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but behind it was only the door open and, immediately outside, two pigs showing their pink bottoms.

"Sin verguenza*!" the priest shouted. "Perhaps they believe, shameless, only because they are strangers, that they can profane the house of God with their bare heads, yes, theirs are bare heads and that ridiculous handkerchief that does not even cover half of the hair is an offense! what Christ said to the profaners of the Temple..."

I looked in astonishment at the red priest fille with rage. I looked at my mother who, not knowing Spanish, was once again immersed in the reading of her missal, unaware. 

Should we have gone out to put an end to that scandal? I wondered. Was it justified to lose a mass for a few square centimeters of fabric less?

From the open windows within the sound of drums, the priest had to stop shouting because he could no longer be heard, the faithful turned towards the altar - and from the swaying shoulders you could sense the effort to stand still at the pressing sound of the music - and the mass continued to the rhythm of mambi and guarachas.

Every Thursday Don Andres, nicknamed Black Priest by Papa because of his worn black cassock, came to breakfast. He led a poor poor campesina parish and was always hungry. So every Thursday Miss Mary cooked a big breakfast.

Even more abundant was the breakfast for when Captain Juan Dunabeitia, also known as Sinbad the Sailer or more simply Sinsky, came. Basque too, like Black Priest, and always cheerful. He was a mighty man (when with Papa they hugged each other, clapping each other on the shoulders, I always expected a creak of broken bones), with a powerful voice.

While singing he had once swung a chandelier, Papa had told me, and every time Sinsky...

* without shame in Spanish.