Butterfly Winter by W.P. Kinsella

of women,” said Julio enigmatically.
    “You must receive a great deal of attention from young, and not so young women. In the United States you were on the short list for the Sexiest Man Alive. Only the fact that you don’t speak much English probably kept you from winning.”
    “I speak more English than many people might imagine,” Julio said in Spanish.
    “Millions of women would like to know about your first sexual experience. How old were you?”
    Julio smiled his most charming smile, his dimples flashing, his teeth like polished marble.
    “It was in the nursery at the hospital. Not as rumored, did I hop into another crib at the nursery, accepting the invitation of a beautiful girl baby, but it was a nurse who picked me up, held me to her bosom, then to other appropriate places on her body, hence my passion for older women.”
    “I know nothing of your passion for older women, plus, I am told on good authority that you were born at home.”
    “So, you have caught me in a lie,” said Julio. “What is my punishment? What you do not know is that while my brother Esteban has had thousands of ladies, I have remained pure as rain water, saving myself for a beautiful and intelligent woman such as yourself.” He smiled again, meeting her eyes as he did so.

EIGHTEEN
THE WIZARD
    “W hy in the world do you want to be a priest?” the Wizard asked Esteban, after it became apparent that the boy was serious about his choice of vocation.
    “I wish to bring comfort and solace to those in need,” said Esteban simply.
    “By reinforcing their superstitions?” said the Wizard, for the boy was only five years of age. “Teach them instead about reality. Tell them that there is no comfort in praying to an empty sky. Point out that their saints are frauds. Point out that the Stigmata of San Barnabas, the bleeding heart of the Virgin, was caused by the bishop hiding behind the statue and squeezing pig’s blood through the porous stone on high holidays.”
    “It is good for poor people to have something to believe in,” said Esteban. “A little folk magic makes the nerves glow, gives people hope.”
    “The statue has not bled since the priests have been imprisoned.”
    “It is in mourning for the captive sons and daughters of the church.”
    “We’ll talk another day,” said the Wizard.
    “ YOU HAVE GREAT SKILL at baseball, that is close enough to religion,” said the Wizard.
    “Not for me.”
    “All right, what is a priest’s first duty?”
    “To God.”
    “I think not. Everyone’s duty is to man. A priest’s more than anyone’s. God is an excuse for not being able to perform, whether it’s bringing comfort to a troubled mind, or medicine to a sick body, or not keeping your glove on the ground when approaching a ground ball.
    “If priests must be, their duty is to comfort their charges, but to comfort them with truth, not with lies about pie in the sky bye and bye.
    “In America they have electric machines that blot out the unhappy part of the brain. Those machines are the true miracle workers. Priests need to provide forgetfulness. If I were a priest I would sell the stained glass from the windows and the pews from the floors. I would rent the church as a barn and use the money to acquire a wonderful electric machine that would deaden the part of the brain most full of grief or sorrow. Also, I would require my parishioners to attend baseball games on Sunday afternoons.…”
    “And you would require each one to bet ten centavos on the outcome of a game with you as the bookie.”
    “Forgetfulness is better than medicine or meditation, or false forgiveness. During a baseball game, for two or three hours whatever torment is raking the soul is put aside, forgotten. The spectator goes home refreshed; it is like he spent an afternoon beside a clear brook, birds singing, sun shining, flowers blooming. Baseball is redemption,” said the Wizard.
    Esteban occasionally sold peanuts in the parking lot of Jesus,