Paddy & Dear Me – Chapters 1-26 – Patrick Owens, WRITER

Paddy & Dear Me

A tale of Portuguese immigration to California in the 19th century, and how a vile act against a priest affected a young boy, two generations later.

by Patrick Owens

Out Of Exile – 1940 Chapter 1

I never even knew I had a grandmother until Mom yanked me out of school. We ran down the empty hallway and stopped just inside the front door.

“Paddy, guess who’s waiting to meet you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your grandmother Amelia. She’s in the car.”
We rushed through the door and almost bumped into Mother Superior, arguing with two

old nuns standing on the sidewalk. It was all in Portuguese, and they talked so fast I only picked up a few words. But who cares? They were so mad their cowls banged together. Maybe one would fall off and I’d find out if nuns really were baldheaded.

“Vergonhosho!” Mother Superior yelled.
I know that word. ‘Disgraceful.’ Kids hear it all the time at Holy Angeles school. Mother Superior pointed at a wrinkly old woman sitting in the back of our Chevy,

sticking her tongue out at the nuns. It darted in and out like a snake’s, pushing past one yellow tooth on her upper gum.

Mom opened the passenger-side door and folded down the seat-back. “Do you want to sit with your Grandmother, Paddy?”

I pushed the seat upright and got in the front.

While Mom drove out of town, I watched Grandma through the space between the seat- backs. She was dressed all in black, widow’s weeds. Mom calls it, like what the Viuvash wear. They’re the old ladies without husbands who sit in the front pew at Mass. But they’re clean. Grandma’s all dusty and smells like smoke.

The witch in my coloring book is dressed all in black too, and she only has one front tooth. I used a whole black crayon on her, except her eyes and that tooth. I colored them red.

I turned to look out the windshield to see where we were, and when I turned back, eight bony fingers waved in my face like spider’s legs. Grandma was smiling, I guess. Her mouth stretched wide, and that yellow tooth seemed to point right at me. I like my coloring-book witch better.

The tires whirred as we crossed the metal grating on the American River bridge. This is my favorite place. When you come out of the trees along the river, you can see all the way across the valley to the High Sierras. The foothills come first. It’s late Spring now, and they’re usually covered with dead grass. Pop took me up there last year to see the cowboys drive cattle herds down from the summer pastures. We must have got the wrong day because all I saw was a tarpaper shack and miles of yellow grass.

After the foothills, you see the mountains, covered with trees. At the very top are five peaks, white in the winter. They look like they’re covered with snow in the summer, too. Pop says it’s because they’re made of gray granite and full of fools gold which makes them shine in the sunlight. I used to pretend they were magic mountains where dragons and other scary creatures live, just like in storybooks. We’re going camping there someday now that I know dragons are just make-believe.

My favorite place doesn’t look too good today. A big grass fire burned up the foothills yesterday, and they’re all black. There’s still lots of smoke in the air; I can’t see the mountains at all.

It was dark when Pop got home from work. The cows were bellowing because their udders were full, so he went right to the barn to do the milking. I was sleeping on the ground in the backyard – Mom said it was good practice for my camping trip to the magic mountains.

Pop walked right by me with two full milk buckets, and I could hear him put them down in the kitchen and say hello to Mom. Then he must have done what he always does, peak around the homemade sheet made of flowered chicken-feed sacks that Mom hung in front of my bed. Pop likes to check that I’m breathing alright because I was sickly when I was little.

“What the Hell are you doing here?”

Oh, boy! I guess he didn’t get the message that Grandma was sleeping in my bed tonight. There’s only one phone in the hanger, and the mechanics are so busy keeping the airplanes flying, sometimes they forget to pass on messages.

Next thing I knew Grandma’s screaming and Pop’s yelling at her.

“Hush, Dale,” Mom said and pushed Pop onto the back porch. I guess she forgot I was sleeping right there because she didn’t whisper.

“Josef died yesterday,” Mom said. “Dear Me burned down the shack to signal to the valley that the Padrinho had passed. I think she wanted to make sure the Bishop couldn’t make her stay in exile by herself.”

I felt kind of sneaky spying on them like this. I started to fidget because the ground is hard, but if I make noise they’ll stop talking, and I might not find out who Dear Me is or what’s a padrino or… “

“Selfish bitch,” Pop said. “You know how many families she burned out?”
Mom was quiet for a minute. “I know, Dale, but you saw how they lived; a tarpaper shack

ready to blow away; using dry cow pies for fuel. She sure couldn’t live there alone.” “What about the church Home?”
“You know Father Anselmo can’t keep Dear Me there.”
“Well, where are we going to keep her?” Pop said. “The new house won’t be ready for

months. We can’t pay the workers any faster.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Mom said. “Tomorrow’s the problem. She can’t be left

alone.”
“Hell, no. She’ll burn this place down too.”

They didn’t talk for awhile, then Mom said, “Paddy can miss school for one day; I’ll be home for the weekend.”

“Did you forget you work Saturdays?”
“Two days, then,” Mom said. “I’ll definitely be home Sunday.”
“A second grader babysitting a dotty old woman?” Pop said. “Not a good idea.” It

sounded like Mom started to cry,
“Okay,” Pop said. “But Monday she’s gone. Right?” “Yes, dear.”

Oh, boy. No school tomorrow, and all I have to do is… Oh, no! “Mom,” I shouted. “What can Grandma eat? She’s only got one tooth.”

Chapter 2

Mom gave me instructions on how to take care of Grandma. “Don’t argue with her. She likes hot cereal because it’s easy to swallow. The most important thing is to stop her from walking to town.

“How?” I said.
“Tell her your father will beat you if she tries to run off,” Mom said.
“Pop wouldn’t do that.”
“I know,” Mom said, “but it’ll work with her. Get her to tell stories about when she was

young. Most of them are lies, but she’s a great storyteller. And do your chores. We need butter for tomorrow.”

I checked on Grandma every once in a while I did my chores. I didn’t have to go inside because her snoring was so loud it made things rattle on the drain board. I was hosing myself off at the spigot by the back porch when she yelled, “I want mush!”

“Mush is for breakfast, Grandma,” I yelled back. “It’s lunchtime.”

She came onto the back porch, dressed in one of Mom’s old nightgowns. “Who says? You got a clock in your stomach?”

I went inside and opened the cabinet above the sink. “Okay, oatmeal or cream of wheat?” “Oatmeal,” Grandma said, “and I want it fried.”
“Huh?”
“Boil it first, then chop up onions, celery, sweet basil, marjoram… you got herbs, don’t

you?
“Sure, Grandma, but… “
“Mix it all up and fry it, thick, like flapjacks,” she said. “Put butter on top so it melts.” “We don’t even have enough butter to fill tomorrow’s orders,” I said.
“Scrape a little off the bottom. Nobody will know.”
“That’s cheating!”

We finished eating, and I left the dishes to soak. Fried mush tastes pretty good. Kind of dry. Better with melted butter, I guess.

We live in a one-room chicken coop. Really. Mom doesn’t like me to call it that. After Pop fixed it up, she says it’s a cabin. It used to lean towards the road, but Pop made it stronger and put in windows and new tar paper on the roof. He built a screened-in back porch so we can get some air without mosquitoes bothering us. It’s alright to live in, for a while.

There used to be a big farmhouse out by the road. It burned down in a grass fire after the people that owned this place couldn’t pay the taxes. We’re building a new house on the foundation.

“Come on, Grandma. I’ll show you how to churn butter.”

“I made mantiega da cabra when I was younger than you. Real butter, from goats. It’s got a stronger taste.”

She pushed my hand away from the churn and started turning the crank. But she pooped out right away, and we took turns cranking the wooden paddles. Mom says I should always always be polite, so I had to figure a way to get Grandma to take a bath because she really stinks.

“Grandma, whenever you want, I’ll fetch water for you to take a bath.”

“I smell bad? You think I stink?” She started blessing herself in Portuguese and pounding her chest.

“No, Grandma. It’s just that your clothes smell like smoke.”

That calmed her down a little. Then I asked a question which I guess I shouldn’t have because she went right to bed and spent the rest of the day mumbling and crying and blessing herself.

What I had said was, “Grandma. Why did you burn down your shack?”

Chapter 3

Amelia Rosa Machado de Freitas didn’t give it a second thought when she set fire to the hovel she and the Padrinho had lived in for twenty years. It was just part of living in exile, like having to make sopash with beef jerky. It had been years since she had seen a pot roast or rolled a dry prig of summer savory on her fingertips to fill the kitchen with its weedy aroma.

Her day began with surveying the larder: six slices of beef jerky, some rice and a tin of olives and a piece of salted cod. That was it, and Father Anselmo wouldn’t bring their monthly rations for another four days.

Amelia decided on sopash and tell the Padrinho it was a feast day. He wouldn’t know the difference. She stoked the embers under the remaining sticks of firewood in the little cook stove and emptied the water cask into a cast-iron pot. When the water began to simmer,

Amelia added the last of the jerky and a few sprigs wild yarrow, which she had convinced herself had the same tangy taste as summer savory.

A dust devil swirled through the door of the tarpaper shack. It settled over the old woman and the ersatz sopash like a shroud. Too late, Amelia banged the lid on the cast-iron pot which reverberated like a cracked bell tolling one o’clock in the shepherd’s hut.

“Que desonra!” She lifted the lid and skimmed what dust she could from the surface of the broth. “Disgraceful! Bad enough making sopash with jerky. Now it’s seasoned with half the hillside.”

Amelia bowed as low as her rheumy body allowed and made three quick signs of the cross. “Forgive me Father for committing the sin of Ungrateful–

“Amelia!” Josef Carvalho called from outside the hut. “Come and see my church before the clouds hide it. Hurry!”

Amelia’s shoulders drooped. She faced the heaven she knew hovered high above this shepherd’s hut and silently finished her plea for forgiveness.

“Coming, Padrinho.”

Josef Carvalho, the former leader of the Portuguese community, sat in a filthy over- stuffed chair and pointed at the morning sun which had just cleared the crest of the High Sierras – to the east. “There, in the valley. St. Mary The Blessed!”

Amelia turned Josef’s chair to the west, towards the Sacramento Valley and away from the bright light, sure that the sun was to blame for the white film covering his eyes.

“Why do you move me, woman?”
“So you may see the rest of your properties, Padrinho.”
“Ah, very good. You see where the two rivers come together? That is where I showed

everybody how to grow rice.”
“Yes, Padrinho.” Amelia envied Josef living in lush memories, where Anglos still bent

the knee to him, Italians too, even the Irish scum. His fantasies protected him from the reality Amelia faced every day, excommunicated from the Church she loved, exiled to these barren foothills by the Bishop. A constant wind blew dirt through any crack in the walls it could find. Just to be mean, cattle drovers in the Spring and Fall guided the herds directly at the shack, leaving it quivering in a sea of brown backs, the beasts dropping cow pies everywhere, forcing her to watch her step for days until the manure dried.

Every New Years, when fireworks in the valley below woke her from a fitful sleep, she prayed until sunrise that this would be the year of forgiveness, only to be dejected when the first green shoots of grass spouted on their hillside.

Feeling ungrateful again, Amelia made continuous signs of the cross as she prayed, “No Nome do Pai, do Filho, e do Espirito Sanctus. And bless His Eminence for his charity in giving us shelter and for the dry manure the beasts of the field leave us because there is never enough firewood.”

Josef heard the words ‘His Eminence’ and assumed the posture of a grandee on his urine-stained throne, which smelled too ripe to keep in the hut.

“Has the Bishop come to pay his respects?”
“No Padrinho, it is just a prayer.” Amelia rubbed the small of her back with both

hands. “The sopash is simmering. I am going to rest for a while.”
“Yes, my dear. I will summon you if I need anything.”
Amelia made a sour face and went into the hut. She stirred the pot one more time and

lay down on her straw pallet, trying to remember how beautiful their life was before their disgrace. But all her imagination could bring forth was a patchwork of green and tan, the colors she saw every day in the valley below.

She awoke to the smell of something burning. A thin plume of smoke rose from the cast-iron pot and drifted out the door. She hobbled to the stove and found that the broth had cooked away, leaving a black slurry bubbling on the bottom. Tears darkened the bodice of her threadbare smock as she limped into the sunlight to tell the Padrinho that God had punished them yet again for their sins.

Amelia’s tears stopped when she saw Josef Pedro Carvalho e Deogo do Horta laying face down in the dirt. She stared at the Padrinho’s body trying to comprehend why he wasn’t sitting where she had left him. Then a sense of relief flooded over her. She rubbed the crucifix on her rosary between thumb and index finger and began a prayer for the dearly departed.

Amelia returned to the cook stove and scooped-up the remaining coals with a ladle. Father Anselmo had laid a signal fire months before when Josef began to fail. Each month, when he brought supplies, the priest doused it with old motor oil and kerosene so there would be plenty black smoke when Amelia had to light it. She hoped someone in the valley would at least tell her priest about it. Amelia knew none of those hypocrites would say a prayer.

She waited hours, saying the rosary over and over, but there was no response from the valley. With no water and few supplies left, Amelia decided to make sure someone saw the signal that the Pedrinho’s time had come. She stirred the embers of the signal fire, and with the tip of the stick burning brightly, limped to the hated tarpaper shack that more than anything else typified her fall from grace.

Amelia threw the flaming stick on her straw pallet and hurried out of the hovel. The flames caught, and soon the hut burst into flame, forcing Amelia to drag Josef’s body upwind of the falling cinders.

Father Frank Anselmo tried to keep the pick-up in the ruts, worn in the center of the stock trail after twenty-years of monthly supply trips to the herder’s shack. The recent cattle drive had churned the ground, filling the ruts. The grassfire blanketed the foothills in a layer of soot, making the track invisible. The priest stayed in second gear and kept a light touch on the gas pedal and the steering wheel, letting the truck find its way home like giving a horse its head on the way to the barn.

He glanced at Amelia sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead and still shivering after a night in the open.

“Where will I live?” she said, the exact words she had uttered twenty years before when Josef agreed to the compromise that living in exile was better than debtors prison. The Bishop hadn’t considered what would happen to Amelia and her three children, and here he was facing the same dilemma now. The Bishop had died long ago, but many of her enemies in the parish were alive. And Amelia was still an outcast.

“I haven’t spoken to Maria yet,” Father Anselmo said and gripped the steering wheel tighter at just the wrong moment. He felt the truck slip out of the invisible ruts to the right. Instinct came to his rescue. He turned the wheel into the slide before momentum forced the vehicle to turn sideways and a possible rollover. The truck settled back into the grooves with a jolt and Josef’s body, wrapped in a tarpaulin, rolled against the side of the pickup’s bed with a thump.

Amelia looked out the back window of the cab.

“I’m taking his remains to the county coroner,” Father Anselmo said, “then we go to the hospital,”

“No! I’m never going there again!” Amelia said.
“Yes, you are!”
“You want me to have a fit?” Amelia said.
Father Anselmo concentrated on driving.
“Silence. So there’s no place for me,” Amelia slumped in her seat, closed her eyes and

began a prayer vigil by making the sign of the cross three times.
The priest began his own ‘not-so-silent’ prayer. “Thank God that was is the last trip,”

he muttered, then immediately felt guilty about the inappropriate way to think of the dearly departed and began a prayer for forgiveness. “But why feel guilty?” he asked, again under his breath. He decided to put aside this recurring debate with himself, about the cause of Josef’s exile: the fraud, deceit, thefts, sexual scandals. He had failed to get Josef to at least acknowledge the harm he caused others, including his own humiliation. Father Anselmo had long accepted that the vile act was a test of faith that gave him strength, making him feel at one with all the martyrs and saints of the church.

They reached the paved road, and Father Anselmo turn the truck towards town. Amelia opened her eyes to see mile after mile of abandoned farms, with once-valuable equipment rusting in fallow fields, and irrigation ditches choked with weeds.

“What’s happened?” Amelia said. “Where is everybody?”

