To hell with this operating-table. He’d been on plenty of operating-tables before. He was not going to die. There would be a priest if he was going to die.
Zurito was saying something to him. Holding up the scissors.
That was it. They were going to cut off his coleta. They were going to cut off his pigtail.
Manuel sat up on the operating-table. The doctor stepped back, angry. Someone grabbed him and held him.
“You couldn’t do a thing like that, Manos,” he said.
He heard suddenly, clearly, Zurito’s voice.
“That’s all right,” Zurito said. “I won’t do it. I was joking.”
“I was going good,” Manuel said. “I didn’t have any luck. That was all.”
Manuel lay back. They had put something over his face. It was all familiar. He inhaled deeply. He felt very tired. He was very, very tired. They took the thing away from his face.
“I was going good,” Manuel said weakly. “I was going great.”
Retana looked at Zurito and started for the door.
“I’ll stay here with him,” Zurito said.
Retana shrugged his shoulders.
Manuel opened his eyes and looked at Zurito.
“Wasn’t I going good, Manos?” he asked, for confirmation.
“Sure,” said Zurito. “You were going great.”
The doctor’s assistant put the cone over Manuel’s face and he inhaled deeply. Zurito stood awkwardly, watching.
The end
