Always the same violence of bitterness, Kate thought to herself. And she was so weary of it. How, how weary she was of politics, of the very words “Labour” and “Socialism!” and all that sort! It suffocated her.
“Have you heard of the men of Quetzalcoatl?” asked Kate.
“Quetzalcoatl!” exclaimed the manager, giving a little click of the final ‘l,’ in a peculiar native fashion. “That’s another try-on of the Bolshevists. They thought socialism needed a god, so they’re going to fish him out of this lake. He’ll do for another pious catchword in another revolution.”
The man went away, unable to stand any more.
“Oh dear!” thought Kate. “It really is hard to bear.”
But she wanted to hear more of Quetzalcoatl.
“Did you know,” she said to the man later, showing him the little pot, “that they find those things in the lake?”
“They’re common enough!” he said. “They used to throw them in, in the idolatrous days. May still do so, for what I know. Then get them out again to sell to tourists.”
“They call them ollitas of Quetzalcoatl.”
“That’s a new invention.”