“Moved to town … or away. Folks couldn’t pay their mortgages, and the banks had to repossess. When the banks crashed the County foreclosed for back taxes.”

They approached Josef’s largest farm and the church he had built – St. Mary the Blessed – a lovely little Gothic structure in a grove of trees. Father Anselmo attempted to distract Amelia by pointing out other signs of despair. But she spotted the church, with its stained glass windows imported from Italy boarded up and her lush garden overtaken by weeds.

The priest was surprised that Amelia seemed happy, her wrinkled face taking on a

almost youthful look. She must be remembering the glory days, he thought, with Josef Carvalho standing straight and tall and handsome on the church steps, surveying the yard filled with the horse-drawn carriages and a few motor cars of the elite, coming to pay homage to the leader of the Portuguese community. She would be picturing herself standing off to the side with two boys and little Maria Rosa, then about eight years old. He knew this, because he remembered the same scene. It was the first time he met the Padrinho.

The sound of Amelia weeping brought the priest back to the present. How was he going to break the news to Maria that her mother had no place to live.

Chapter 4

Pop didn’t come home last night. Sometimes he sleeps on a cot in the hangar because the mechanics have to work hard to keep old airplanes flying. New ones are sent to England to fight the Huns.

Usually, on Saturday mornings, I go with Mom to sell our extra butter and eggs at the courthouse. I get to keep twenty-five cents to spend on whatever I want. The rest of the money goes in the bank, which is okay. Pop says they’re safe now. But today, Mom is going to make my deliveries to the ladies she works with because I have to babysit Grandma. She ate breakfast with us, then went back to bed.

“There’s enough batter for one more flapjack, Grandma,” I said.

“I want it,” she answered, “with two eggs. Now pay attention. You must turn the eggs just once, careful, so the yokes don’t break.”

I thought I did a good job with the eggs. Golden brown. None of the yokes leaked out.

Grandma took one bite. “They’re too runny. Put them back on the griddle, half a minute on each side.”

While I was fooling around with her eggs my flapjacks got cold, so I crowded them onto the griddle.

“Careful! Don’t squish my eggs!”

“Okay, okay.” I eased the eggs onto her plate. Grandma took a bite and I guess the eggs passed the test because she pushed her lips in and out and the corners of her mouth stretched towards her ears a little. “Grandma, does Mom call you ‘Dear Me’ sometimes?”

She gummed her eggs for a minute before answering. “When your mother was little, life was hard. I prayed a lot for strength and finished with a blessing making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘O, Jesus; O, Jesus; O, Jesus.’”

It sounded like she said ‘Ah Zezoosh’ three times, real fast, like a long sneeze. I finally figured out she was saying, ‘Oh Jesus,’ like the Mexican kids say it. Pop says speaking Portugueses is just like Spanish if you’ve got mush in your mouth.

Grandma looked at her empty plate for a minute. ”Maria always repeated every word I

said, over and over.”
“Who’s Maria?” I said.
“Your mother. I don’t like the Anglo way of saying it. Now be quiet or no story.” “Yes, Grandma.”
“When your mother asked me what it meant, I was afraid she would say ‘O Jesus, O

Jesus, O Jesus’ in front of the nuns and they might think she was cursing. So I told her it meant, ‘Oh Dear Me.’ As I expected, she said it over and over. People thought it was funny and started calling me that.”

Grandma looked at me for a minute, then said. “You may call me ‘Dear Me’ if you want. I like hearing it again.”

“Okay, Dear Me. Now tell me why you lived in the foothills?”
”I don’t want to talk about that,” she said.
“Pop said you burned down your shack on purpose.”
“It was an accident,” Grandma mumbled and blessed herself. “So many questions.” “That’s how I learn stuff. Who’s Josef?”

“The Padrinho, now that’s all!”
We didn’t talk for awhile, maybe three minutes. “What’s a padrinho?” I asked. “Padrin-ho! Say the ‘H.”
“Okay…padrin-Ho. What is it?”
Grandma stopped wiping her plate with the last of the flapjack. She smiled a little and I

could hardly see any wrinkles on her face.
“Padrinho is a sort of a patron, no he’s more than that. Josef was… ’O Sabio’… yes, the

Wise One. People would bring him problems: with their businesses, their families. He’d give them advice, lend them money, settle family disputes.”

Grandma dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Josef was so handsome, tall and distinguished. He had beautiful black hair and a proper half-moon mustache for a gentleman. Josef was a great man.”

Chapter 5

Besides babysitting Dear Me, Mom told me to water the fruit trees, starting with the olive trees out front. One of Pop’s favorite things is to work on those trees on Sunday mornings and wave at people going to Mass. Protestants, too. He says they’re all hypocrites, except me and Mom, and as a proper Scots-Irish atheist he feels obligated to aggravate people who believe in God, wherever he finds them.

She wishes he’d stop and wants to try something new. “Your father has pruned the trees all he can.”

“He might kill them if he cuts any more,” I said.
“The only thing left for him to do tomorrow would be to irrigate them,” Mom said. “If

you water them good today, it might stop him working out front in the morning.”
“That’s a great idea, Mom.”
Pop hates wasting water more than anything else. That’s why he’s cautious about what we

plant because we only have a forty-foot well and it goes dry sometimes.
“If we can’t eat it, we’re not putting water on it,” Pop says all the time.
I had filled the ditches around five of the olive trees when I saw a dust cloud coming

towards me from town. It was small and moving slow so it couldn’t be a car. I didn’t pay any attention until a big dirt clod landed near me. I looked up a saw Guido and his friends, the bullies at school. Why’d they ride all the way out here?

“Where’s the whore, Paddy,” Guido shouted. They all started chanting, “Where’s the whore? Where’s the whore?” and threw more dirt clods at me.

I tried spraying them with the hose but couldn’t hold my thumb steady against the water pressure and got more on me than the bullies.

Guido shouted something in Italian, and they all hopped on their bikes and peddled fast for town, laughing and saying bad words in English.

I heard someone running behind me. “Paddy! Why were those kids throwing dirt clods at you?”

It was David Watson, my best friend. He goes to public school and we’re in the same grade. He’s really big because he was held back twice. David grew up on a farm in Oklahoma and bucked bails of hay and did other stuff that made him strong. He must have really scared Guido. That’s why they left in a hurry.

“They’re the bullies. They do dumb stuff all the time,” I said. “When I fill this last ditch, I need your help with the treehouse.”

I’m building a secret hiding place in a big acacia by our grape arbor. It’s got leaves all year round, and if Pop cuts off one branch, I’ll be able to see planes land and take off at the airfield where he works. All I need is someone to hold the boards in place while I hammer the nails.

“Sure,” David said.
Even though he lives down the road, his father won’t allow David to come onto our

property. They’re Holy Rollers and we’re Catholic, well, me and Mom are Catholic.
It’s weird. Preacher Watson – he’s not a real preacher, we just call him that. He lets me

play with David at their place. They even took me to an evening service once when they were babysitting me. It was great fun, people shouting and singing and twitching on the floor. Not like Mass where you have to kneel and be quiet all the time.

I told a couple of friends about it, and they tattled to the nuns. Going inside a Protestant church is only a venial sin, but jeez, at my next confession, old Father Anselmo gave me double penance: ten Hail Marys, five Our Fathers and who ever heard of saying two Acts of Contrition!

Because he’s older, David knows a lot of swear words. “What’s a whore? I said.“

“A woman who has lots of men friends.”
I thought maybe Guido had been talking about Dear Me, but she doesn’t have any

friends at all.
We just got the platform nailed down when I heard Preacher Watson’s old Whippet

motor car.
“Your father!”

David almost fell out of the tree. If his father catches him here, David will get an extra whipping. He already gets one every night at bedtime to protect him from the devil taking over his soul while he sleeps.

When David left, I found Dear Me sitting on her bed, looking out the window. “The pomegranate tree needs water,” she said.

Pop hates that tree. “It takes more water than any other tree. And you can starve to death picking out all those little seeds.”

Mom doesn’t care. She always says, “It’s still edible. Keep watering it, Paddy.” Which I better do right now. The leaves are really drooping. “The pomegranate tree is

my next chore, Grandma.”
“What happened to “Dear Me?” “Yes, ma’am. Dear Me.”

I finished watering the fruit trees in the back. We’ve only got a dozen. They’re too hard to grow in the Valley because of the hardpan. That’s a layer of dried-out clay under the topsoil. It’s like cement. Pop had to use dynamite to break it up so the roots can reach into the damp dirt. I dragged the hose to the pomegranate tree again because it needed a double-dose. That’s when I saw the slow-moving dust cloud… again.

Oh, crap!

“Look at the little bastard!” Guido jeered when he got in front of the house. “Where you hiding the old whore, Paddy?”

They dropped their bikes and called me ‘evil seed’ and things in Italian I didn’t understand. I didn’t move, just stared at them. I learned at school to never let them see I was afraid, and never run away. It wouldn’t do any good anyway; they’re bigger and faster than me. Anyway, they were just showing off for each other.

But they rushed me, and I fell against the pomegranate tree and peed my pants. Before I could get up, I heard David shouting and a woman screaming. I looked up and saw David running towards us, waving his long arms and yelling like a giant monster. At the same time, Dear Me charged out of the house swinging a broom and screeching like a crazy lady. The bullies mounted up and aimed their bikes for town – fast. At a safe distance, Guido stopped and yelled, “See you at school, whore bastard.”

David helped me up.
“I wet my shorts,” I said. “The dark spot in my crotch really shows.”

David picked up the hose and sprayed me all over. “Now your shorts are all the same color.”

Oh well, it’s hot. I’ll dry fast.

I had forgotten about Dear Me. She was on her knees, sobbing and praying over the pomegranate tree.

“Don’t worry, Grandma… Dear Me. It’s not dead. See, the roots aren’t broken. I’ll stake it and water it every day.” I didn’t seem to be doing any good, but I tried again, “I promise. It’ll be all right.”

I wonder what’s so important about a pomegranate tree? Mom wastes water on it; Dear Me has a fit over it.

Dear Me calmed down, just whimpering a little. Me and David got her to bed; then we sat on the back porch.

“Thanks, David. They really were going to whup me this time.” “Why’d they call you all those bad names?” David said.
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s the old whore?” David asked.

“Grandma’s the only old woman I know. But she doesn’t have any men friends.” “She wasn’t always old,” David said.

Chapter 6

I thanked David for helping me. I’m really sorry he’s going to get an extra beating for doing it. He just shrugged.

I came inside and found Dear Me huddled in a ball, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. She gasped once, long and loud. I think she stopped breathing.

“Grandma, grandma,” I yelled in her ear.

She flinched, and whispered, “Maria… call your mother, Patricio… call her… Pressa! Pressa!”

I jiggled the phone hook and gave the operator Mom’s work number. The lady that answered said Mom was in the basement and she’d send someone to fetch her.

Dear Me unwound herself and lay flat on her back. “Patricio, meu rosario?”

Her rosary beads were in her apron pocket, but her arms didn’t work right. I got them out for her. She grabbed my hand, and her eyes opened wide. “Meu do beb? Eu te amo Enrique.”

“I love you too, grandma. But it’s me, Paddy, not your baby Henry.”

Uncle Henry is Mom’s little brother. He stayed with us for awhile after he got fired for sassing his boss at the railroad shops. Now he lives in crummy hotels and hobo jungles.

Mom finally got on the line, and I told her about Dear Me. “Dear Me’s cuckoo, Mom. She thinks I’m her baby Henry.”

Dr. Pearson got here first. He asked Dear Me some questions and poked around, but couldn’t find anything wrong. “You’ve got to keep her calm, Paddy.”

Oh, boy!

Then Father Anselmo pulled into the yard. As soon as Dear Me saw him, she started wailing, like the old ladies at funerals. “Eu sou morrendo– “

“You’re not dying, Amelia.” Father Anselmo said.

“Ultimas direitas, favore.”

“I can’t give you the last rites; you know that!”

Dear Me yelled louder and spittle flew from her mouth. She talked so fast I couldn’t understand what she said, except she had to see her baby Henry before she died. Father Anselmo didn’t say much, but his face got pale. Dr. Pearson watched him more than he did Dear Me.

A sudden shout surprised all of us. “Shut up, Mother!”
We didn’t hear Mom come in, what with all the noise Dear Me was making.
Dr. Pearson whispered a couple of words to Father Anselmo, who nodded and moved his

chair closer to Dear Me. “Let us pray, my child.”
I laughed at Dear Me being called a child. Father Anselmo gave me that ‘double penance

look and his face got kinda pink.
Mom and the doctor moved away from the bed. “Outside, Paddy,” Mom said. I ran out the back door and circled around to a window.

“You’re sure nothing’s wrong with her, Dr. Pearson?” Mom said.
Father Anselmo joined them and asked, “Nothing organically wrong?”
“Not that I can find,” the doctor said. “But changing from an austere life in the hills to

eating real food has to effect her body. The excitement of being around people too, like the stimulation of the fight today– “

“What fight,” Mom asked.

“A boy named Guido and his friends were bothering Paddy,” the doctor said. “Amelia got involved, with a broom. And she wants to see your brother.”

Oh, crap!
I’ve got lots of relatives on Mom’s side of the family, but we don’t see them enough to

remember their names. Except for Aunt Theresa and Uncle Angelo; Mom likes them a lot. We see everybody else at weddings, funerals and Holy Ghost picnic. That’s where the richest farmer donates a steer to the parish. A butcher cuts it up, and the church ladies make sopash, chunks of beef in a spicy broth served with a big piece of French bread floating on top.

When Uncle Henry got fired at the Southern Pacific shops – the foreman didn’t like taking instructions from an apprentice on how to fix locomotives – Henry became a hobo. He looks for work when he feels like it.

“Do you remember what your Uncle Henry looks like?” Mom said. “Sure,” I said, “but just in case, do you have his picture?”

The first time we had to look for Uncle Henry, it was because someone was locked up in the nut house. “Who do we know that’s crazy, Mom?”

“Nobody,” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“When we looked for Uncle Henry the first time. It was at the booby hatch.”
“You were so little I thought maybe you forgot.” Mom didn’t talk for awhile, then she said,

“That was Dear Me.”
The only thing I remember about the place was this old lady that tried to hug me, thought I

was her baby. “You mean she’s really nuts?”
“Dear Me is not crazy,” Mom said. “Father Anselmo or the sexton used to take Dear Me

and Josef their supplies once a month. If one of them was sick, they’d be brought to the hospital. The time you remember, her teeth were rotten and poisoning her blood. She only had one good tooth left and she wouldn’t let them pull it. Dear Me made such a fuss they

took her to the psychiatric ward. The doctors finally gave up and let her keep it.”
Mom handed me the picture of Uncle Henry. Just like I remembered: big and strong like

Pop, but he doesn’t have a beer belly. And he’s got this big mustache and lots of black hair. Pop shaves every day like he did in the Army and his hair died because he had to wear a helmet in the tropics.

“I guess we’ll start at the Rio Vista,” Mom said. “If he has any money, he’ll be there. Oh crap!

Chapter 7

The Rio Vista is a dump. It’s on the Lower End, Sacramento’s waterfront. Pop says the area is full of pickpockets, panhandlers, thieves, murderers, rapists and child molesters. Mom says if he knew we were here, he’d have ‘a cat with a paper tail.’ That’s some kind of fit.

In the olden days, the streets and the alleys were on the same level. When the snow melted in the mountains in Spring, the whole place flooded. Levees were built along the river, and the streets were filled in. The entrances to most buildings were moved to what used to be the second floor. Not the Rio Vista. The front door stayed in the cobblestone alley. It slopes down to what’s the basement level in all the other buildings.

Mom parked on Front Street, at the top of the alley. “Now don’t talk to strangers, just the room clerk.”

“He’s the strangest one there.”
“I know, just get in and get out, you understand.”
“You bet.” I closed the passenger door. “Lock it, Mom.”
“Don’t worry,” she said.
The sun never shines in the alley because the buildings are tall. The cobblestones are

slippery, and you’ve got to be careful walking down the slope.
Two bums picked their way down the incline from Second Street. They saw me and tried

running towards me, but I was on the flat ground now and beat them to the door, which is on a stoop, high enough for garbage cans to slide underneath. They yelled bad words at me and pulled one of the cans from under the stoop.

