One force had worked consistently against him and that was Don Fernando.... As enemies, they had stormed over every sector of the hacienda. Already Raul had re-opened the school and secured a teacher, an able young man from Manzanillo, handy with guitar and songs. Secretly, Gabriel was a little jealous of Raul's successes. But he knew the inner man, the inner conflicts, and probed no more.
Both read in the shuttered, still living room. The bookcase occupied a corner, the top of it strewn with bric-a-brac: silver cup, barometer, Dresden doll, porcelain animals, the deed box.
Raul took down theJournal of Las Casasand after reading a while at random he said, "I never find much time for reading any more."
"In Italy, I read a book a fortnight ... that was my goal."
"Perhaps life was easier in Italy."
"It's a matter of habit," said Gabriel.
"I'm sure you're right. I get more out of my smoking than I do out of my reading."
"When I first came, I read till late every night," Gabriel said.
"I remember how late your light used to burn."
"Well, my eyes aren't up to that kind of reading any more," said Gabriel, regretfully, and fingered the bow of his glasses.
In a loud voice, Salvador called Raul from the doorway of the veranda.
"Tomás is hurt," he said, as if reporting the weather.
"Which Tomás?" asked Raul, laying down his book. Petaca had two, little and big, both stable workers.
"Little Tomás."
"What happened?" asked Raul, rising.
"His leg."
"Yes."
"A horse kicked him. I think the leg is broken."
"I'll go with you," said Gabriel.
The man lay on the ground in a stall, almost buried in gray straw and gray light. An enormous dusty cobweb drooped above him.
"Are you badly hurt?" asked Raul.
"Yes ... patrón."
"Where?"
"My leg, patrón."
"Where—down low, or high up?"
"Low."
"Umm, I wouldn't want you kicked in the groin. Help me lay him flat, Gabriel."
Storni knelt in the dirt and together they made Little Tomás more comfortable. They removed his sandals and explored the injured leg; the break was obvious.
"Let's take him to my place," said Gabriel.
"Where do you want him?" asked Salvador, and bending over he gathered Tomás as if he were a child.
Tomás began to whimper.
"No, no ... take me to my hut," Tomás begged. "Patrón ... por favor."
"It's closer," said Raul. "Take him to his own place."
It made no difference to Salvador; he said something cheery and swaggered out of the stall and across the stable yard to the row of huts built recently. Tomás and a friend shared a hut. Salvador laid him on a straw mat, just as he would set down pottery. The man-length space had no furnishings, but Tomás' macaw wabbled in and climbed onto his arm and, when Raul scared off the parrot, it squatted in a corner and clicked its beak peevishly.
"I'll go for Velasco," said Gabriel. "I'll get him here as soon as I can, Tomás."
Raul had Salvador bring water; there in the hut some of Tomás' fear vanished; he managed a twisted grin; his face, streaked with straw and sweat, had the eagerness and pathos of a student. Salvador's corn cob fingers removed straw from his hair; sitting beside Salvador, Raul lit a cigarette and then a second one for Tomás.
"What horse kicked you?" he asked.
Salvador picked up more straws.
"Yours ... Don Raul."
"Chico! That damn' horse! What the hell was Chico doing in that stall, Tomás?"
"I was leading him ... to be shod ... he kicked me ... I fell into that stall ... I fell."
"Ah," said Raul, smoking, disappointed in Chico.
Later, outside the stable, he watched men curing a batch of iguana hides; they had the pelts submerged in a chemical solution and kneaded them with wooden mauls. Other men padded saddles with milkweed and sewed and polished leather. Under a thatchedramadathey had a dozen saddles on saw-horses; he noticed one of his own, a reddish McClellan, from Texas. The air smelled of leather, strong saddle soap and polish. Sun streaked the stable wall. Raul strolled among his men, chatting, whistling, smoking.
A teenager, in torn shorts, gutted a snake. Above him, head high from the ground, in a carved niche, stood the figure of St. Christopher. A Medina had placed it there generations ago, a pink stone carving done by a local artisan. A snakeskin dangled from St. Christopher's arm and another swung from the saint's sandal. The snake collector looked worried as Raul inspected his workshop.
