Chavez bent over to select a piece of his work. He handed it to Bette.

I honest to God never saw Bette so excited. It was as if she was a prospector who had just discovered a wide vein of gold in the bowels of a cave. She made noises that I had only heard in our sexual exchanges and I do not even think she was aware of them, as she carefully studied one painting after another.

The overwhelming stench, finishing with the artist himself, was so bad I could hardly bare it but I stuck it out for her sake. I almost think she was oblivious to it. I think all of her senses had condensed into one with that being sight.

There was no doubt that his cache of paintings was brilliant. Even to me. I saw a remarkable still life of a large, cracked pottery vase, filled with wild flowers. The contrast immediately reminded me of how perfect Mother Nature was in a flawed, superficial world.

There was a portrait of a boy who looked like the artist’s little brother. He had big brown eyes that appeared to be very sad and lonely. A third painting was of a bright red lobster dinner, outlined like the man with a guitar, absolutely alive with splashes of color. There appeared to be several canvasses devoted to bull fighting scenes and I saw one picture of an exquisite, three tiered garden fountain where the water seemed to actually flow, another of shoppers in town, one of a voluptuous nude woman stretched out on blue velvet and almost a romantic version of the very shacks that were clustered outside.

In spite of the awesome collection, I suddenly felt the urge to vomit and quickly ran outside the hovel. People were still standing around so I went to the side of the building, bent over and brought up all of my carnitas and then some.

Then, I walked to the bus and leaned against it, breathing in the air, trying to flush out my lungs. I waited for half an hour. I paced and walked back to the door a few times but could not face going in again. I called to Bette to make sure she was alright. She answered that she was.