I kept right on running up the stairs, without taking time for a deep breath. Big mistake. They must have burned sulfur candles to kill vermin. My eyes and throat started burning. Then halfway to the top I slipped on a slimy spot and tumbled all the way to the bottom and banged against the front door.

“Who’s down there?”
Oh, crap. It’s the creepy room clerk.
“It’s Paddy, Mr. Spencer,” I said and opened the door a crack for a couple deep breaths. “Is

my Uncle here?”
“What’s that Paddy? I can’t hear you too good. You better come up.”

Horse Mickey! He can hear me fine, just wants to get close to me.
“Are you coming up Paddy?”
“Right away, Mr. Spencer.”
I looked up the stairs and couldn’t see anyone in the tiny lobby, so I pounded up the steps

again, side-stepped the slick spot and made it to the top. But I tripped on the threadbare carpet and ended up sprawled against the room clerk’s counter.

Mr. Spencer leaned over and smiled. “You’re sure having a hard time staying on your feet

today, Paddy.” His teeth had green gunk around the edges, and his breath made me forget the sulfur smell.

“Mr. Spencer, is my Uncle Henry here?”
“My, look how much you’ve grown.”
He reached out to help me up. I thought. But after his hand chucked me under the chin, it

slid down my shirt front and under my belt buckle.
“Don’t touch my wiener!” I yelled and bobbed to the right.
“Leave the boy alone, Frank.” A harsh whisper came from the only chair in the lobby. It

was an old soldier who’d been gassed in the war. “Henry’s over to Jibboom Street, Paddy. Now git.”

I backed towards the stairs, thinking Mr. Spencer had forgotten me when I heard him say, “It’s a shame sending a nice boy like that to hobo jungles. They’re crawling with Commies and union scum. Railroad bulls don’t put up with it at Jibboom Street.”

“No more dangerous than standing in front of you, Carl Spencer,” the old soldier said.

The clerk spun around and tried to grab me. I hit the stairs running with him the right on my heels. Just before I got to the bottom, I grabbed the rickety railing. My feet went out from under me and Mr. Spencer flew past, hit the front door hard, did a flip over the stoop railing and landed on the two bums who wrestled over something they’d found while rooting through the garbage cans.

I slipped past them and made good time on the flat. But when I started up the incline to Front Street, I couldn’t get traction on the mossy cobblestones and wasn’t doing much more than running in place. I was sure the clerk would catch me.

I sneaked a quick look over my shoulder, and relaxed. Mr. Spencer and the bums were thrashing around on the cobblestones, punching and yelling at each other: the clerk mad about the mess the bums made; the hobos crying over their lost meal.

Mom saw me coming and threw open the passenger door. “Trouble?”
“A little,” I said, my breathing almost back to normal. “Uncle Henry’s at Jibboom Street.” I was scared. It never was safe for Mom to go in these places. We thought I could run fast

enough to stay out of trouble. I wasn’t so sure now. People were getting meaner. “Mom, I don’t want to come here anymore.”
She didn’t say anything, just popped the clutch and we climbed the levee road.

Chapter 8

In summer, Uncle Henry lives for free in hobo jungles. His favorite is a piece of bottom land with rivers on two sides and railroad tracks on the third. It’s close to town where he might find work. Best of all, he says that if the railroad police come to clean the place out, he can hop a freight and get away fast.

The bad thing about Jibboom Street is that every spring the rivers overflow. They can’t carry the melting snow from the mountains to San Francisco Bay fast enough. But when the flood waters go down, and the ground dries out, people collect the trash that got stuck in the bushes and rebuild their shanties.

Families camp in the front, by the road. Bad men like the back because when the police attack, the women and children make such a ruckus they have time to escape. Other people camp in between. That’s where I’ll find Uncle Henry. If he’s here.

The family area was crowded this year, but quiet, the children huddled together. And there

weren’t any men around.
I recognized one lady. Her shanty this year had a red and white shaving cream sign for a

roof. The walls were flattened cardboard cartons tied to a driftwood frame with rusty wire. The cardboard was shiny, so I guess they waterproofed it with used motor oil. Rags hung across the open front, trying to hide their possessions, which looked like more rags to me. Last year they had lots of stuff. They were the rich Okies, with two mattresses tied on the top of their car.

“Hello ma’am. Do you remember me?“

The lady looked up from changing a baby’s diaper, which was faded and looked like a piece of the same chicken feed sack Mom makes curtains out of, the one with the big flowers. “You that Portagee’s kin?” the lady said.

“Yes ma’am, I’ve got to find him. His mother’s dying.” “He’s in the back with the men and that no-account preacher.”

My breath caught in my throat. “What kind of a preacher, ma’am?”

“One of those shouters, fire and brimstone Holy Roller. Sounds like he’s runnin’ for political office, too.”

“This preacher wouldn’t be Mr. Watson, would it ma’am?”

“That’s who it is. Wait a minute. The Portagee said his people had trouble with Watson. You the people he’s talkin’ about?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s us.”

“Well, you can hear him hollerin’ from here. But don’t go back there; you’ll be today’s martyr. Preacher Watson ain’t got the gumption to send a grown man to perdition!”

David’s father is a janitor at the Fox Theater, and he’s some kind of deacon at the Pentecostal Church. David says they won’t let give sermons anymore because he doesn’t make any sense, just noise. Now he saves souls in the hobo jungles and tent cities called ‘Hoovervilles.’ Pop says that’s okay because his hollering takes peoples minds off their troubles, and nobody cares if his sermons mix up Jesus with Communists.

Even though Mr. Watson won’t let David come over to play, our families got along until Pop threw a bottle of beer at Mr. Watson and broke his windshield. What happened, it was a Sunday morning, and Pop was out front worrying the olive trees and waving at church-goers as usual. He had on his regular farm clothes: lace-up clodhoppers; baggy shorts, no belt, the button straining against his belly. That’s it. No shirt, no socks, no underwear.

Mr. Watson was on his way to services, alone, and he was really angry. The whole family usually goes with him, but David told me later that his mother was sick, and they had an argument. She finally yelled that she didn’t feel up to going to services just to watch Mr. Watson take the collection in a side aisle.

Mr. Watson got so mad he took it out on David, giving him his daily whipping early, shouting that David was controlled by the Devil. He brought his belt down harder and harder on David’s bare backside until Mr. Watson was splashed with David’s blood and had to change to his other shirt, which wasn’t ironed, and Mrs. Watson wouldn’t do it.

So, when Mr. Watson chugged by in his old Whippet, shouting bible verses, Pop acted cheerful and yelled, “Have a beer, Reverend,” like he usually does, and held up a Lucky Lager.

Instead of ignoring Pop, like he usually does, Preacher Watson shouted, ”There stands the anti-Christ incarnate,” and aimed the nose of his motorcar at Pop’s belly button. “I will strike a blow for Jesus with my terrible Swiss sword!”

By mistake, he tromped on the brakes and the gas at the same time. The car stalled, and its

rear end slid around, blocking traffic on the dirt road. With the Whippet refusing to be his sword, Preacher Watson yelled and leaped at Pop, whacking him across the nose with his bible.

Pop went down with a roar, both from surprise, I guess, and the sand burrs stuck to his hairy back. David’s father jumped back into the car and get it started just as a full bottle of beer shattered his windshield. He rounded the first parked car with Pop in pursuit, looking like a bear in my coloring book, chasing his first meal in Spring.

I haven’t seen Preacher Watson since.

All of the men in the camp were in a clearing surrounded by scrub willows. I slipped into the trees not realizing that most of their women were right behind me.

Preacher Watson stood on a stump working hard at saving souls. The men just muttered and shifted around like a herd of horses with a storm coming.

The women began thinning out the crowd, getting their men-folk out of harm’s way. Soon, I didn’t have anybody to hide behind.

“There’s the son of the anti-Christ,” Mr. Watson screamed. “Smote him where he crawls with the jaw bone of an ass!” And he came right at me with his bible raised.

Just as I was about to get what Pop got, a tall man stepped in the Preacher’s way. “Stand aside!” Preacher Watson yelled. “I must defend my flock from evil!” “This is my nephew,” Uncle Henry said. “He’s going to be an altar boy.”

Suddenly, cries of “The Bulls! The Bulls!” came from the front. Big men swinging ax handles came running towards us, hitting everybody they could catch and kicking the ones that fell. Preacher Watson headed for the railroad tracks where he’d parked his car.

“Forget this bunch,” shouted a huge man dressed in a khaki uniform with a badge pinned to his chest. “Get the preacher.”

The giant turned and pointed his ax handle right at me. “There’s the kid; don’t hurt him.” He picked me up and ran towards the front. “Stay close, Portagee!” he shouted over his shoulder.

The camp was destroyed. Women huddled in a circle and cried with their kids, except the ones lying on the ground that didn’t move.

Mom waited by the Chevy, doors open, motor running, twisting a rosary in her fingers. “He’s all right ma’am,” the giant said, “but you best leave quick like.”
Me and Uncle Henry piled into the car.
The giant shouted after us, “Find another camp, Portagee. This one’s closed permanent.”

On the way home, I shot rapid-fire questions at Uncle Henry. “Who were those big men?”

“Sheriffs deputies, railroad Bulls.”
“Why were they hitting people, busting up the camp?”

“The preacher was talking sedition.”
“What’s sedition?”
“That’s enough for now, Paddy,” Mom said. “Henry, we can’t come looking for you

anymore.”
“No, it’s too dangerous,” he agreed. “I’ve been thinking about Arizona.”
“What’s in Arizona? They’re all coming here for the war plant jobs.”
“Nothing’s there, but the summer lasts longer, and there’re too many bad people here. The

Bulls don’t leave us alone anymore.” “You could get a job,” Mom said.

Uncle Henry scowled and watched the scenery go by. No one spoke until we got home. Dear Me lay on her bed, looking all helpless and weak. Then she spotted her baby Henry, and I saw the first step in a miracle recovery.

Dear Me smiled.

Chapter 9

Uncle Henry slept here last night, in the backyard, next to me. It was still dark when Mom started yelling, “She’s gone! Paddy, wake up!”

I looked out from under my blanket. “Who?”
“Henry, get up,” Mom said. “Dear Me’s not in her bed!”
“That’s my bed!”
“Oh Paddy, not now.” Mom yelled louder. “Henry! Are you awake?” “Yes, yes.”

I didn’t he sounded awake.
“Where would she go?” he finally said.

“Dear Me wanted to go to early Mass,” Mom said. “I think she’s walking to town.” Six miles? Wow!
“Paddy, did you tell her that Father Anselmo officiates the early Mass?” Mom said. “No. We didn’t talk about church.”

“The Packers Mass has always been his,” Uncle Henry said.

That’s the first Mass of the day, for people working in the meat packing plants and canneries.

The tea kettle whistled and Mom went inside to make her coffee. I followed. ”Just feed the animals, Paddy. Mr. Meadows will do the milking. Leave some eggs for him.”

“Again? When’s Pop coming home?” “Move, Paddy. We’ll talk the car.”

By the time we left, it was false dawn, with the first streak of purple light above the horizon getting wider. We were almost to the trees along the river before we saw Dear Me. She looked like a black shadow, hunched over a little, but boy, could she walk fast!

Mom leaned over and shouted out my window. “Get in the car, Mother.” “Will you take me to Mass?”
“You know you can’t go in the church,” Mom said.
“I’ll stay in the vestibule,” Dear Me said.

“That’s still under the roof of God’s house, remember?”
Dear Me stopped talking and started walking — to town.
“Come on, Mom,” I said. “Dear Me and Father Anselmo are old friends. Maybe she’ll see

some other people she knows.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mom said.
Mom had the car in low gear and tried to drive at the same speed Dear Me walked. But to

keep from stalling, Mom would give it a little gas, and we’d shoot ahead. Then Dear Me would pass us, and Mom would plead some more and tap the gas pedal and we’d pull ahead again.

“Stop the car, Mary,” Uncle Henry said when we pulled ahead again. He got out and took Dear Me’s hand. “Would you like to ride with me, Mother?”

Dear Me looked up at him and smiled. It was just like yesterday when she hadn’t seen her baby Henry for a long time and cried, “Meu do beb? Eu te amo Enrique.”

When we got to the church, Mom said they would stay in the car until the last minute. “You go ahead to confession, Paddy. We’ll be all right.”

“But it’s hot out here,” I said.
“Paddy, go to confession.”
“But I think… ”
“Stop being such a worry-wart, Paddy. You’re going to be an old man before I’m an old

woman.”
“But, Mom… ” “Go!”

I got stuck last in line at the confessionals. As soon as I said my Act of Contrition, I quick- walked up the center aisle, eyes down, hands in a praying position, doing everything just right because I didn’t want to lose being in the state of grace. I almost had a sinful thought when I had to take the worst seat in the church: first pew on the aisle, where you had to stand up in front of everybody and lead a prayer sometimes.

I hadn’t even finished genuflecting when the whispers started. The whole front section on the pulpit side of the church was filled with old ladies dressed in black, the Viuvash. Wow! They never come in a bunch like this to Packer’s Mass.

One old lady smiled at me and blew a kiss. Then she whispered something to her neighbor, who passed it on with a smile. Another one spotted me and leaned forward with a mean look on her face. She said something to her neighbor, kind of loud. I heard that word again: whore. Then all the old ladies chattered and pointed at each other and made signs of the cross over and over. Father Anselmo started Mass, and everybody shut up. I forgot about the Viuvash.

I love Communion. It’s doing something to touch Jesus, not just words that you have to remember just right, or when to say them. I knelt at the altar rail and watched Father Anselmo work his way towards me, one confessor’s tongue after another flicking out to accept the Holy Eucharist, Body of Christ.

Father Anselmo finally stopped in front of me. I opened my mouth wide enough so the wafer wouldn’t touch my teeth, and let my tongue slide over my lower lip. And I waited, mouth open, eyes closed.

Someone started singing a high note in the back of the church. I looked up at Father Anselmo who was holding the wafer close to the tip of my tongue. He looked toward the vestibule to see who was making the noise. We must have figured out who it was about the same time because he put the wafer back in the chalice and I closed my mouth. We looked at each other for a moment. He looked really sad; I think I did too.

The singing turned into wailing and sobbing and Dear Me cried out ‘Josef’ a lot of times. All the Viuvash stood and turned toward the back. They must have spotted Dear Me because they started pointing and yelling. Father Anselmo walked toward the pulpit. The Viuvash bunched up along the rail, I guess to protect him from evil.

The old lady who blew me a kiss said something harsh to the mean old lady who had said ‘whore.’ The whole bunch split into two groups and began shouting at each other. Then the mean Viuvash limped towards me, yelling and shaking their fists.

Father Anselmo opened the gate in the altar rail and pushed his way through the old ladies. He shoved me towards the back of the church and raised his voice, not the scratchy old man’s voice I was used to. Now it was loud and bounced around the stone walls and high ceiling of

St. Mary The Blessed and showered down on the Viuvash like instructions from God. “Sit Down!”

Chapter 10

Mom took Uncle Henry back to town last night after we got Dear Me settled. I had to sleep on the ground by myself again. It’s getting kinda boring.

Pop came home the next morning. I don’t know why he tries to be quiet when he fetches the milk pails from the back porch. His Model A makes so much a racket it wakes up everybody anyway.

I walked with him to the barn. “Why don’t you come home after work? I miss you. Mom misses you. I bet Dear Me would miss you if she knew you.”

“Paddy… “

“And Mr. Meadows is taking all the extra milk and eggs and Dear Me eats so much we won’t be able to fill our orders and… ”

“Paddy, stop talking.” Pop opened the barnyard gate. “Put hay in the trough.”

