A woman named Mme. Luzon had in recent months done many tarot readings for Fernandella. One of the cards had something to do with fire. “If you cremate Esteban you will have to stuff me into the furnace with the corpse,” said Julio, his cheeks sunken, his eyes wild with grief. “He is not only my brother but my catcher,” he went on. “He will be buried, and not even in a cemetery but on the lower lawn of our house, and in the manner I prescribe,” and Julio banged his fist on the glass-topped coffee table in the rose garden, where Fernandella took her morning coffee, making the delicate china cups jump and chatter like ghostly teeth. “If you feel so strongly,” said Fernandella, “I will not stand in your way. All I want to know is does the Wizard have anything to do with your decision?” Within hours of the announcement of Esteban’s murder, the Wizard, who now had sixteen first names in his self-appointed capacity as Grand Defender of the long-defunct One True Church of God’s Redemption and Reaffirmation, appointed Esteban Pimental Bishop of Courteguay, posthumously of course.
