“I do not see why you mock me. No one has asked me to work since.”
“Have you asked any one for work?”
“It is not my way to beg.”
“Luis, I don’t believe you’re quite a man yet, in spite of your mustache. You complain there’s no money for Mexicans in Arizona because the Americans get it all. Why don’t you go back to Sonora, then, and be rich in five minutes? It would sound finely: ‘Luis Romero, Merchant, Hermosillo.’ Or perhaps gold would fall more quickly into your lap at Guaymas. You would live in a big house, perhaps with two stories, and I would come and visit you at Easter—if your wife would allow it.” Here Lolita threw a pepper at him.
The guitar grated a few pretty notes; otherwise there was silence.
“And it was Uncle Ramon persuaded them to hire you in May. He told the American contractor you owned a strong burro good for heavy loads. He didn’t say much about you,” added the little lady.
“Much good it did me! The American contractor-pig retained my wages to pay for the food he supplied us. They charge you extra for starvation, those gringos. They are all pigs. Ah, Lolita, a man needs a wife, so he may strive to win a home for her.”
“I have heard men say that they needed a home before they could strive to win a wife for it. But you go about it the other way.”
“I am not an American pig, I thank the Virgin! I have none of their gringo customs.”
“You speak truly indeed,” murmured Lolita.