Pop brought the cows into the milking stalls and started talking before I could say a single word. “Your grandmother and I know each other very well. We’ve got problems that I can’t fix. It’s best if I stay away from here for a few days to give your mother a chance to work things out.”

“How long will that take?””
“I don’t know,” Pop said. “Now go take care of the chickens, Paddy.”
Mom and Pop were talking outside the barn when I finished. I started to join them. “Go to the house, Paddy,” they said almost at once.
I joined Dear Me at the back window. Nothing much was going on, except Pop talked

more than Mom, which was different, because Mom does most of the talking when they fuss. Finally, Mom reached up and kissed Pop, then picked up the milk pails and walked toward

the house. Pop headed for his car. Me and Dear Me got busy doing something besides spying. Mom poured the milk into the cooler container and handed me the buckets. She had tears

running down her cheeks.
“Rinse them out, Paddy.”
“When’s Pop coming home?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said, and went to work.

In Their Prime – 1902 Chapter 11

Josef Carvalho was delighted with his ‘city suit.’ The owner of the most expensive haberdasher in San Francisco assured him it was the latest style in Europe and would guarantee the Padrinho a successful business trip.

“It has the sheen of silk, but is made of sterner stuff,” the owner said. “Strands of Oriental

maiden hair are woven into the fabric to give it luster. The black velvet collar, pinched waist and narrow trouser legs give you an aristocratic appearance, Padrinho.”

“Lying rogue!”Josef yelled as he stood in his Lisbon hotel room, ripping the garment apart. He had strolled along the Avenida da Liberdad, past expensive shops and gourmet restaurants, the sidewalks paved with small black and white tiles in a swirl pattern, and failed to notice the glances and twitters of passersby until he came to the Fado Club. The doorman, dressed in a dove-gray swallowtail coat and striped pants, his greased black hair shining as brightly as his silk top hat, muttered to a club member, “Capones!” The proper translation is the same in California and Portugal – peasant farmer. But the colloquial meaning in both areas is more graphic. Shit kicker.

Josef waited two days for proper suits to be made, then spent four days discovering his journey to Lisbon appeared to be a failure. Not a single banker or consortium of investors was interested in his project. Land acquisition in the far-off Sacramento Valley was not an acceptable risk.

With only four days left before his return voyage to Boston, Josef made one last round of the financial institutions. At a small private bank, the manager handed him a note. “Perhaps His Excellency can be of assistance. I have taken the liberty of making an appointment for you.”

Josef approached the plain facade of the Fado Club, which seemed out of place on Lisbon’s most luxurious boulevard. The same insulting doorman glanced at Josef’s card as if it were unclean. “This way, Senhor… Carvalho,” he said and waved Josef through the entrance door.

The maitre d’hotel nodded when Josef said, “I am to meet Viscount Santiago do Lusitano.”

The interior of the Fado Club looked like a Byzantine cathedral. Light from four enormous crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow on white marble columns that disappeared into a smokey haze. That was the only similarity with the low-ceilinged gambling dens Josef frequented in San Francisco, the acrid smoke rising from small black sheroots to which Portuguese men on both sides of the Atlantic were addicted.

Gaming tables of all sorts filled the spacious room, about half devoted to card games, the rest split evenly between baccarat and roulette. The maitre ‘d stopped a few steps away from a table in the center of the room cut in the shape of a half-moon. “I would suggest, Senhor Carvalho, you wait here until the Viscount has a winning bet. He will be more… approachable.”

Josef expected the nobleman to be older, portly, with the mutton-chop whiskers most of the Lisbon moneymen seemed so proud. Viscount Santiago do Lusitano was in his early thirties, handsome, athletic and full of life, with a vibrant a personality that drew players to him.

“I don’t recognize the game the Viscount is playing,” Josef said.
“It is faro, Senhor,” the maitre d’ said. “The game is no longer fashionable, but the

Viscount insists we keep one table for his pleasure.”
Josef had heard of faro, but it was no longer fashionable in California either. Two

attendants, a dealer and a banker stood at the straight side of the table. A full suit of spades was spread on a raised platform covered in green baize.

At the beginning of each turn, the dealer intoned, “Gentlemen: place your bets, remove your bets, copper.”

Players quickly put their markers and chips on the center of a card, or on its corner, or in- betweens cards, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. One player put a copper coin on top of his chip.

The dealer slid two cards from a wooden box and put them face-up next to the raised platform. A chorus of cheers and groans, the Viscount’s being the loudest, covered all other sounds in the giant room. The banker scooped up more chips than he paid out, and after thirty seconds, the dealer started the process again with, “Gentlemen: place your bets… ”

Josef had no idea what was going on, other than the Viscounts dwindling pile of chips indicated this incredibly fast game was a quick way to lose money.

After three games, the Viscount’s fortunes turned, and Josef moved quickly to the table. “Viscount Santiago do Lusitano, may I please introduce myself. Josef Pedro Carvalho e Deogo do Horta.”

“Ah, the Padrinho of Sacramento,” the Viscount said.
“Hardly, sir. I own substantial properties, but am certainly not… “
“That may be why you are having difficulty finding investors, Carvalho. False modesty

does not play well at Court. If I dub thee Padrinho, do not contradict me.”
“Of course, Your Excellency.”
“And drop “do Horta” from your appellation. The Azores are the worst shit hole in the

Empire.”
The Viscount pushed his chair back from the table. “It is too noisy here to discuss

weighty financial matters. Follow me.” The Viscount strode to the foyer, members and servants stepping smartly out of his way.

Though taller than the nobleman and with longer strides, Josef had trouble keeping up with the energetic Viscount. They turned into a side street of palatial villas, two and three stories high, all protected by stone walls with wrought-iron gates. The gardens were in full bloom, but most were not well tended, giving Josef the impression of aging dowagers wearing expensive garments no longer in fashion.

The street curved into a cul-de-sac, with the most significant villa at the apex. A Victorian-style wrought-iron gate, whose uprights were gold-painted spears, swung inward, seemingly on its own, allowing them to enter without breaking stride.

The courtyard had the expected hedges and topiaries. What surprised Josef were the marble statues, all depicting heroic military men: cavalry officers on rearing warhorses; a tableau of charging infantrymen; recumbent wounded with gaping wounds.

The Viscount led the way up the entrance stairway and into an anteroom. As with the front gate, the door had opened automatically on their approach. In the foyer, a young lady in footman’s livery greeted them, smiling rather thinly at the Viscount, Josef thought. However, she definitely beamed at him.

The nobleman seemed oblivious to the slight. “Welcome to the Pavilhão Chines, the Chinese Pavilion,” the Viscount said as they entered the drinking room. “How do you like the decor?”

Which decor, Josef wondered. The gallery of erotic Chinese art, with couples and groups experiencing sexual ecstasy in various positions? Lurid images were everywhere: on the walls, the ceiling, used as screens to partition the large room.

Or was the Viscount referring to the array of toy soldiers repeating the military theme of the courtyard? Interspersed with examples of Oriental lechery were shelves and cabinets filled with miniature soldiers, accurately painted in the uniforms of the King’s guard and field regiments.

Josef smiled and nodded, hesitant to commit himself.
“Madeira?” the Viscount asked. Without waiting for an answer he said to a waiter,

“Two madeira, then turned to Josef. “Now, Carvalho. What is it you want?”
The nobleman had chosen a table behind a carved rosewood screen built around a

painting of an overdressed Oriental gentleman fondling the bare breast of a buxom maiden. Josef pretended to admire the work while he focused on his approach. “Your Excellency, I hope that- “

“Never mind, we know what you want,” Santiago said. “A member of the banking community in San Francisco explained your circumstances to our little group.”

“Then I can go directly to the point,” Josef said.

“Good, but not as you may have planned,” the Viscount said, “which would be all lies, I imagine. We have been watching you for some time, Carvalho. Within a decade of jumping ship in San Francisco, you have become a prosperous farmer and businessman. Such heroic feats attract attention.”

“I worked hard and— “

“Oh, please don’t insult me with that dreary ‘learned farming, rented farms, bought farms’ nonsense. Fairy tales of immigrant success may satisfy simple California Anglos, but not the people who control commerce in Europe. And that is why you are here, hat in hand, seeking our support. So please, no lies.”

Josef had never considered the truth as part of a financing plan, but not knowing how much the Viscount knew, it seemed the best approach… for the moment.

“If I can acquire a portion of the Rancho Del Paso, one-hundred-eighty square leagues, I will be able to consolidate my present holdings and block water access to millions of hectares of tillable land- ”

“Presently owned by others, including the most powerful Anglos in the Sacramento Valley and the Church,” Santiago said… and waited, saying nothing. The corners of his

mouth turned slightly upward, and his eyelids drooped.
Josef thought the Viscount’s handsome face took on the look of a predatory cat. “That

sums up my need,” Josef finally said.
“Perhaps you were asleep in catechism class when the priest got to the Ninth

Commandment – false witness,” Santiago said, “which covers sins of omission, such as not divulging that if your mission fails, those same Anglos in California will force you into bankruptcy, and you will lose everything. How does working as a farm hand sound to a former Padrinho?”

Josef took a deep breath, and his gaze drifted back to the erotic painting. Odd, he thought. The Oriental gentleman’s fingernails did not look clean.

“Good Lord. Is California that bereft of beautiful women?” Santiago said. “We have decided it would be in our interest to fund your project if you accept certain conditions. There is a Gala tomorrow evening celebrating the opening of the equestrian season. Also, the team’s final practice will be in the afternoon, if you care to attend.”

“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Then it’s on to the Gala. It offers our best opportunity gain support of the King,

which he will not freely give.”
“How will you manage it?” Josef asked. “With finesse,” the Viscount said.

Chapter 12

When Santiago invited Josef to watch the King’s equestrian team practice, he apologized for the seating arrangements. “It is a tradition that tickets for this last practice be given to the general public. First come, first served, unless you know ‘someone,’ of course. Arrive early, bring sustenance, and sprint for the entrance when you hear the drumroll!”

Josef mingled with the waiting crowd which seemed extremely knowledgeable about dressage. He heard critical comments about team members, except Viscount Santiago, whom everyone seemed to agree was the greatest rider they had ever seen.

A five-second drumroll sounded, and the once civilized crowd turned into a herd of angry humans, stampeding through the large door used by animals. Fortunately for Josef, he was in the middle of the pack and let the momentum carry him to the base of a stairway. Then he was on his own, elbows jabbing to get to the second-floor gallery and a place at the marble railing overlooking the rectangular show ring.

Josef, being larger and stronger than most of the spectators, found space next to an elderly gentleman who secured his spot swinging a walking stick with a ball-and-claw handle. The old man wore clean but, frayed garments and a cloth cap with a small bill, the sign of a civil

servant. Probably a pensioner of one of the bureaucracy, Josef thought, which proved to be true. The retired Foreign Service employee knew Santiago from the colonial office and was a devoted fan of the nobleman’s horsemanship.

“You are a lucky man, Senhor Carvalho. At your first exposure to classical dressage, you are privileged to see the greatest rider that ever lived, riding Zeus, the best horse in competition today.”

Once the spectators had secured their space in the gallery, civility returned. Food hampers opened, and the crowd settled in for a picnic.

An extended drum roll announced the training session was about to begin. Ten black stallions, their riders costumed in military livery, entered the arena. They sat erect on their mounts, spines at ninety-degree angles to the saddles. This posture did not change during the presentation of dance steps, some quite intricate, which the pensioner named. He also provided an analysis of their execution, not always favorable.

The crowd also felt free to express its opinion. Between eating and chatting, modest cheers and a few jeers could be heard if either horse or rider did not meet expectations.

Josef knew horses, relished beating his ranch hands and the few Anglos brave enough to compete in cross-country races. He appreciated the training required to coax stallions to be so disciplined in their movements, but he was disappointed in the horses themselves.

Santiago had said dressage was a refinement of the actions cavalry horses made on the battlefield. Josef had expected to see massive stallions that would decimate the infantry with their slashing hooves. These animals were smallish, about the size of cutting horses cowboys rode to separate specific animals from the herd and seemed more suited to a lady’s afternoon ride in the park than on a battlefield.

The pensioner carried on a running commentary which helped Josef appreciate the intricate steps performed by individual riders or groups with amazing skill. He and the rest of the audience came alive briefly when ten riders performed a high-speed quadrille, timing their weaving in and out of line more perfectly than most dancers could on a ballroom floor.

But the afternoon was getting long, and he only had two small meat pies wrapped in wax paper. His attention wandered to reactions of the crowd, the beautiful design of the arena, the painted ceiling resembling the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Sacramento, if you replaced the congress of saints with military scenes.

The ‘air above the ground’ routines indicating the mayhem of the battlefield, revived his interest, for a time.

“So acrobatic, so light and nimble,” the old man said. “That is the beauty of dressage.” Entertaining, Josef thought. “When will Viscount Santiago perform.”
The old man turned to Josef, and with eyes opened wide he mouthed the word ‘perform?’

Then muttered, “Last,” and ignored Josef the rest of the practice.
Three more sets of riders repeated routines he had already seen. Then as if on cue,

spectators stopped chatting and gathered their lunch debris. Silence reigned.
Santiago entered the ring for the first time on a glistening black stallion doing what Josef

had learned was ‘The Monarch Strut,’ a hesitation trot where at one point all four hooves of the horse appeared to be off the ground. Santiago and Zeus performed a half-dozen dance steps, all of which had been demonstrated by other riders. Josef saw immediately what a great combination Santiago and Zeus were. Their presentation was smoother, more poised and graceful.

The nobleman slid out of the saddle and stepped behind Zeus, stringing out the reins to their full twenty-foot length. He guided Zeus through the ‘air above the ground’ battlefield movements cavalries used against foot soldiers: hopping on hind legs to break through infantry lines while protecting the rider; Zeus going completely airborne, thrusting his front hooves forward and kicking with hind legs to break out of an encirclement. Then Santiago repeated the same routine without the reigns, standing in front of Zeus, instructing him with whispers and hand gestures. No other rider had attempted that.

With the help of a groom, Santiago remounted, and Zeus moved slowly to the center of the ring, where he began a slow trot in place, which grew more strident until Zeus pounded his hooves into the turf like hammers. Then Santiago urged Zeus into each of the battlefield moves, not as a single “trick” but choreographed as an aggressive fight against overwhelming odds. Zeus reared then plunged forward against a line of imaginary foot soldiers that Josef could almost see. The stallion’s chest protecting Santiago against spears; the stately pirouette became a powerful air move; Zeus spinning on his hind legs while his front hooves slashed at the face of those cowering infantrymen, brought to life by this incredible horse and rider.

The exhibition ended with Zeus rearing high, pawing the air and bellowing a loud stallion call of triumph.

As one, the spectators rose to their feet with shouts and cries of approval that filled the arena. Josef hesitated only a moment before letting loose the joyous Indian war-hoop he hadn’t sounded since his youth.

The pensioner nodded his approval.

Chapter 13

The Equestrian Season always began with a gala at the Queluz Palace in Sintra, the royal family’s summer home on the Atlantic Ocean side of Lisbon. Santiago apologized that it failed to compare with the King’s more prestigious palaces, but it did offer the convenience of being adjacent to the Royal Stables.

Josef entered an anteroom where courtiers mingled, waiting to join the receiving line for their chance to be obsequious to the King. Josef had expected more of Portuguese gentry. The men were passable: military officers standing tall and straight, with lines of medals hung from colorful ribbons crowding their chests. An equal number of the merchant class were present. Balding, portly to obese, silk sashes of different colors encircling their pear-shaped bodies, which must denote some accomplishment, Josef thought, but he really didn’t care

what it was.
The women were a disappointment. Most of the matrons had the heft of peasant farm-

wives, muscular enough to step into the traces of a gang plow if one of the workhorses pulled up lame. Heavily corseted to give at least the hint of a waist, they seemed to have trouble breathing and made good use of the ‘fainting couches’ placed liberally around the room. The girth of most of the young woman gave fair warning of what their girlish figures had to look forward to.

