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“They do not burn?” Tio’s cigarette was almost to his fingers and he seemed not to notice it. “There is no sweat? No fire in the belly?”
“Listen, my friend.” I picked up another of the peppers and tore it open and tasted the seeds, and they were mild. “That is, to me they were mild. I’m a hot-pepper man. I mean hot-pepper man.”
“But they do not eat hot peppers in the United States. Here and there, yes. But hot peppers there are weak peppers here.”
“I’m from here and there.” I spread a tortilla thick with bean paste and smacked my delight. “I used to live in Louisiana. Little red devils with fire in their skin and hell in their seeds.”
Tio clapped his hands again and spoke to the Indian girl, and she quickly was back with a little bowl of furias. Nice and fat and sort of greenish yellow. They had been steeped in vinegar, though, and much of the string was out. Still, they had some authority, unless you happen to be a hot-pepper man like me. I took two of them in one bite, and the waitress actually gaped at me, and turned and ran back to the kitchen.
Tio was fascinated. “You do not sweat. Or grab for the beer. You do not even blow your breath out hard. This is a thing, my friend. Those are furias.”
“For growing boys,” I said.
The Indian girl had come back to the doorway of the dining room, and three or four other Indians were with her, and they were watching me. Tio waved his hand and she ran and fetched a bottle of beer for him.
“Bring two more,” he said. “And one for Manuel in the kitchen, and one for Ricardo in the garden. For Pablo and Pedro.” The boss was gone and he really was big-wheeling. “One over to Father Francisco. To little Father Diego and big Father Diego. A Rooster beer for all.”
The hotel was as gay as a cantina. The Indians beamed and the chef gave the waitress a pat when she passed by him. Tio went to the desk and took two cigars from the owner’s private box, and we lit up.
Then he said, “So you like Mexican food. And hot peppers. You will come with me. I take you to the place of Hilario Villareal.”
I was warm inside from the beer and peppers, and felt chipper for the first time in weeks, and he told one of the Indians to look after things and we went forth. The village was waking up and some of our hotel Indians were shooting off firecrackers over by the church gate.
“To arouse the saints from their siesta,” Tio explained. “They think the saints should be up and about their jobs.”
We crossed over to the plaza and walked around it twice. He was puffing his cigar and talking up a storm and making it sure that everybody in the plaza saw us together. He led the way into a cantina and ordered two more beers. A radio was playing a scratchy melody, and Tio spoke up so all could hear, “In Feliz, not so much as a movie. In Hattiesburg, Mississippi — in Hattiesburg, where I went to college, talking pictures every night. And the baseball.”
“You tell ‘em, brother,” I said. “In Hattiesburg, the football also. And hamburgers.”
We made another round for the plaza, in case somebody had missed us, and Tio was silent for a spell, a mighty short one. Then he glanced up at me and away, and said, “In Hattiesburg, it is meat and beans and pepper powder. But they called me Chili. You know how it is up there. Always the nickname.”
“Chili, huh? OK, Chili. My friends call me Pete.” I started laughing, “Goes back to when I was so high. Just a kid. Little boy.” I don’t know why I told him, just wanted to tell him. “Used to run around playing like I was a biddy, a little chicken. Going ‘Peep, peep.’ My sister got to calling me Peep, and it got to be Pete. You know how it is.”
He took off his hat and leaned against a tree and laughed. “OK, Pete. Now we go to the place of Hilario Villareal. You and I.”
We walked on, and again he was silent, this time for several minutes. The beer was wearing off and I noticed that he was frowning.
At last he said, “About me going to college in the United States. I told you the Indians do not care, and do not matter. Well, Hilario Villareal is an Indian. He matters.”
I knew that something was eating him and that he would tell me at his own time. Sure enough, we had walked almost another block and he picked up his story. “Hilario Villareal is the best pepper man in Feliz. He eats furias for breakfast. With beer.”
“They’ll wake you up all right,” I said. “And put fire in your blood.”
Tio’s cigar was soggy and frayed and he threw it away. The exhilaration had gone out of him. “Hilario Villareal grows his own peppers and has a secret. He wet-rots leaves for his plants and grows them on a south slope that is sheltered on three sides. And in the dry season he waters them from a bucket. I tell you to have respect for his peppers are very hot.”
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