"Why do you want so many skins?" Raul asked. "Are you trying to get rid of all our snakes?"
"No ... to make belts."
"You cure them for belts?"
"I can make other things." The youngster could scarcely work his tongue; he thought Raul would accuse him of selling his products; he leaned over so far his straight hair touched his bloody knife.
"What can you make?"
"A pouch ... maybe a hatband."
"Make me a tobacco pouch. I'd like a small one, about this big."
"Yes, sir." (Faintly)
"Make me a good one."
"Yes, sir."
He believed in the man's kindness.
The snake boy and Little Tomás and his father faded from Raul's mind as he walked toward the burial plot in the grove. Juggling a smooth white stone, he walked past the rear of the mill; above—he did not stop to look—gulls cried. Usually gulls did not fly this far inland. A dog barked ... it might have been Mona chasing after a girl's ball.
The graves had been redecorated with shells; the jungle had been pushed back; lianas had been cut; vines had been ripped down; trees had been trimmed. For the first time in years he read his mother's name on her marker. Her marker consisted of a redcanteraglobe; he sat on it and listened to the gabble of parrots and still, high up, somewhere, the cry of gulls.
In a few weeks Caterina's bronze figure would be cast and, if the artist remained faithful to his sketches, it would be a graceful girl bearing a bouquet of roses in her arms, her dress swirling over bare feet. Soon it would acquire a patina and become part of the jungle. Perhaps it would tell others what a beautiful child she had been. Perhaps ... then he remembered his murdered grandfather and looked at the marker Roberto had set up, a dignified shaft of fluted marble. Time had cracked the stone and quakes had knocked it out of line ... nothing defied the years.
Nothing had helped his father forget his crime.... He, too, was buried here, the best of him, the kindness that a man normally had.
He returned slowly to the house and sat on the long veranda. Men had gathered in the court; one had a guitar and his voice had the old pleading tone. Rocking on an old hide rocker, Raul listened to the singer as the sky filled with stars. The big dipper hung above the court. Someone lit a bonfire. Suddenly, Raul realized that Manuel had been sitting near him for some time.
June 19, 1911
"Dear Estelle,
"As you said, it must be destiny that brings me back. Something rules me. As I rode out of Guadalajara, I felt a harshness clawing at my brain. Poor thing, she can't tell the shape of her mind or why it cries so, or what it wants. Of course it wants you, but there is this something else, dark, darker than I dare admit.
"So when I got back to help with the fiesta, I wanted to see if I could straighten myself out a little. I fixed all the clothes for the Virgin, and dressed. I thought: this is the last time. But Trini came in and we got to laughing.
"Fiestas are such bores, and this one was no exception. They praised Farias for getting in the best corn crop ever. There were Indian dances—the viejitos were best.... Doblado killed his bulls as badly as ever ... fireworks ... and all the time I kept thinking of Lucienne, because she came and met Raul secretly. So people told me. I wanted to get sick.
"Raul and I had a bad quarrel, at supper, only yesterday. He said: I want you to live in Guadalajara permanently.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Can't you stand me any more?' And he turned white. I thought he would choke. I just stared at the candle flames prettily. I wonder how you would handle him? He said: 'You came back to fix the Virgin's wardrobe. It's something you always liked to do. You can come back to Petaca, any time. I'm not banishing you.'
"'So I can come back sometimes—how nice! And do you want to keep Vicente forever?' I cried.
"'We can share him, as you like. We can work that out later.'
"'Why later? Later! Haven't we waited too long?'
"'Too long for what?'
"'For me."
"It went on and on. He says it's for my own good. But now I'm sick, and I can't go away...."
Abruptly, she got up from her desk. Barefoot, in a loose gray robe, she walked to the veranda windows, already hating what she felt she might see: men on horseback, women and children, people walking and talking. She had been writing very rapidly, and rubbed her hand as she gazed out. She thought she heard Don Fernando call, and went toward his room, dream-walking, one hand over her breast, the other lifting her skirt a little.
The old man was raving at Chavela, who seemed frozen to one spot, a dishtowel over her arm.
"We must wipe out such crooks as Enriquez and Ricardo Magon! What messes they made in Chihuahua and Coahuila! There's more than meets the eye in their actions."