All of the women were primly dressed, with very little bare skin showing. The younger ones got around this restriction with the liberal use of Madeira lace bodices, which revealed as much bosom as a mother would allow.

One black-haired beauty had bright-blue eyes flashing in a face as white as the marble columns supporting the roof. Josef smiled at the byplay between mother and daughter over the placement of the girls long curls. Mother wanted them trailing sedately trailed over breast ineffectively concealed by open-work lace. The girl smiled at Josef, then tilted her head to the left, then to the right, until her long tresses fell away from their appointed task, revealing a luscious bosom. Her father frowned and loudly cleared his throat; her mother quickly blocked Josef’s view and, placing her fingertips behind the flowing locks, delicately draped them again in their strategic position. After a few minutes, the beauty nonchalantly repeat the head tilts, and the parental process protecting her chastity started all over again. Josef moved closer to get a better view of what appeared to be near-perfect breasts.

Santiago stepped in his path. “We must make our way to the top of the stairway.”

The nobleman took Josef’s elbow and guided him toward a a gap the crowd, filled by two life-sized statues of Andalusian horses, one a chestnut, the other black, facing each other from opposite sides of the room. They looked so alive Josef reached out to pat the forehead of the black.

“Do not touch,” Santiago said. “The King went to considerable expense to bring the best taxidermists from London to mount these champions.”

“Gruesome,” Josef said.
“True. Don’t touch them anyway.”
As they neared the top of a marble stairway, Josef got his first look at the ballroom one

floor below. He burst out laughing.
“Cale-se,” Santiago hissed. “You are drawing unwanted attention to yourself!” Josef choked back another outburst. The ballroom looked precisely like pictures the

priests used in Horta to warn teen-aged boys that the Devil hid in such luxurious decadence to lure the weak into a life of sin. The priests said that just entering such a space guaranteed eternal damnation. The crowd edged closer to the stairs, and Josef faced another disappointment — the art depicting past rulers and their consorts at play consisted mainly of hunting scenes and crowded ballrooms. He remembered the priests used pictures showing more flesh. Nothing like the Fado Club, of course. That would have caused his catechism class to convert to whatever religion those Oriental gentlemen practiced.

They were nearing the top of the grand staircase. The music switched from a waltz to a march, announcing that the audience with the King and his wife and consort was about to begin.

Josef let the crowd carry him forward. Santiago gripped his elbow again, and like the skipper of a small sailboat with a firm hand in the tiller, guided him around two aged dowagers leaning on their canes. Santiago’s destination: a group of dignitaries laughing and chatting near the top of the staircase.

“We must pick the right spot in the receiving line,” Santiago said. “I will attempt to keep the tall gentleman with snow-white hair, and the attractive daughter, to my right.”

“She is stunning,” Josef said. “What is her name?”
“Amelia Rosa Machado Freitas Gonzaga do Assis. Forget about her. Keep your eye on

the porcine creature with the red face next to her when the King acknowledges you. If the King blesses you, and that fat banker hears it, your efforts to raise funds will succeed without question.

The dignitaries began to drift with the crowd. Josef let the Viscount push him this way and that, but his attention was on Amelia and her blue eyes that seemed to smile merrily at him when his gaze drifted downwards to the swell of her breasts, the view currently free of trailing black curls. He longed to see if that slim waist was natural or the result of a good corset. But the most the tantalizing mystery of all was the shape of her hips, the area of a woman’s body that interested Josef the most, which was now hidden by an excess of crinoline.

“Easy now,” Santiago whispered.

The Viscount timed it perfectly. The two gentlemen he had pointed out were standing next to each other near the top of the stairs. As they were about to step on the blue and gold carpet runner, Josef felt a strong push in the small of his back. He fell forward against the white- haired gentleman, regained his balance and grabbed the elderly man, saving the aristocrat from pitching headfirst down the marble steps.

“I am terribly sorry, your Excellency,” Josef said. “ My fault entirely. Are you all right?”

The man spun around, ready for a fight. He relaxed when he saw the well-dressed stranger that had saved him from serious injury. “No harm has been done, sir.” His expression hardened when he saw Santiago.

“Please also accept my apologies, Senhor Machado,” Santiago said. “I distracted Carvalho, pointing out how attractive Amelia is.”

The courtiers slowly descended to the long stairway. When Machado and his family were next in line to receive the King’s greeting, the family patriarch remained tight-lipped, but his beautiful daughter again smiled openly at Josef.

After the Machado family received rather perfunctory comments from the King, Josef thought, they moved into the Great Hall. Except for Amelia. She looked back a Josef and held his gaze, even while her father pulled her away. The King’s words brought Josef back to this critical moment.

“Ah, Viscount Santiago, it is good to see you,“ the King said. “I hear my people showed proper appreciation for your skill at the public practice this afternoon. Especially your final routine. I do want you to win, of course, but perhaps with a bit more caution.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I admit to letting my passion conquer good sense,” Santiago said and turned to Josef. “Your Highness, may I present Senhor Josef Carvalho, a prominent California landowner, and the Padrinho of the Portuguese community in the Central Valleys.”

“Welcome to my humble palace, Senhor Carvalho. It gives me great pleasure that a countryman succeeds in the realm of Spanish land grants.”

“It is my honor, your majesty,” Josef said. “I hope to acquire as much of their land as I am able.”

“Excellent,” the King joked. “We must surpass Spain as a colonial power any way we can. I support your efforts completely.”

After taking leave of the King, Santiago led the way into a small drawing room. “That was perfect, Carvalho. The fat gentleman on your left is the most skeptical of the money- men. By tomorrow, ‘They’ will have twisted the King’s words into a full-blown endorsement of your project. The bankers will only be too glad to provide you with capital, without our… ‘Their’ influence being evident.”

“Your correction was too slow,” Josef said. “So ‘They’ has changed to ‘Our.’ What is this group?”

“In due course, Carvalho. The next step is to remove me as your confidant. I must appear to be a casual acquaintance, a gadfly whose sole purpose was introducing you at Court. Until the wedding-

“What wedding?” Josef said.

“I am betrothed to the flirtatious, spoiled, willful and stunning Amelia Machado,” Santiago said. “The nuptials are Saturday.”

“Good Lord! Her father dislikes you.”
“Hates me,” Santiago said, “but this matter is ordained by the King.”
Santiago turned towards the main entrance. “It is time for me to disappear. Get close to

Amelia’s father. It would be ideal if Machado invited you to the wedding, not me. And this is our last public meeting. If we must meet again, it will be in secret. Either way, I will send you a message of the time and place where you are to be on my wedding night. Remember, you will have to comply with my instructions to the letter if you wish… ‘Our’ support.”

Chapter 14

Santiago sent word that another meeting was necessary and to wear ordinary clothes. They were not out to impress anyone. The carriage traveled along the harbor until reaching

the commercial docks, then turned inland. When they entered a small park in a working-class neighborhood, Josef looked around and felt appropriately dressed in his ship-board clothing. He found the nobleman sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. “It’s going to be quite a wedding,” Santiago said and showed Josef a three column article on the event. “Congratulations. You’re mentioned as a Notable Guest.”

“The Machado family has been most gracious,” Josef said. “I am dining with them again tonight.”

“Good. I am not.” Santiago handed the newspaper to a passerby. “As I thought, the money-men took the King’s off-hand remark about supporting countrymen who tweak noses of Spanish grandees as an endorsement of your project. Your request for capital will be granted when you fulfill your obligation.”

“What would you do if that stunt failed?” Josef said, “What if I couldn’t save Machado from tumbling down the stairs?”

“I would happily do nothing, and you would be destitute.” Santiago frowned at a passing grandmother shepherding three squalling children.

“All right. What is my obligation, and who is this group you refer to as ‘They?’

“We jokingly call ourselves ‘The League of Former Gentlemen,’” We are a group of men with contacts in Lisbon’s high society, where most are no longer welcome because of scandals. As we all frittered away our birthrights, there is a constant need for funds. This has led to connections in another world… not criminal, necessarily, but one filled with individuals not averse to skirting the law. Rather like you, my friend.

“I never have-
“Stop Carvalho. It appears you continue to have trouble with the Ninth Commandment.” A group of workmen walked past, one looked twice and whispered to the others.
Santiago abruptly stood up. “We must walk.”
Josef followed Santiago out of the park, walking several blocks before they came to a low

stone wall where they could sit. “The League admires the way you grew your cattle herds,” Santiago said. “Under normal circumstances, a cow does not give birth to triplets, unless you discovered a miracle in animal husbandry. No, you started with a particular type of cattle rustling, separating calves from their mothers in the high pastures. But too many died of starvation because they could not be adequately weaned before winter snows blocked the trails. So you got creative, designing brands that allowed for over-branding, redrawing the original owners mark to one of your own with a red-hot iron.

“The League also noticed your import companies always had the lowest prices – stolen goods? And many shippers used your Teamsters, even though your rates were higher – blackmail? Brilliant. That is why you have been honored as the League’s choice for Northern California representative.”

“What if I refuse?” Josef said.

“Why would you do that? Raising capital for your present project is just the beginning. The League will provide you with contacts to which you would never have access, enabling

you to compete on any project you choose. Government officials will sign-off on ‘difficult’ transfers of property. Courts will favor your cases when the need arises.”

“Are you part of this group?” Josef said.

“Informally. I am of value to the League as long as I am of value to the King. And that could end tomorrow. With my aggressive riding style, the odds are I will injure a favored horse seriously enough someday that it must be put down. Whenever that happens, I will be barred from the Royal Palace, which will make me of no use to the League.”

Santiago handed Josef a small canvas pouch sealed with wax. “This contains documentation to present to the bank in San Francisco,” Santiago said and began walking towards the docks. “I will see you after the wedding.”

“Wait. What is my obligation?” Josef called after him. Santiago did not answer.

Chapter 15

Lights from secluded villas flashed like beacons through a dense forest of eucalyptus trees as the carriage struggled up a narrow lane winding to the top of the Sobradinho Hills. Josef had paid the driver an extra fee for his discretion, and in case the horse dropped dead after the steep climb.

The carriage stopped at a villa loaned to Santiago for his lua de mel, his honeymoon. The carriage driver put Josef’s valise on the veranda and pulled away, leaving Josef marveling at a spectacular view of Lisbon. Thousands of lights glimmered in the valley below, bisected by the dark swath of the Tagus River.

“I’m surprised a single horse made it to the top.” Santiago’s voice came from someplace in the darkness. He drew smoke into his lungs from a cigarillo, and the flare of orange light showed the nobleman’s location.

“Downhill will be easier,” Josef said.
Santiago chuckled. “Sit by me. Your epiphany is at hand.”

“Good. Start with why am I here on your wedding night.”
“The story starts long before,” Santiago said. “I will begin there.”
“With your criminal conspiracy, perhaps?” Josef said.
“The League is not made up of criminals,” Santiago said. “For the most part.” Santiago snuffed out the stub of the cigarillo and immediately lit another; the brief

glimpse of his haggard face surprised Josef. The man always seemed so jovial and carefree. Not tonight.

“Portugal is controlled by the King and a few businessmen and generals. If you have fallen out of favor with any of them, you must find other support to accomplish anything. The League is an informal group of men accustomed to risk, which occasionally may have resulted in running afoul of the law.”

Josef’s eyes were accustomed to the darkness now. He could make out Santiago’s form sitting in a high-back chair. “How does this affect me?”

“Patience, Carvalho. Epiphanies are not always instantaneous.” Santiago smoked for a while. “Machado and I are good examples of achieving goals through finesse. I want to marry into the Machado family to assure my financial future. Machado wants the marriage to be consummated for the prestige of joining the royal family. I am of noble birth, on the maternal side, and am not in the line of succession. No matter. To the low born like Machado, who has all the money in the world, my name is gold.

“But Court politics would not allow us to simply have the priest publish banns of matrimony. So, one Lady In Waiting invites another to tea and mentions what a darling couple the Viscount and Amelia Machado would make. They both whisper this same message in their lover’s ears. One of these philanderers sees an opportunity for gain and makes an offhand remark to the King: ‘Wouldn’t Viscount Santiago and Amelia Machado make a suitable couple!’ The King thinks it is his idea, and Voila! The nuptials took place this morning. All those whispers and remarks didn’t just happen. I presented my problem to the League, and a plan was developed… which involves you. A direct approach to the bankers on your behalf would have failed. However, if the King backed your plan…

“The charade at the Gala,” Josef said.

“A brilliant gambit,” Santiago said. “We all win without the League’s involvement being apparent.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Josef Carvalho, Padrinho of the New World Portuguese – Sacramento region, anyway – will take advantage of the many opportunities the League brings your way, for a nominal fee. If you agree to the terms, you will return to California a happy man. In ten days.”

“That’s impossible. I have passage booked mid-week?”
“Do you want to control water flow in the Sacramento Valley?” “Of course.”
“Change your plans; you have no choice.”
“Watch me.” Josef strode off the veranda and headed for the lane.

“It’s a long walk, Carvalho. That will give you ample time to choose between life in prison or being forced to put the noose over your own head.

“Explain.”
“Come back and sit down.”
Josef didn’t move.
“I said sit!” Santiago’s voice had more force than Josef had heard before. He returned to

the veranda.
“The League has appointed me your sponsor. Your success begins and ends with me. If I

report that you have fulfilled my wishes, you get your money. If you do not follow my instructions, your cattle rustling activities will come to light. Your story in the newspapers will read like one of those cheap, little books. What do you call them?”

“Penny dreadfuls,” Josef said.

“How embarrassing. The great Josef Carvalho a villain in a penny dreadful. That would be worse than hanging, which I understand is the punishment for stealing another man’s cattle. Or you can be the hero in a love story. It is all up to you.”

“I’ll take the later,” Josef said.
“Good. All you have to do is seduce the adorable Amelia.”
Josef moved closer to Santiago, his voice catching in his throat as he tried to speak. “You

can’t be serious.”
“I am absolutely serious. You will have your way with her tonight and every day for the

next ten days. Then you return to Lisbon next year to meet with your bankers and to spend some time planting seeds in the Amelia garden again. That is your obligation to me, two heirs, and the League.”

“I don’t believe you.”
“Tell the truth for once. You wanted to ravage Amelia the first time you saw her.” “Well, yes, of course, but-
“Here is our binding contract: ‘I, Santiago do Lusitano, demand that Josef Carvalho

fornicate with my virgin bride, Amelia Machado e Freitas, a sufficient number of times over a three-year period that she produces a minimum of two healthy children. In return, Carvalho will be allowed to live and prosper.

“If Carvalho fails to fulfill the terms of this agreement, the Leagues protection ceases, and the now former Padrinho will face an uncertain future, depending on the whims of his subjects. Do you understand the terms?”

“It sounds one-sided? What have you got to lose?

“If you fail, I will be sent to your birthplace as a colonial clerk,” Santiago said. “I know you have donkeys in Horta. Anything swifter?”

“But why?” Josef said.

Santiago rose from his chair and walked to the edge of the veranda, his voice losing energy as he spoke. “Blackmail is the glue that holds the League together. We share our painful secrets with other members and are safe as long as we remain faithful to the League.”

“What is your painful secret?” Josef said.
Santiago turned back to Josef. “No more stalling! Do you agree?” “I will not sign any paper,” Josef said.

“Not necessary. You know the result of breaking your bond.” Josef rose from his chair and strode across the veranda. “Where’s your wife?”

Chapter 16

Amelia tilted her head slightly upward. That’s better. The candles on her dressing table threw more light on her makeup, allowing the brilliance of her blue eyes to stand out against her pure white skin and black hair. Next, she studied the effects of her lace negligee as she turned back and forth in a half circle. Monica, her older sister, had been particular about how much of her breasts should be revealed to excite her husband. Older men need to see more flesh to get excited. It shouldn’t be a problem with the young and viral Santi, but this was no time for modesty. Amelia had waited so long for this moment she removed the satin chemise. Who cares if her lace negligee exposed secret areas?

