black and needing to be cut, his eyes very laughing, his teeth bad when he smiled.
“Hola, amigo! Qué tal?”
“As you see,” said Mr. Frazer. “And thou?”
“Alive and with the leg paralyzed.”
“Bad,” Mr. Frazer said. “But the nerve can regenerate and be as good as new.”
“So they tell me.”
“What about the pain?”
“Not now. For a while I was crazy with it in the belly. I thought the pain alone would kill me.”
Sister Cecilia was observing them happily.
“She tells me you never made a sound,” Mr. Frazer said.
“So many people in the ward,” the Mexican said deprecatingly. “What class of pain do you have?”
“Big enough. Clearly not as bad as yours. When the nurse goes out I cry an hour, two hours. It rests me. My nerves are bad now.”
“You have the radio. If I had a private room and a radio I would be crying and yelling all night long.”
“I doubt it.”
“Hombre, sí. It’s very healthy. But you cannot do it with so many people.”
“At least,” Mr. Frazer said, “the hands are still good. They tell me you make your living with the hands.”
“And the head,” he said, tapping his forehead. “But the head isn’t worth as much.”
“Three of your countrymen were here.”
“Sent by the police to see me.”
“They brought some beer.”
“It probably was bad.”
“It was bad.”
“Tonight, sent by the police, they come to serenade me.” He laughed, then tapped his stomach. “I cannot laugh yet. As musicians they are fatal.”
“And the one who shot you?”
