The Last Shepherd

9. BEDERATZI

| 52 »« 9 b e d e r at z i Aitatxi told me that after God created the Basques, he gave them pilota to remind the Eskualdunak of who they were. “How can you forget who you are?” I asked as I pushed the grocery cart down the cereal aisle. We were at the Bashas’ market in Phoenix, and Aitatxi had just asked the butcher if he had any blood sausage. “No,” the butcher said. “Same as last week, next week, and every week.” “I check other week,” Aitatxi said with a wave of his hand. “Maybe you have then.” I was twelve and dreaded going to public places with my aitatxi. Especially the grocery store, where he would ask every store clerk for items that clearly no store in America would have. I could see the clerks ducking and running whenever Aitatxi approached. So I was glad for his talk of pilota. If I could just keep him focused on that while we completed Dad’s grocery list, I might be able to escape the store without further embarrassment. “Sure, no,” Aitatxi said. “Peoples forget who they is all time now. You ask them, who you is, and they tell name. But no even know what name it mean or where it come from.” “So God gave Basques handball so they wouldn’t forget their name?” Aitatxi was throwing boxes of sugary kids’ cereal into the cart that were clearly not on Dad’s list. His favorite was Sugar Pops. I once asked him if they had the cereal in the Basque land. He said no, but he was sure a Basque-American created it. “Ez,” Aitatxi said. “What you head made of stone? God, he gave Basque they hands so they no forget they world.” | 53« » Aitatxi stopped and held up his large, flat palm for me as if the mere sight of it was proof of what he said being true. “I thought we were talking about pilota?” “You hear, but you no listen,” Aitatxi said. “God, he gave pilota so Eskualdunak , we have something good to do with hands.” “You are giving me a headache,” I said. Aitatxi grabbed onto my right hand and pressed it between his palms. “Hand is beginning of all thing,” Aitatxi said. “You see, you hear, you smell—but you no touch something with hand, you no know. Ball, it round like world. It have no start, no end. You grow up, you learn how a make own ball for pilota out of wool and sheep skin. Baina each time when you play pilota and hit ball with eskua, you touch whole world. You know who you is.” “Oh,” I said, pulling my hand free from his, “so this was all like some big life lesson? Wow—I get it. I’m supposed to make my own world. Earthshaking news.” “Zer?” Aitatxi said. “What? Make you world? You no barely can make you own bed. Now you think you make world—ai-ai-ama. Sometimes, I no know how you thought. Now go ask that pretty little neska if maybe they have some pickled pigs feets today. Fite. Neska, she I think maybe like you. Ba. Go.” If, like Aitatxi said, the hand was the beginning of all things, then my beginning with Mr. Beechnut was short and confusing. When he found my hand, he gave it one quick pump and released it before my fingers could even close around his. Then Mr. Beechnut opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Good to finally meet you.” Mr. Beechnut handed me the sheet. I recognized the pattern on the paper from Mr. Steele’s office. It was a smaller copy of the one tacked to his wall. Only instead of green and red pins, this paper had green and red circles. And the largest of these circles was around the words Etcheberri Ranch. “Always like to put a face with a voice,” Mr. Beechnut said. “Now, based on the schematic you faxed over, I’ve pulled together some numbers for the property.” “I, uh, don’t—” | 54« » “I think you’re going to be impressed with—” “I’m not Mr. Steele.” “Excuse me?” “I’m Mathieu Etcheberri,” I said just as the sun dipped a little lower and the light faded to a soft glow and I could see the logo, Westside Reality, on the pocket of...