She snuffed out the candles in the bedroom, save three tall wedding-night tapers blessed by the priest to assure the Holy Trinity conspired to make her first sexual experience a fruitful one. Monica explained that when the priest proclaimed, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife’ the rules of sex changed. Now having sex in a civilized manner was approved, if the purpose was to bring children to the glory of God. It was still forbidden if merely for pleasure.

“But it’s such a little sin,” her sister said, “and you’ll forget it when you see your husband naked.”

“I’ve seen naked men before,” Amelia said.

“Your little brother, statues,” Monica said. “It is different when your husband stands over you with his manhood jutting straight out.”

Amelia could hear sounds outside the bedroom door. She quickly followed another of

Monica’s instructions. “Pinch your nipples to make them hard, so the negligee hangs on them, ready to fall at the slightest touch.”

Santiago opened the bedroom door. Amelia felt her heart race at the sight of his handsome face; it froze when she realized a shadowy figure stood behind him. Her first thought, ‘It’s the priest! Santiago is so religious he wants a further blessing on this cherished night.’

Then Josef stepped into the light.
Amelia clutched the flimsy negligee around her as Josef began to disrobe.
“Santi, what is-“
Santiago pulled Amelia towards him and held her tightly. “Be quiet, Amelia. This is the

way it is going to be.” He gently slid the lace garment from her shoulders and let it slip to the floor.

“Why are you doing this, Santi?” Amelia tried to cover her nakedness with hands and arms, but Santiago carried her to the bed and held her down until Josef lay on top of her, excited by the challenges and joys beautiful Amelia offered.

“Oh, no; oh, no. Santi, why?”
Santiago stepped back to the doorway and watched until Josef’s first convulsion ebbed.

Viscount Santiago do Lusitano remained awake in an adjoining room, listening to the sounds of one-sided lovemaking. Josef’s grunts of conquest overwhelmed Amelia’s anguished cries, which soon declined to muffled sobs, then silence. Josef’s moans and shouts of pleasure rose an fell in volume, but never ceased.

Santiago decided there was no need for continued vigilance. Josef would fulfill his side of the bargain with great enthusiasm. But Santiago’s relief at being saved financially lasted only a few minutes before memories attacked him.

Minerva, his father’s favorite whore, had tutored Santiago in all things sexual. And his failures began to mount. No matter what technique – Minerva was expert in the Asian arts of sexual excitement – the leading concubine of the day was unable to arouse an erection on the young nobleman.

Santiago tried experimenting with the chambermaids, which only produced giggles in the servants quarters.

The closest Santiago every came to an erection was at the stables, when a young girl rode past using a low-backed English saddle, her cute behind moving in rhythm with the gate of her jumper. Amelia Machado turned and smiled at him, then rode on.

Santiago later described to Minerva the roundness of the girl’s buttocks, how even though the fabric of her riding britches stretched tight, he could still make out the faint impression of cleavage between her cheeks. Minerva noted his rapid breathing and the beads of perspiration sprouting on his upper-lip. Maybe her young charge liked boys.

Minerva recruited a willing groom to have sex with Santiago in a hayloft. The young man dropped his trousers, bent over, and spread his cheeks wide with his fingertips. Santiago

moved closer and vomited on the boy’s back, which sent the groom scampering down the ladder, cursing and yelling insults at the family scion.

A priest came to the rescue, proclaiming Santiago’s difficulties proof of Church teachings. The purpose of sex was to bring children into the world while in the state of matrimonial grace. In the fullness of time, Santiago would find the right mate for this blessed coupling.

News of the priest’s words triggered a rush of eager candidates, willing to assist him in his quest. Still, Santiago never experienced warmth in his loins when he brought a young lady to the point of submission. At least now, he had the priest’s words to fall back on, and could act the great romantic martyr, declaring, “No, my heart searches for another!”

Or some such rot.

Doctors finally concluded Santiago was impotent because of a series of childhood illnesses which racked his body during puberty.

Josef had appeared on the scene at just the right time. Recently, one disappointed maiden accused another of ruining poor Santiago’s life by denying him her charms, and the whole bunch compared notes. Now, with his financial future assured, Santiago had a new role to play. Faithful husband.

Mockingbirds dove at Santiago, laughing at him, belittling his manhood. Then crows appeared. Wearing the white cowls of Franciscan nuns, they attacked him with beak and claw for the terrible thing he let happen to Amelia. Bleeding from a thousand cuts, Santiago jerked out of bed to be greeted by a single rooster ordering the sun to rise.

All his relief at securing his finances and not having to play the great lover had vanished. This morning he was the same incomplete man he had always been and would continue struggling to fill the void with a maniacal focus on being the greatest rider Europe had ever seen.

He picked up a medallion and golden chain from the bedside table, the dressage trophy he had won when he was eight years old, long before being humiliated by sexual failures.

Santiago lay back and repeated what could be a morning prayer if he were a religious man: “May I live in the memories of my triumphs, and change the endings of my failures.”

Chapter 17

Amelia recognized the squeak of her sister’s carriage wheel. Why didn’t Monica have the footman make it go away? Oil or something. Lie still, Amelia thought. Maybe her big sister will go home.

The sound of horses hooves clattering on the forecourt made that unlikely. Uncertainty disappeared when Monica used the lion-head door knocker and her shrill voice to shatter the stillness.

“Open the door Little Sister. I know you are in there. And Santi is not!”

Why is Monica so mean and bossy? Why does my big sister feel it useful to come to my love nest, as she calls it, to give me tips on how to make my husband happy in bed? What is she going to teach me that the crone keeping me prisoner hasn’t shown me in her Japanese book? The Pope says it would be a mortal sin for anyone to translate such filth into the language of the One True Church. Who needs words with all those drawings, especially one disgusting picture that caused Amelia to blurt, “With my mouth? Never!”

It’s also too late for Monica to advise me which rope is the best for being tied to the bedposts, silk or Egyptian cotton. Or how to lessen the pain when your husband’s manhood enters your body in a place not meant to bring children into the world for the glory of God.

No, Monica is just nosy, Amelia decided.

She closed her eyes and tears began to flow as she whispered, “Perhaps you can advise me, Dear Sister, on how to confess to my priest, which words I should use.”

Monica switched tactics with the door knocker. She lifted the lion’s head, let it fall of its own weight three times in quick succession, then paused, and repeated the sequence over and over.

“Why doesn’t the crone open the door?” Amelia shouted. She sat up in bed and swung her feet to the floor. Too fast. The room spun around and everything turned a greenish-black. Amelia slide to the floor and braced herself by pushing the palms of her hands against the rug.

Josef will be gone tomorrow, Amelia thought. Why can’t Monica wait until this nightmare is over? One more day and the monster will be gone.

Amelia pulled her self to a standing position and donned the yellow dressing gown Josef had chosen for her to wear in the morning. She turned in circle in front of the full-length mirror and saw that Josef had made the right choice, as usuals. The welts on her back and her arms and legs didn’t show at all.

Amelia gently smoothed the fabric where it had bunched above her breasts, the sensation reminding her of Josef’s first caresses.

Why did she suddenly feel lonely?

Chapter 18

Josef followed Santiago into the bank and was surprised at the austerity. No money wasted on marble columns or works of art. It had the appearance of efficiency, and its location on a side street indicated profit was not dependent on the vagaries of foot traffic.

“We will be dealing with the bank president,” Santiago said. “He is a colossal ass, but knows how to turn a profit.”

“Is he a member of the League,” Josef said.

“Unnecessary knowledge for you, Carvalho,” Santiago said. “Fair warning. He is an excellent judge of character. I look forward to his opinion of you.”

Santiago received a warm welcome when they entered the president’s office; Josef got a nod. One functionary served coffee while another arranged documents for the president’s review.

“In brief, Your Lordship,” the banker began, “I gather a Letter of Mark is to be forwarded to our correspondent bank in San Francisco, the limit to be determined at any given time by your group. The named officer of the California bank has sole discretion on the release of funds to … ” The banker consulted the first document … “Mr. Carvalho, upon presentation of acceptable documents, which will include proof of clear title of the collateral asset and a suitable business and/or strategic plan on each transaction. Am I correct in my review of these documents?”

“You are,” Santiago said.
“Very well,” the banker said. “Mr. Carvalho, please sign-“
“Excuse me, sir,” Josef said. “I was under the impression that a Letter of Mark would

release a stated amount of funds to be deposited in my account.”
“You are misinformed, Mr. Carvalho. Please sign where I have indicated.” The banker

offered Josef the quill again.
Josef hesitated for a moment, then took the quill and did as the banker instructed.

Josef fumed as they crossed the walkway to a waiting carriage.

Santiago chuckled. “Really, Carvalho. You didn’t think you would walk out of there with a pot of gold.”

“I am not used to so many restrictions.”

“That’s why you are about to go bankrupt,” Santiago said. “Smile. You have one more day of passionate lovemaking with my wife to cheer you up.”

Josef didn’t look any happier.
“Too much of a good thing?” Santiago said. “Or is the lovely Amelia still not pliable?’ “She lies there like a dead cod,” Josef said. “I’m inclined to pour tomato sauce and garlic

on your bride and call her bacalhau.”
“Perhaps lurid pictures would inspire her.”

“The old wretch showed her a Japanese book, then spied on us.”
“Has my housekeeper made you bashful?” Santiago said.
“Not in the slightest,” Josef said, “but if she clatters around in the hall again, I’ll drag into

bed with us.”
“A sight to behold,” Santiago said and turned to go. “Please inform Amelia my carriage

will fetch her immediately after your departure.”
“The crone has never spoken to me. I don’t even know her name.” “La Minerva,” Santiago said.
“What kinda name is La Minerva?” Josef said.

“She was the Roman Goddess of Wisdom. And she hates men. The crone, not the Goddess.”

Josef climbed into the carriage, but before he could give the driver instructions, Santiago said, “How long will you be in Ponta Delgada?”

“Less than twenty-four hours,” Josef said.

“I suggest you stay on board,” Santiago said. “You will be in debtors prison if the sheriff discovers you are in the Azores.”

Josef did go ashore in the port city of Sao Miguel Island. It was a foolish risk. His creditors had their knives out, and he could accomplish nothing until he reaped the rewards of his new-found capital. The weather was foul, and after a brief stroll along the wharf, he returned to the warmth of the captain’s lounge.

The rest of the voyage was uneventful, as was the trans-continental trip, the train pulling into Sacramento’s Southern Pacific station fifteen hours early. The two extra locomotives required to pull the train over the High Sierras had not been uncoupled, leaving Josef’s parlor car short of the platform, overlooking the shambles that was his first farm – his first swindle, detractors would say. The sight of rusting equipment and overgrown rice paddies always refreshed the thrilling memory of how he had humiliated arrogant Anglos and lightened their wallets with a worthless investment in muck land. And now with the backing of the League of Former Gentlemen, his conquests would be without limit.

Chapter 19

War – 1941

We can move into our new house anytime we want. It’s really neat. I’ve got my own room – with a door. Mom and Pop have their own room too. And we’ve got a real kitchen with a big stove and an electric ice box and a bathroom with a flush toilet. Pop says he can’t wait to get some more dynamite and blow up the privy. But if he does that what’s Dear Me going to use? She’s living in the chicken coop.

We’ve got a new Victor radio in the living room. Mom picked it out because it looks like a church. It’s wood and the sides come together at the top like the peak of a roof. The front, where the sound comes is made of pieces of wood bent to look like the boards that hold up the ceiling of the Cathedral.

And we don’t have that stinky old kerosene heater anymore. Pop bought a furnace that goes in the floor. It’s got big pipes take heat all over the house and you can hear people talking in other rooms, if the vents are open. I think I can use it to spy on adults.

I don’t know how we got the money to build the house so fast. Pop said it was going to take years with the little bit of extra money we had every month to pay the carpenters. All of a sudden there must have been twenty workmen here, all at the same time. It only took six weeks to finish.

It’s true! The furnace is going to be my secret communications system. One day I was playing in my room. I could hear two workmen talking in the kitchen. One of them said, “I don’t know how Dale got the cash to finish this place. The banks aren’t lending any money.”

The other one said, “Then he must have robbed somebody,” and they both laughed.
Pop wouldn’t do that.
I didn’t want to hear any more, so I closed the vent. Pop’s been sleeping in the barracks at

the airfield. I hope he comes home tonight.

Chapter 20

I really got mad and sassed Mom and it’s all Dear Me’s fault. I can’t go to to summertime play school while Mom’s at work anymore because I’ve got to babysit my grandmother. The worst thing is Mom thinks Dear Me is babysitting me!

“Jeez, Mom! I take care of her! I cook and clean up. All she does is sit around and mumble stuff all day.”

“She’s probably praying, Paddy,” Mom said.

It’s true. It’s hard to understand Dear Me when she mumbles because she’s got this really big tongue that fills up her mouth an it’s hard for the words to squeeze passed it.

We finally agreed that me and Dear Me would watch out for each other because there are lots of bad people on the road. Not just Guido, but men from the Lower End or the jungles, begging for food.

“Okay,” I said. “Can Dear Me tell me about our relatives?”

Mom looked at Dear Me. I did too, and she didn’t look happy. I turned back to Mom just in time to catch her shaking her head ‘No.’

“Come on, Mom. I want to learn stuff. You and Pop never tell me anything about our family.”

Mom didn’t say anything, picked up her lunch and kissed me goodbye. Dear Me didn’t say anything either, just worked her tongue around her mouth some.

Mom had cooked breakfast, so there were dishes to do. “You want to help with clean up, Dear Me?” I said.
“I have to rest my meal.”
Which means she’s going to take a nap.

“Okay, I’ll clean up if you tell me one story.”
Dear Me worked her gums up and down for a minute like she was chewing something. I

cleared the table. “One story. What do you want to know?”
“How about where you grew up?” I said. “Tell me about the Azores.“
“I was born in Lisbon. That’s where –
“But Mom said –
“Then your mother can tell you my story.” Dear Me slid her chair back from the table. “No, no, Grandma. I’ll be quiet.”
“All right,” Dear Me said. “Not one word.”
I shook soap powder over the dirty dishes and ran water into the sink. Dear Me still sat

sideways to the table, ready to make her escape if I opened my mouth, I guess.
“My father was one of the richest men in Portugal,” Dear Me said. “We lived in a huge house in the best section of Lisbon where all the important families lived. We had servants

and horses and were always presented at Court. That’s where I met your grandfather, Viscount Santiago do Lusitano. Santi and the King… were best friends. Oh, Santi, Santi.”

Dear Me took her rosary from her apron pocket and started crying and twisted the rosary so tight I thought she was going to break it. Then she just stopped, blessed herself three times and went on with the story.

“ Santi was so charming. Everyone adored him. Men, children … and every woman in Portugal. We fell in love and wanted to marry, which was all right, even though I was a commoner. Santi was a member of the royal family but would never be king, so –

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated. Shhh.” Dear Me closed her eyes, blessed herself again, and had a little smile on her face. “Arrangements were made through the King’s Chamberlain an our wedding was the high point of the season. All the best people came. The King sent the royal carriage covered with red roses. It took us to the Basilica da Estrela. The bridal party followed, and it took six carriages to carry them all. The ceremony was magnificent, a High Nuptial Mass with two choirs singing Gregorian chants.”

“Wow, that’s a big deal. High Mass and two choirs?” I said. “What’s a basilica?” “Bigger than a cathedral.”
“This sounds like a fairy tale, Dear Me. You’re not fibbing, are you?”
“Shame on you naughty boy. Give me the Bible. I will swear.”

I didn’t move afraid she was going to stop telling me the story. But she made three quick signs of the cross and kept talking.

“The King surprised everyone by ordering my father to stand down and he gave me away himself! After the ceremony, there was a parade to Ajuda Palace, where the King lived with his Consort. That’s what we called a queen. There was a military band, and hundreds of people followed shouting ‘Santi, Santi’ because your grandfather was a famous horseman, very popular with the common people.

