Word: patres
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...home. His cantankerous grandfather goes on living and seething beyond his time; a sister with "insufficient resistance to pain of every kind" opts for the lesser agony of suicide. The lonesome cowboy finds purpose only in pursuing Claire, the icy wife of a "vivid . . . piercey-bright, oilman feisty" pseudo-patrón named Tio. The result is McGuane's standard mano á mano struggle in which the prize is less significant than the battle itself...
...still standing and there are still one or two spreads that make Texas' King Ranch look like a truck garden.* But the vast green bulk of the pampas is being crosshatched by fences and boundary roads into smaller and smaller holdings. So, too, is the Midas-rich patrón of yesteryear giving way to hundreds of relatively small farmers and cattlemen who count themselves lucky to make a middle-class living. In the late 1930s, one-fifth of Argentina, or 139 million acres, belonged to just 2,000 families. Today, says Gustavo Pueyrredón, vice president...
...either. A few feudal landlords own virtually all the land, and the best the peasant can expect is a life as a sharecropper or tenant farmer. As a sharecropper, he gives the landlord one-third to one-half of everything he grows, usually must sell his share to his patrāo for 30% to 50% below market price. At the plantation store where he buys supplies, interest on credit runs 20%. A tenant farmer is charged 4,000 to 6,000 cruzeiros per hectare per year to work land, often hoes the landlord's fields at a daily...
...Patrón. Vicos' plight was ancient. Spanish conquistadores reduced the Inca population there (and all along the high Andes) to feudal serfdom; with independence from Spain, Peru had merely converted the fief into government property leased at about $800 a year to patrones, who got the Indian workers along with the land. The deadening centuries had stripped the Indians of all their skills, pleasures, and arts, and even of the imagination to conceive of a happier...
Through the doors of the Colonial waterfront saloon in Buenos Aires wandered sea-weary Allied seamen whose nerves twitched from the strain of dodging torpedoes on the stormy Atlantic. The patrón, John Jacob Napp, was obliging, forever setting up drinks on the house and volunteering those bits of information and guidance so prized by sailors in strange ports. Napp was a good listener, too, and sometimes the seamen talked...
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