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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 64 of the good, bearded faces of the apostles in Sunday school books, of virgin angels with phosphorescent wings spread protectively over the children of earth. Saint Paul, Augustine, and Thomas Aquinas, fading like fairies, and no one left to clap them back to life. I belonged to a purer and simpler race of beings - outdated, to be sure. Not of this world. "Take the cash," Paul said, "and let the credit go. Have you ever been to Mexico?" "No." "It's a good experience for a proper, well-bred girl." We tramped through a dozen florid Mexican shops and sidewalk stalls full of plaster bulls and velvet art. Christ was crucified on every corner, all red wounds and hideous agony. Street vendors offered tortillas, tripe soup, tacos (filled with what I was sure was chopped chicken feet), flavored ices and soft drinks. The sidewalks were full of street musicians, dancers, and exploding firecrackers. "What are they celebrating?" "Who knows? I'd say life. But probably not." A paper-mache figure of a skeleton, strung with fuses, exploded amid great hilarity. A cockfight in an alleyway shed blood and feathers |