“The King and his Consort received the wedding guests, and we danced all afternoon and into the evening. With his fingertips touching the small of my back, Santi guided me around the dance floor as if we were floating on a cloud. It was the custom at that time that after you got married, you’d go on a little trip to rest.”

“A honeymoon, right?”

“We told everyone we were escaping to the Algarve, a popular vacation area in the South. But we really stayed in a beautiful villa high in the hills above Lisbon. You could see all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.”

Dear Me closed her eyes and looked sad, but I had lots of questions to ask. “Enough stories,” she said. “I’m tired.”

When Mom came home from work, she asked how the babysitting was going. “Are you and Dear Me telling each other stories?”

“She does all the talking, but I don’t believe her.”
“Why not,” Mom said.
“She just tells lies, fairy tales about kings and princes and shiny black horses pulling

carriages.” I told Mom the rest of Dear Me’s story about her wedding.
“That’s all true, Paddy. When I was a little girl, I saw tintypes of the wedding. It was

wonderful.”
“What’s a tintype?” I said.
“An early kind of photograph,” Mom said.
“Boy, I’d like to see them.”
“Me too,” Mom said. “They were lost when the first house we lived in burned in a grass

fire.”

Chapter 21

Mr. Mason is a crop duster. He and Mrs. Mason live behind our pasture. He stops by after work some times to drink beer with Pop. They were in the Army Air Corp. together in the Philippines and in San Francisco. But they didn’t like each other because Pop punched Mr. Mason in the nose and had to go to jail.

Airplane mechanics used to get extra pay if they went up for a ride a couple of times a month in planes they repaired. Nobody would fly with Mr. Mason because he took too many chances. Pop said the only time he’d go up with him was if he really needed the money.

Once, in the Philippines, they were flying around the volcano near Clark Field where they were stationed, and Mr. Mason decided to practice dive bombing. He flew over the crater, flipped the Curtiss pursuit plane upside and dove right into the smoke and steam. Pop pulled back so hard on the controls in the front cockpit the stick broke off in his hand.

It got worse when they shipped back to Crissy Field in San Francisco. Pop was in the forward cockpit again, and Mr. Mason dove straight down at the Alcatraz Prison smokestack. Pop swears he stared down at the fire in the furnace for what seemed like hours until Mr. Mason pulled up at the last minute.

When they landed, Pop staggered out of the plane punched Mr. Mason in the face, which got him court-marshaled because enlisted men are not supposed to hit officers. When their commanding heard the story, he grounded Mr. Mason for a month. All that happened to Pop was he lost his corporal stripes and had to start over as a buck private.

When Pop told me the story, I asked how he could see fire if there was smoke coming out of the chimney.

“Very big furnace,” was all he said.

I heard Mr. Mason’s car pull into the yard and hurried to my treehouse. It’s a super-secret hiding place, right over the grape arbor and I can hear everything adults say. If I’m quiet, they forget I’m up there.

“All I’ve got left,” Pop said, as walked down the back steps carrying two Lucky Lagers. “They cold?”
“Barely.” Pop snapped the caps off and flipped them as high as he could. Sometimes I

reach out and catch them. Not today. I’m spying on the enemy.
“Last of the soldiers.” Pop handed Mr. Mason a beer. They licked the foam bubbling out

the top then drank in silence.
Pop finally sighed. “Okay, what kind of jam are you in?”
“That obvious?” Mr. Mason said. “I enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force.” “Hogwash!”

“No, after I left here the other day, I met some buddies in town,” Jay said. “A guy from Canada was recruiting. We had a few more long necks, and all of us volunteered.”

“What the hell for?” Pop asked.
“Patriotism. You know that the United States is going to get into this war sooner or later.” “Crop dusting’s safer, even in that old Curtiss Jenny. Nobody’s shooting at you from the

cornfields.”
“And there’s the money. I can’t make it dusting with the Jenny. Hard to find parts now,

and she can’t carry enough weight to make it practical. And I’m behind on the payments.” “What’s Bernice think?”
“It’s all your fault. You must have poured beer down my throat, only reason I’d do

something so dumb. But Bernice understands money. I’ll be making three times what I can dusting, without any of the costs.”

“Except maybe your life,” Pop said.

They finished their beers, tilting the bottles straight up. ‘blowing the devil’s trumpet’ Pop calls it.

“Why do you want to fight in Europe?” Pop said. “Our war is with the Japs. They’ve already got Manchuria and half of China. The islands are next, starting with the Philippines. That’s our fight.”

Pop spun his beer bottle on the picnic table. It makes a clicking sound each time it hits a nail sticking up in the center. “I like the Filipinos,” he said, “except maybe that Pampangan savage that came at me with a spear, said I was stealing his chicken.”

“Were you?” Mr. Mason asked.

“Pretty much,” Pop said. “I was hammered, offered to buy it. He kept yelling, “No eat money. Gimme chicken.”

Mr. Mason and Pop both cleared their throats and spat on the ground.

“Ready?” Pop said. He always started the contest to see whose beer bottle would spin the longest. “Go!”

Neither of them spoke, which meant it was a tie.
“Can you get out of the contract with Canada?” Pop said. “Chenault needs pilots for the

Flying Tigers. Or even better. The Navy’s training carrier pilots. Your maneuvering skills as a crop duster might give you a leg up.”

“I’ll think about it.” Mr. Mason shook one of the limbs supporting my secret hiding place, and said. “Bye, Paddy.”

Chapter 22

Holy Angels school is big. There are 3 two-story brick buildings on a whole city block. The playground is dirt with some grass and shade trees around the edges. Our favorite place is a storage shed in one corner where we can hide from the nuns. They’re pretty nice, from the Order of St. Francis, except Sister Rosalia, The Dwarf. She’s mean.

When school started, Guido and the bullies waited until the fourth day to give me a hard time. We played mumblety-peg, and I won. But Guido tried to take his knife back, and we started fighting. Sister Serena broke it up before I could get hurt. She took all our knives away from us. Guido says I’ve got to buy them new ones.

After that, Sister Serena blew her whistle to end the afternoon recess, and we raced for the best nap time benches, the ones closest to the drinking fountain. Guido yelled, “Out of the way, shrimp,” and gave me just enough hip to throw me off balance. I only lost a couple steps and could have made it up, but Bernadette angled towards me, chanting:

“Paddy, No Faddy

Tee-legged Baddy Tee-legged, tie-legged. Bow-legged Paddy.”

The rest of the class joined in and Bernadette kept on coming. I ducked, prepared to be slammed against the wall. But at the last minute, she dropped to one hand and swept my feet out from under me like we were playing soccer. I went airborne, head first.

“Ooof!” I landed on my back and lay there sucking air. Why does Bernadette do this to me all the time? Dumb question. I’m the second littlest kid in the class — she’s the littlest — and she can beat me up.

Anyway. I’m lying there counting paint drips on the underside of the porch roof, which had just been painted a shiny white. It’s kind of like my last nightmare. I was running from Bernadette and had to go to the bathroom real bad. If I stopped, she’d pound on me, and the bullies would laugh. Suddenly in this dream, I felt safe in a room where everything was white and shiny — tiles on the walls, the floor, the urinal I was peeing in.

In the nightmare, someone shouted, “Paddy, what the hell are you doing?”
Pop? Why is he in the Boys Room at Holy Angels?
“Oh, no!” That was Mom; she’s here too? “Might as well let him finish,” she said. “It’s

ruined anyway.”
I woke up standing in front of our new electric icebox, peeing into the white enamel bucket

we use to chill fresh milk. But I wasn’t dreaming now.

“Why are you lying on the walkway, Paddy?” Sister Serena leaned over and inspected me like I was a worm. “You’re supposed to be on a bench.”

I got up slowly and thanked the Lord it wasn’t The Dwarf that found me. “Paddy, your filthy!”
Oh, crap.

“Go clean yourself,“ Sister Rosalia shouted. “Now!“
I turned to go.
“Stop. Do you have anything to say to me?”
“Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister. I won’t do it again Sister.”
I checked my wounds in the Boy’s Room. The scabs on my knees from yesterday were

crusty; my banged-up elbow from the day before was okay, too. Even the bad puncture wound on my palm that I got Monday had healed. The Dwarf doesn’t care if we get hurt, as long as we don’t bleed on our uniforms and upset our parents.

I trudged to the booby-prize nap time spot, next to the playground, out in the sun. Little dust devils skipped around, and I started to sneeze. The fit got worse; spots of blood speckled the front of my shirt. If the Dwarf saw the blood, she’d swoop down with her black cowl flapping like a monster crow and send me to the infirmary. Then I’d have to pass by Bernadette and get teased with another crappy chant. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could come right back with a good one, but I’m terrible at making up rhymes.

“Paddy, not again,” the Dwarf said.
Double crap.
Silence was the nap time rule, so Bernadette started her chant in a whisper. The class tried

to keep it that way, but by end they were shouting, like always.

“Paddy, all bloody, Tee-legged cruddy, Tee-legged, tie-legged,

Bow-legged nutty.”

“Silence!” The Dwarf screamed and smacked the wall with the knotted cord that dangled from her waist. Plaster dust showered one of the bullies. He started choking and coughing and with one eye stuck closed he could still give me the mean Italian gesture called “bearding your chin,” putting his fingertips under his chin and flipping them towards me.

“Why do you call her the Dwarf?” David asked me that evening in my tree house, which now had sides and a roof. One of the carpenters helped me.

It was safe for David to come over and play because Mr. Watson was in the prison ward of the County hospital, recovering from the beating the Bull’s gave him. His trial for sedition starts soon.

“She’s a dwarf because the hump on her back uses up about a foot of her spine. She’s shorter than me.”

“Is she ugly?”
“Sure is,” I said. “The Dwarf’s face is all crunched-up like a white prune; she’s got old-

lady hairs on her face like Dear Me, so stiff they’ll stab you and draw blood if you get too close. But her looks aren’t the worst thing. She’s mean, and she’s got this silky, white cord hanging down her side with three granny knots tied in it. She likes to sneak up behind you and bang the cord down on your desk. Sometimes it scares kids so much they mess themselves.”

“What kind of punishments do you get in Catholic school?” David likes to know about punishments so he can compare them with his daily whippings.

“It depends on whether it’s a venial or mortal sin.”
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s pretty complicated, that’s why I’m going to Holy Angels, so I don’t burn in eternal

Hell-fire over some dumb sin I didn’t know about.”
“Go back to the punishments. What else?”
“Lots of little stuff: extra prayers, clean the erasers, but the worst thing is spending a night

with the orphans.”
“You’ve got orphans there?”
“Not real orphans, just kids from families who don’t want them anymore.”
“Where are they?”
“On the second floor. Staying overnight with the orphans is the worst punishment because

maybe they’ve got a sickness and we’ll catch it. Then our parents won’t want us anymore.” “That’s scary.”
“Yeah, but the nuns say they’re just trying to keep our thoughts pure and souls clean so we

can go right to Heaven, and not waste time in Purgatory.”
“What’s that?”
“A place to give your soul a final scrubbing, ‘cause nobody’s perfect.”

Chapter 23

I’m in the novitiate alter boy class. Now that it’s the Christmas season, Father Anselmo wants us to assist at the eleven o’clock high mass, which means I have to take communion, which means I haven’t had anything to eat since I went to bed last night. On the way home, Mom stopped at the Italian bakery to get stuff to nibble on.

When she got back in the car, Mom asked, “Do you think there’s any way your father found an excuse to work out front on the olive trees?”

“Come on, Mom. It’s winter. He can’t prune the branches and he already pulled the weeds.”

Last Sunday when me and Mom got home from Mass we found Pop on his hands and knees, pulling every weed by hand, one by one, his half-bare backside pointing at the road.

We walked in the back door and Mom called out, “We’ve got sweet bread from Balducci’s.”

Pop sat on the Chesterfield listening to the war news. I never know which side he’s on. He yells back at the radio whether the stories are about the Germans or the English.

“Hi, Pop. The sound is really good. No static. Is that the San Francisco station?”

Pop put one finger to his lips to shush me. The man on the radio was excited and sounded like he was about to cry.

“The Japs bombed Pearl,” Pop said.

“Oh, no,” Mom said, and I thought she was going to fall over. Pop jumped up and helped her sit next to him on the couch.

“Pop, what’s going-”
Mom shushed me this time. “Be still Paddy. It’s about Pearl Harbor.”
Pop was stationed there for a long time, at the big Army Air Corp base. He was stationed

at a lot of other places in the Pacific Ocean too, but he liked the Hawaiian Islands the best. Now he just sat on the couch with an empty beer bottle in his hand, saying over and over.

“How’d they get there?”

The next week we said lots of prayers at Holy Angeles for all the people killed and wounded by the Japs. Every day at four o’clock Father Anselmo blessed us and the soldiers and sailors that are going to fight in the war. He wants us to take good feelings home to our families and neighbors.

Pop got the answer on how the Japs got to Pearl Harbor pretty quick. Aircraft carriers. He blames the stupid admirals and generals – OUR admirals and generals – for not doing a better job of listening to radios and patrolling the Pacific.

Just before Christmas vacation ended, we got a postcard in the mail.

Dale –

Carrier training starts next week in North American T-6 Texans. It’s a hot 2-seat low- wing trainer. You could put guns on this beauty and go to war. Glad you talked me out of Canada!

Jay

Dear Me’s health is better now, and she’s not so cuckoo. Mom says it will be safe to leave her alone all day in her cottage when I go back to school. She and Pop get along better since we moved into the new house.

Well, they ignore each, anyway.

Chapter 24

A girl came to school wearing shiny black shoes she got for Christmas. The Dwarf had a fit. She sent the boys out for recess.

“Shrimp, you’re the smallest,” Guido said. “Hide in the cloak closet and see what the fuss is about.”

Oh, boy, a secret mission. “Sure thing.”
I hid under an old raincoat hanging on the inside of the closet door and could hear the girls giggling, then ‘Fwap!’ The Dwarf had banged her knotted cord on a desk.

“Proper young ladies don’t wear patent leather shoes,” the Dwarf said. “They act like a mirror and bad boys can see up your dress. It is a sin to wear them or even have them in your closet at home because you might be tempted to wear them, which is also a sin. Bernadette, go get the boys.”

I slipped into line next to Guido and whispered my report. He repeated it to the third-grade boys at the next recess. “Okay, we gotta investigate this. Any ideas?”

“Stevie’s sister has shiny black shoes,” I said.
“I’m not looking up my sister’s dress,” Stevie said.

“You can hold them up close, maybe see your face,” I said.
“I’m not even going into her room, Paddy,” he said and punched my arm, hard. “Okay, okay,” Guido said. “Anybody goes to a shoe store, check it out. What about

pictures?
“We’ve got catalogs,” I said.
“Okay, Shrimp. Check it out.” Two secret missions in one day! Wow!
That night I hit the books. Sure enough. The Monkey Wards catalog, Children’s Shoes –

Girls, page 583, had a little blond girl smiling down at her Mary Jane’s. There was also a picture that showed a reflection on the toe of her left shoe. It wasn’t the girl’s face — the reflection looked more like a double-hung window — but it was proof that patent leather could act like a mirror.

Other boys poured over Sears Roebuck and Spiegel catalogs, last Sunday’s newspaper, their older brother’s girlie magazines, whatever reference material they could find. Next day, the third-grade boys of Holy Angels School compared notes and accepted as gospel that the Dwarf was right: patent leather could provide a view of the Great Mystery.

I looked at girl’s shoes all week, except Mom’s. When we went to a department store, I headed for Girl’s Shoes instead of Toys. I even committed a mortal sin when I delivered the butter and egg orders to the Courthouse on Saturday, and stole a Police Gazette, a girlie magazine, from the blind man that owns the newsstand in the lobby.

Even David helped with the research. “Ask around,” I said. “Maybe public school teachers, not being as close to sin as the nuns, don’t know the score on patent leather.”

David reported back the very next day. “Girls think all black shoes are boring. They only wear saddle oxfords, sandals, and huaraches. That’s a Mexican shoe that squeaks.”

