“You look so much better,” she said. “You’ll be leaving us soon.”
“Yes,” Mr. Frazer said. “You look very happy this morning.”
“Oh, I am. This morning I feel as though I might be a saint.”
Mr. Frazer was a little taken aback at this.
“Yes,” Sister Cecilia went on. “That’s what I want to be. A saint. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to be a saint. When I was a girl I thought if I renounced the world and went into the convent I would be a saint. That was what I wanted to be and that was what I thought I had to do to be one. I expected I would be a saint, I was absolutely sure I would be one. For just a moment I thought I was one. I was so happy and it seemed so simple and easy. When I awoke in the morning I expected I would be a saint, but I wasn’t. I’ve never become one. I want so to be one. All I want is to be a saint. That is all I’ve ever wanted. And this morning I feel as though I might be one. Oh, I hope I will get to be one.”
“You’ll be one. Everybody gets what they want. That’s what they always tell me.”
“I don’t know now. When I was a girl it seemed so simple. I knew I would be a saint. Only I believed it took time when I found it did not happen suddenly. Now it seems almost impossible.”
“I’d say you had a good chance.”
“Do you really think so? No, I don’t want just to be encouraged... Don’t just encourage me. I want to be a saint. I want to be a saint.”
“Of course you’ll be a saint,” Mr. Frazer said.
“No, probably I won’t be. But, oh, if I could only be a saint! I’d be perfectly happy.”
“You’re three to one to be a saint.”
“No, don’t encourage me. But, oh, if I could only be a saint! If I could only be a saint!”
“How’s your friend Cayetano?”
“He’s going to get well, but he’s paralysed. One of the bullets hit the big nerve that goes down through his thigh and that leg is paralysed. They only found it out when he got well enough so that he could move.”
“Maybe the nerve will regenerate.”
“I’m praying that it will,” Sister Cecilia said “You ought to see him.”
“I don’t feel like seeing anybody.”
“You know you’d like to see him. They could wheel him in here.”
“All right.”
They wheeled him in, thin, his skin transparent, his hair 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 paralysed.”
“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?”
“Another fool. I won thirty-eight dollars from him at cards, That is not to kill about.”
“The three told me you win much money.”
“And am poorer than the birds.”
“How?”
“I am a poor idealist. I am the victim of illusions.” He laughed, then grinned and tapped his stomach. “I am a professional gambler but I like to gamble. To really gamble. Little gambling is all crooked. For real gambling you need luck. I have no luck.”
“Never?”
“Never. I am completely without luck. Look, this cabrón who shoots me just now. Can he shoot? No. The first shot he fires into nothing. The second is intercepted by a poor Russian. That would seem to be luck. What happens? He shoots me twice in the belly. He is a lucky man. I have no luck. He could not hit a horse if he were holding the stirrup. All luck.”
“I thought he shot you first and the Russian after.”
“No, the Russian first, me after. The paper was mistaken.”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“I never carry a gun. With my luck, if I carried a gun I would be hanged ten times a year. I am a cheap card player, only that.” He stopped, then continued. “When I make a sum of money I gamble and when I gamble I lose. I have passed at dice for three thousand dollars and crapped out for the six. With good dice. More than once.”
“Why continue?”
“If I live long enough the luck will change. I have bad luck now for fifteen years. If I ever get any good luck I will be rich.” He grinned. “I am a good gambler, really I would enjoy being rich.”
“Do you have bad luck with all games?”
“With everything and with women.” He smiled again, showing his bad teeth.
“Truly?”
Truly.”
“And what is there to do?”
“Continue, slowly, and wait for luck to change.”
“But with women?”
“No gambler has luck with women. He is too concentrated. He works nights. When he should be with the woman. No man who works nights can hold a woman if the woman is worth anything.”