand staircase. It was quite a loud clang, but far away from where the dinner par-tiers stood in the kitchen.

Brother Pepe flinched at the sound of the sword — as did Señor Eduardo and the dump kids, but not Vargas and Alejandra. The second sword clanged closer to them — the sword belonging to the Spaniard standing guard at the top of the stairs. You could not only hear the second sword clang against the stone stairs, as it slid down several steps before its descent of the staircase halted, but they had all heard the sound of the second sword being drawn from its scabbard.

“Those Spanish soldiers—” Edward Bonshaw began to say.

“It’s not the conquistadors — they’re just statues,” Lupe told them. (Juan Diego didn’t hesitate to translate this.) “It’s your parents, isn’t it? You live in their house because they’re here, aren’t they?” Lupe asked Dr. Vargas. (Juan Diego kept translating.)

“Ashes are ashes — there’s little smell to ashes,” Vargas said. “But this was a dump fire,” the doctor continued. “There’s paint in these ashes — maybe turpentine, too, or some kind of paint thinner. Maybe stain — something for staining wood, I mean. Something flammable.”

“Maybe gasoline?” Juan Diego said; he’d seen Rivera start more than a few dump fires with gasoline, including this one.

“Maybe gasoline,” Vargas agreed. “Lots of chemicals, ” the doctor added. “What you smell are the chemicals.”

“The Mary Monster’s nose was chemical ,” Lupe said, but Juan Diego grabbed her hand before she could touch her nose again.

The third clang and clatter was very near to them; except for Vargas, everyone jumped.

“Let me guess,” Brother Pepe cheerfully said. “That was the sword of our guardian conquistador by the kitchen doorway — the one right here, in the hall,” Pepe said, pointing.