Raul smelled it and the strong smell helped him before he could get it to his lips: tequila almendrada: he let the fiery stuff grab him. Why not get drunk? Why not wipe out pain that way? What could Peza do?
"Here's Peza," said Manuel, stripping off Raul's wet shirt.
"Well, Raul, what happened, man? I see you got drenched."
"Hello, Jesús."
"Where are you hit?"
"In the shoulder," said Manuel.
"Shoulder ... hmm, hmm," said Jesús, and peered into his friend's face. "The last time I saw you was when I filled a molar. A month ago, maybe two, wasn't it? Well, I can help you. I'll fix your shoulder.... You just settle back in that chair."
Jesús Peza had fixed many wounds in and around Colima: tequila wounds, dog bites, stone wounds, wire, gun, knife and horse wounds: as dentist, teeth and mouth often came last. He had not brought his kit to Palma Sola but borrowed a poniard-like knife from Ponchito, Lucienne's gardener. Jesús had the head of a gamecock and as he pecked at Raul's wound he talked fast:
"Fetch me several clean towels, Marta.... Hmm, I tell you that was a bad-enough earthquake; I don't know what's got into that volcano lately.... Fetch me a basin of water and some soap, Manuel.... Hmm, this knife is not so damn dull.... Hell broke loose in Colima, they say; I've got to get back.... Did you hear about the church, Raul ... hmm?"
"No," moaned Raul, barely hearing anything he said.