If I hadn’t looked at Ezequiel, it’s probable I wouldn’t be here writing this book, because my first impulse was to run to the coffee and drink it. I went so far as to pick up the cup, but the lad was kissing my hand, as usual, and the sight of him, like his gesture, gave me an impulse, which I am reluctant to put down here; but what does it matter, let all be said. Let me be called a murderer; I won’t deny it or contradict it; my second impulse was criminal. I bent down and asked Ezequiel if he had already had coffee.
“Yes, Papa; I’m going to mass with Mamma.”
“Have another cup, just a half.”
“Are you having some, Papa?”
“I’ll send for more; come on, drink it!”
Ezequiel opened his mouth. I put the cup to his lips, shaking so much that I almost spilled it, but prepared to make it go down his throat, if he disliked the taste or the temperature, for the coffee was cold … But I don’t know what I felt that made me recoil. I put the cup on the table, and realized I was madly kissing the lad’s head.
“Papa Papa!” Ezequiel exclaimed.
“No, no, I’m not your father!”