‘Wow!’ Francis was appreciative. ‘Who was that?’
‘Consuelo,’ came the laconic reply, ‘She’s nineteen. I can have her when I’m fifteen. Two years from now. If she’s still here. Papa says.’
‘Have her?’
‘You know, for the night. Ini-shi- something.’
‘Initiation?’
‘Yeah. That’s right. The Big Bang. You become a man.’
Francis had no idea what he was talking about, but he was susceptible to Consuelo’s flashing eyes, ready smile, and hourglass figure.
‘You like her?’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yeah, she is. I’m bored. Let’s go light a fire.’
It was a strange suggestion. What would possess anyone, in this sweltering heat, to make more of it? Was this the promised ‘big bang’? He had read apprehensively once of a phenomenon called spontaneous combustion, and he had a fear of matches. When his father had explained that IGN on the dashboard referred to ‘ignition’ and the word was derived from ignis, Latin for ‘fire,’ Francis had for months dreaded the threatened explosion whenever his father turned the car key in the lock.
‘Light a fire? Why?’
‘Because. Is fun. Come on chico, let’s go.’
The Pulvermacher property extended behind the house for some considerable distance, but the wall they were following gave way to crude cinder blocks and barbed wire as the lawn became patchy and yielded at last to scrubby bush, mongrel growth of rough grass, spindly tree, and tangled creeper punctuated by discarded beer cans and empty bottles, out of which led a path to a small shed half-hidden in the undergrowth, next to a jumble of defeated wire netting.
‘There used to be chickens here. Now I come here to smoke. Wanna cigarette?’
‘Oh, no!’ Francis’ horror provoked a shrug from Edison, but he put the pack away nevertheless. Francis could see that he was beginning to be a disappointment to his host.
He changed the subject.
‘Are you… really thirteen? You said–’
‘Sure am. Even got hair on my pecker. Wanna see?’
‘No– no thanks. That’s OK. I believe you.’ There was an awkward silence. Edison shrugged, and cleared a space on the hard ground with his foot. He assembled a pile of twigs and dried grass and lit it with a COCHES de Altamira lighter. As it began to smoke, he added dry branches and a palm leaf. Sparks flew. A flame from within reared its head like a cobra, and loud cracks and snaps began. As if acknowledging his companion’s unease, Edison picked up a shovel and began to tamp the fire down with it.
’Put it out with this!’ Francis took the lid off a bottle of colourless liquid he had found on a shelf in the shed. Before Edison could stop him, he poured some onto the fire, which flared up immediately, and a sudden surge of heat knocked him sideways. Edison grabbed the bottle from him.
‘Hey, no, caramba! Dios mio! You want to kill us? That’s kerosene!’
‘I know,’ said Francis, who had thought it was water. ‘Cool, huh? Or maybe, hot?’
‘Hey, Pyroman. You some kinda macho man?’