The nuns soon got wind of the investigation and knotted cords swirled before we finished our research. Guido said that I made the whole thing up and the bullies started giving me a hard time again.

David came over after school. “You’re home early.”

“It was a bad day. Guido cracked my best shooter, a cleary, with his steely and I lost the rest of my marbles. We started pushing, and –.”

“Did you get punished?” David asked and held his breath.

“The Dwarf made me stand in the corner in front of the class and gave me three good ones with the cord. I peed my pants, and I messed myself again. Mom had to come get me.”

“Did you cry?”
I nodded once. “Are kids mean at public school?” I asked. “Sure. All kids are mean.”

Thanks to my communication system I got the answer to where the money came from to build our new house so fast. I think. I heard Pop yelling in the kitchen and ran to the floor vent in my room to get the straight poop.

“Now I have to work 24 hours a day to pay back the Papists! Whoopie! All for the privilege of supporting the old witch?”

Papist always means the Pope. But he lives a long way away and never heard of us. Maybe the Bishop gave us money. That doesn’t make sense. Mom gives him a dollar in an envelope every Sunday.

It sure can’t be Father Anselmo. He doesn’t look like he’s got any money. His clothes are all worn and frayed and he has to borrow the sexton’s truck if he wants to go anywhere.

Coming to America – 1887

Chapter 25

Francesco Antonio Anselmo, Jr. came to the New World in the in his mother’s arms, wrapped in what Italians called vestiti di strisce — swaddling clothes. His father called them rags.

Anselmo Sr. was a deputy mayor of Milano and a member of the liberal left party, the Storica Sinistra. It’s leader, Giuseppe Garibaldi, had four principal goals: kick France, Austria, and Germany out of Italy; unify an assortment of city-states, duchies, and republics into the Kingdom of Italy; make education and suffrage universal; lower taxes.

Pope Pius IX regarded these goals as a threat to the Vatican’s control of the populace. He labeled Liberalism an invention of the devil and banned members of the Storica Sinistra from holding public office or even voting in elections. The Storica Destra, the Conservative Right, also considered Liberals subhumans, but harsher action. Beheading was a standard punishment for Liberals charged with destruction of property during a political demonstration.

Fortunately for the Anselmos, they had a ‘rich uncle in America’ who paid for their passage – steerage class – to Boston, becoming his bondservants until their passage and resettlement costs were repaid. It took twelve years for his father to receive full wages.

Their benefactor made his fortune in leather goods. He built his factory in the Portuguese community of Fall River because they worked for even lower wages than his Italian countrymen in Boston. The Anselmos were the only Italians in the neighborhood, and self- preservation forced them to quickly became bilingual, adding Portuguese to their native tongue. English came later.

Self-preservation also forced Frank Jr. to learn how to run fast or fight, whichever seemed the best tactic. He stood out among the Portuguese who were mostly of medium stature, with an olive complexion and black hair and eyes. The Anselmo’s came from Northern Italy, a region where fair-skinned Germanic tribes had conquered and pillaged and left their genes.

Frank Jr. was nearly six feet tall when he reached puberty. His muscular build, light-brown hair and blue eyes attracted blossoming virgins, no matter what understanding existed between the girl’s parents and those of a suitable young man, whose honor usually needed satisfying if Frank just smiled at the maiden.

He hated fighting, preferring to fend off blows until his opponent was exhausted. Then to keep the aggressor from being humiliated, Frank would wrestle him to the ground and whisper in his ear, “Listen, I’m going to let you up. Hit me as hard as you can, we’ll both fall down and then get up smiling, calling it a draw. All right?”

It usually worked.

In spite of the Vatican’s treatment of left-wing Catholics, the Anselmos were devout members of the Church. Mrs. Anselmo had three sons and four daughters and joined the neighborhood women every morning for seven o’clock mass.

Frank Sr. thought going to church was fine for women, children and old people, but encouraged neighborhood men to stand firm against the priests. They all agreed to do an

‘Easter Duty,’ going to Mass and taking communion only on Easter, and not a single Sunday more.

Not Frank Jr. He loved everything about the Church, its mysteries and the miracles, the pageantry and what he imagined to be a calm cloistered life. He dreamed of attending seminary after high school, but it was not to be. His father, mother and two siblings died in a smallpox epidemic when he was fifteen. Seminary would have to wait. He would be the family breadwinner until one of the other surviving siblings could take over the responsibility.

Frank’s first application to the Order of Franciscan Friars was denied. In the five years since his parent’s death, he had learned a lot about life and was considered too worldly. But Frank’s calling was so intense that his parish priest wore down the Abbot at the seminary and Frank’s application was finally accepted. The law of supply and demand may have helped his cause.

There was a desperate need for Portuguese speaking priests in parts of New England and California. Few Portuguese men went into the seminaries. Their cynicism, suspicion, even hatred of the clergy started with the Spanish Inquisition and grew stronger through the centuries. The perception was the Church sided with the wealthy, maintaining order and cash flow by keeping the poor pacified with promises of a glorious hereafter. Portuguese men were pragmatic shopkeepers, farmers, and fishermen. They wanted their reward sometime before heaven.

The Ritual Mass of Ordination was over. The newly consecrated priests had changed from their white robes to black cassocks for the first time. Most were happy with the parishes to which they had been assigned. The Abbott had one last posting to make. He went over what he would say to Father Frank Anselmo, the fourth priest sent to St. Mary the Blessed in six years. Two had left the priesthood; the third might never leave the safety of a cloistered monastery. All had been run off by that maniacal patron who considered himself a divine descendant of a higher being.

The Abbott settled on the “you are a perfect match” speech. Why not? Over a third of St. Mary’s parishioners were Portuguese, almost one-third Italian, the balance was a mixture of Anglos and Mexicans with a smattering of Irish. Father Anselmo would be the Abbott’s last attempt to fill the request by the Bishop of the Diocese of Sacramento for a Portuguese speaking priest. The failure rate was too high.

Comfortable with his approach, the Abbott summoned Father Anselmo to his office. “Please be seated Father. I have saved the best for last.”
The Abbott slid a picture of a gothic chapel across his desk. The little church was in a

clearing surrounded by ancient oak trees. A shaft of sunlight shone down on its granite steeple and walls, seeming to create a halo around the building.

Father Anselmo looked at the picture, smiled and said, “Lovely.”

Chapter 26

Josef Carvalho craved sunshine. His family’s market was on the north side of the street, always in the shade, even at noon in the summer when the sun was almost directly overhead in the Azores. He walked up the hill from the docks in the sun carrying twenty pounds of fish that had been swimming off the port of Horta not three hours before. His mother would have

them cleaned and dressed on a bed of ice before the –
“Policias militarias!” The shout greeted Josef as he rounded the corner into his street. A

stream of vulgar curses from his saintly mother followed.
Josef backed around the corner and ran to his uncle’s café, yelling, “A press gang is at the

market!”
Military police enforced the King’s conscription order to round up all able body males for

duty in Angola, a Portuguese colony in Africa, where the savages recently massacred priests and nuns. If he went to his mother’s aid, he might never be heard from again. Judging by the racket, she was holding her own against the press gang.

His uncle dumped the fish on the work table in the kitchen and re-packed the duffel with cheese, summer sausage, fruit, bread and a bladder of wine. Josef slipped out the rear entrance and made his way back to the docks. He would hide until dark and try to stow-away on a schooner bound for Boston, loading cargo. He succeeded and wasn’t discovered until he ate the last of his food, one day out of port.

The captain needed a crew for the next voyage and offered Josef a choice: be paid wages when the ship arrived in San Francisco, in about thirty days. Or he would be turned over to Customs, sent back to the Azores, and be shipped to Angola in chains.

Josef was locked below decks in Boston for five days while shipping agents booked cargo. He saw nothing of the ports of call along the Atlantic and Pacific coasts of South America, except the treacherous Straits of Magellan, when all hands risked their lives controlling the sails.

When they finally docked at the Embarcadero, Josef asked for his wages. The captain agreed to pay — back in Boston when the return voyage was completed.

“The incentive isn’t good enough,” Josef said, and went over the side, escaping in the maze of pilings supporting piers and wharves.

Portuguese immigrants had flocked to California in the gold rush of 1848, but they proved to be better farmers and shopkeepers than miners. By 1887 they had established pockets of Portuguese culture and commerce in the East Bay. Josef found his way to San Leandro and got odd jobs in shops owned by his countrymen. After a year of working for food and spending money, he decided his prospects would be better if he learned how to farm.

Moving to Sacramento, Josef sharecropped and saved enough money to rent land to farm for himself, all the while saving what he could to buy is own land.

After five years of frustration, Josef decided tradition wasn’t working. Planting the same crops everyone else did on his small plots of rented land was not profitable. Waiting to save enough money to pay cash for land was hopeless. He would have to get over the Portuguese abhorrence of debt and take on a mortgage, the Anglo way of doing business. Most important, he had to find a different crop, something none of the other farmers in the Valley had tried. His inspiration came from a casual remark by the foreman of a Chinese work gang building a railroad spur next to a farm he rented.

“I’d get more work out of these Chinks if I could find rice for them to eat. Wheat and corn give them the runs.”

Josef learned all he could about growing rice. It didn’t look promising at first. Rice needed lots of water, which was in short supply in the semi-arid Sacramento Valley, except during the spring floods. That’s when Josef realized ample water was available; controlling the flow was the problem.

He bought a ninety-day option to purchase a ten-acre parcel of worthless muck land, where the American River flowed into the Sacramento River. Now he had to raise money fast to

complete the transaction, which he would accomplish with an alchemist’s approach: “Let me show you how to turn mud into gold.”

Josef launched his campaign at a Holy Ghost picnic, which celebrated the feast of the Epiphany. After the eleven o’clock Mass, most men gathered at the back of church property to drink wine and listen to their favorite fado singer. She was old now, and over the years had rewritten the lyrics to many of the classic ballads of longing into lurid descriptions of sex.

The priest allowed this sinful songfest to go on until the aroma of sopash drifted over the revelers. Then he ambled towards the sound of music and laughter, pretending to inspect gopher holes and admiring birds in the trees, giving the audience time to disperse, thinking they hadn’t been recognized by their priest. As the star of the show returned her guitar to its battered case, the priest blessed her with the sign of the cross, but instead of invoking the Holy Trinity, he whispered the original lyrics to the last fado she had desecrated.

As the audience drifted toward the picnic tables, Josef approached four successful farmers who, like himself owned no land, but rented from Anglos.

“I have a business proposition,” Josef said to each, in turn. “Will you bring your sopash to the front steps of the church?”

When all were gathered, Josef explained his plan. “We all want our own land, but don’t have the funds to pay cash, and can’t get credit from the Anglos because we are more valuable as tenants.”

Heads nodded, but Josef knew this was the easy part.

“We have to find a piece of land that is cheap because no one realizes it’s potential for profit. I propose we pool our resources and buy the ten acres at the mouth of the American River.”

“That’s a one-hundred-hectare plot, and the owner would never sell,” one of his potential partners said.

“Not on the north bank,” Josef said. “I’m talking about the swampland on the south.” Josef smiled at their blank expressions and then the expected laughter.
One slapped his thigh and said, “I hear my wife calling me.”
All four began to rise.

“Good,” Josef said. “I have identified a piece of land that everyone mistakenly thinks is worthless. That means we can buy it for pennies.”

Josef watched them hesitate. He waited a moment to let the dream of owning their own land, even a swamp, take hold.

“The trick is to let the owner continue to think his land is worthless, Josef said. “We buy it at the lowest possible price then turn it into a valuable, income- producing property. And I have found a way to do just that.”

The barrage of negative statements that followed reflected the collective wisdom of dry- land farmers. Josef knew he had them. All he had to do was show them the virtues of bottomland when matched with the right crop.

“Everything you said about farming in this arid valley is true,” Josef said, “but this acreage has a constant source of water-“

“Too much water,” the farmers said almost in unison.
“Think! What crop needs to be immersed in water during the summer?”

It didn’t take long for one of the farmers to say, “Rice.”
“Exactly. Controlling the amount of water is the problem,” Josef said, and waited-out the

barrage of objections interspersed with laughter.
“… but this is bottom land; there is no natural drainage…

… we don’t have cheap coolie labor like in China to turn a water wheel-
… or man a bucket brigade.”
Josef let their derisive laughter subside. “Your right. That method of rice forming would

eat up the profits. Mechanization is the answer. In dry British colonies, pumps powered by small steam engines are used to flood the rice paddies in the spring and drain them in the fall. It would be different here. In the spring, we would use the pumps to drain the excess water. We have plenty of cheap labor to plant the rice before fruit picking begins. In late summer, the pumps drain the paddies. When the ground is dry enough, a specialized thresher harvests the rice.”

Josef gave details of his research on where rice production is profitable in unlikely areas, as well as the profit potential locally where the Mexican and Asian immigration provided a ready market. The meeting broke up with these four farmers moderately impressed with the idea.

Josef ultimately persuaded enough of his countrymen to form a co-op to buy the property. The acquisition took far more pennies than he had planned. Although the partners already owned the necessary equipment to develop the land, when it came time to buy the specific machinery for rice production, they were short of cash.

One of the Anglo farmers whose property Josef rented came forward.

“I admire your enterprise, Josef,” he said. “Let me buy into your company. I will supply the financing to meet your obligations.”

And the Anglo invested, and all went well… in the beginning. There was a good crop the first year which increased the value of the property and got the attention of more Anglos. Individual Portuguese shareholders were persuaded to sell their shares and take the profit. Josef grabbed as many shares as he could, but the Anglos usually outbid him.

The second year’s crop was not as good. Stalks turned yellow and withered before the rice matured. One of the Chinese workers warned of a fungal problem. An agricultural professor agreed. Their farm had been a swamp for millennia, and several strains of destructive fungi flourished. The solution would be for the land to remain dry for several years. Deep plowing would aerate the ground, depriving the fungi of a friendly environment.

Even the wealthiest Anglo could not afford to leave land lay fallow for so long. Josef and the remaining Portuguese shareholders unloaded their interest in the project for top dollar before the disastrous news leaked out.

Two things happened. Josef made a lot of money and became a hero to the Portuguese community for saving his countrymen from financial ruin. Almost as important, he embarrassed officious Anglos. Josef became their Padrinho.

He also had a valuable business model: buy low; increase the perceived value of the asset by any means; sell out while the buyers were still dazzled by greed.

Josef’s return trip from Lisbon had been uneventful. His train pulled into Sacramento’s Southern Pacific station fifteen hours early. A good omen, he thought. The Letter of Mark in his satchel, drawn on a Lisbon bank with the help of Viscount Santiago do Lusitania, assured Josef of becoming one of the largest landowners in California. He glanced out the window and got another good omen. The two extra locomotives required to pull the train over the High Sierras had not been uncoupled yet, leaving Josef’s parlor car temporarily short of the platform. He looked down at the shambles of his first farm, his first swindle, detractors would say. The sight of rusting equipment and overgrown rice paddies always refreshed the thrilling memory of how he had humiliated arrogant Anglos and lightened their wallets with a worthless investment in muck land.

And now with the backing of the League of Former Gentlemen, his conquests could be without limit.
Josef stopped himself. Other than the return trip home, nothing else on this journey had gone as planned. It was conceivable that this banker in San Francisco might be part of a colossal joke played on a peasant from the American frontier. Best to wait until the Letter of Mark is converted to cash in his bank account before celebrating, he thought.
Josef had a through ticket to San Francisco. He stayed on the train and watched the platform. If an Anglo worthy boarded the train, Josef would hide in the toilet, lest his enemy sound the alarm for the sheriff.
Just as the conductor shouted ‘All aboard,’ Josef’s most aggressive creditor entered the parlor car and spotted Josef right away.
“Welcome back, Carvalho,” the Anglo said before turning away to find his seat. “Your jail cell is waiting.”
The train clattered over the Sacramento River railroad bridge. “I certainly hope I’m not the butt of a practical joke,” Josef muttered to himself.