“No, a beet worker. He has had to leave town.”
“Fix yourself on this,” said the smallest one. “He was the best guitar player ever in this town. The finest.”
“What a shame.”
“I believe it,” said the biggest one. “How he could touch the guitar.”
“There are no good guitar players left?”
“Not the shadow of a guitar player.”
“There is an accordion player who is worth something,” the thin man said.
“There are a few who touch various instruments,” the big one said. “You like music?”
“How would I not?”
“We will come one night with music? You think the sister would allow it? She seems very amiable.”
“I am sure she would permit it when Cayetano is able to hear it.”
“Is she a little crazy?” asked the thin one.
“Who?”
“That sister.”
“No,” Mr. Frazer said. “She is a fine woman of great intelligence and sympathy.”
“I distrust all priests, monks, and sisters,” said the thin one.
“He had bad experiences when a boy,” the smallest one said.
“I was acolyte,” the thin one said proudly. “Now I believe in nothing. Neither do I go to mass.”
“Why? Does it mount to your head?”
“No,” said the thin one. “It is alcohol that mounts to my head. Religion is the opium of the poor.”
“I thought marijuana was the opium of the poor,” Frazer said.
“Did you ever smoke opium?” the big one asked.
“No.”
“Nor I,” he said. “It seems it is very bad. One commences and cannot stop. It is a vice.”
“Like religion,” said the thin one.
