A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García (Guadalupe Trilogy, by Rick Collignon

By Rick Collignon

The gentle-hearted Flavio Montoya returns,
now because the elderly scion of his family members, nonetheless tending
his sister Ramona’s fields and puzzling over how all
of his kinfolk may have died prior to him. When
the mountains surrounding Guadalupe erupt in
flames, the historical past of the village appears set
loose within the smoke. The useless arrive and the silent
speak. while Flavio is accused of beginning the fire
that quick threatens to devour the village, the
disaster turns into yet one more secret that he must
fold into his personal reminiscence, although he can't quite
understand any of it.
A Santo within the snapshot of Cristóbal García is a
beautiful, humorous, even epic story of the way all heritage is
finally own.

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Extra resources for A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García (Guadalupe Trilogy, Book 3)

Sample text

But although I never drank vodka when I was living with her I was sort of drunk every day. My boy, so far as we revolutionaries are concerned women are pure opium for the people. I'd have that written into the Party constitution in capi­ tal letters, and I'd have every Party member, every true Com­ munist and sympathizer read that great saying every night be­ fore going to bed and every morning three times on an empty stomach. And then you'd never have any devils getting into the mess our Comrade Davidov is in now.

He had much t o think about! Even before their quarrel on the steppe she had come to his room more than once as dusk was £a11ing, had sat in the room for a little while, and then said in a loud voice: "See me home, Sie­ mion. It's getting dark, and I'm afraid to go alone. It's terrible how nervous I am. " He pulled a fearful face and glanced at the board dividing the room. On the other side the housekeeper, an old and pious woman, sniffed indignantly, like a cat, and rattled the dishes nois­ ily as she prepared her husband's and Davidov's supper.

It swelled and broadened until it filled half the sky; its dark underwings whitened ominously, and then it dropped till its lower fringes, as translucent as muslin, clung to the ricks standing in the steppe, to the burial mounds, to the windmills; thunder rolled somewhere very high, and good­ naturedly, quietly; and a copious rain began to fall. The rain fell plentifully, as warm as fresh milk, on the earth waiting in the misty stillness. The drops danced in white bubbles on the foaming puddles, and so gentle and peaceable was the summer shower that it did not bow the heads of the flowers.

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