He squirmed under his bedclothes, the sheet sliding over his head so that only one eye stared out.
"Listen to me: under Porfirio Díaz we have known prosperity ... our centennial celebration told the world ... there must be no political tricks."
When Angelina appeared, Chavela nodded and went out, shaking her head.
"I'm here," said Angelina. "Chavela had to go."
"Angelina, come sit by me. Fix my bed.... We must find another Díaz. We can, you know." He talked a while longer, as she arranged his bed.
She sat beside him, her hands limp in her lap. She remembered a dream she had had during the night. Caterina had been frisking in the patio with Mona. Mona had just been washed and combed and her gray-gold hair stood up beautifully. Caterina wore a scarlet dress. She tossed Mona a ball, but as Mona ran toward her she became a dog of glass bones and glass hair.
Angelina trembled. She whispered to Fernando:
"It was a glass dog ... Mona's a glass dog."
He didn't hear her.
Afraid, she climbed the tile stair to her room and locked the door. She moved stiffly to the window, and looked down to the patio fountain and cypress below. She thought she saw Raul lying beside the fountain. Men began to whip his naked back. Drawing the curtains, she threw herself on her bed and began to talk to herself.
"I mustn't blame him for Caterina's death. I must stop thinking about her. About Raul. I must just let things drift along. Nothing has changed, not too much.... I must think that nothing much has changed. It has to be that way. Close the shutters."
With a great effort, she got up and took her embroidery and began to stitch.
Just before supper, Raul found her asleep across the bed, her fur over her shoulders. He had a hard time waking her and when she woke she griped childishly:
"Go away," she said, "let me sleep. I need rest, please let me sleep. I won't eat any supper. I don't want any ... just let me sleep."
He helped her to bed and then went outside. The moon was low, the stars faded, the volcano glassy. Coyotes barked behind the grove. He felt stupid about Angelina. Could the doctors help her?
He longed to paddle across the lagoon. Why not find Manuel? He knocked at his door and Manuel flung on his shirt and joined him gladly. They spent most of the night on the water, paddling and talking together in Indian and Spanish, about his mother, the beauty of darkness, ghosts, the good old days.
They returned near dawn, had something to eat in the kitchen, and said good night. Raul tried to slip into bed carefully and not disturb Angelina, but she straightened and said:
"Where have you been?"
"Canoeing."
"I wish you wouldn't go on such escapades. You're not a boy."
He did not reply, but adjusted his pillow and tried to settle onto the mattress.
"I want to go to Colima tomorrow," she said, her head turned away. "I must leave Petaca, if only for a day. I want to see Vicente, too. Don't you want to see him? The church has been repaired, Raul, and we must attend Mass, on the first of the month. A ceremony in honor of the reconstruction. The hospital isn't fixed. Why are they so slow?" Her husky voice, softened by her sleepiness, lulled Raul.
When she woke, men were loading stone onto an oxcart in front of the house, burros were trotting over cobbles, boys were spinning tops.
Glancing at Raul, sprawled on the bed, she tiptoed to the bathroom. Her maid had already filled the tub, and she sank into the cool water.
"Ah," she sighed. "Clavo said, 'It is the flesh ... with lightning in each bone' ... cool water ... morning...." Her face looked younger. There was no fear there.
I must dress and get away to Colima, have a nieve with some friends.
When Raul awoke and went downstairs, he saw Angelina driving off in their carriage. He had meant to accompany her, but had been too sleepy to say so. From the veranda, he enjoyed seeing the Placier sway down the eucalyptus lane, its spokes shining. Someone had harnessed two blacks and two whites, splendid horses!
After breakfast, Raul went to the mill to see Farias, who had his room on the second floor. As he climbed the outside stair, a peacock wailed on top the wrought-iron railing. Raul shook the rusty rail and the bird spurted to the ground, shrieking as it fell.
He knocked on the door of weathered pine. There was no answer. A large knothole had fallen out at head level, and he looked inside. Someone lay on the bunk, his arm flung over the side. Pushing the door, which swung heavily, Raul stepped in.
Blood stained the floor, serape and bunk. Raul rolled the man over and removed the serape from his face and chest. Someone had beaten him ... Farias was dead....
As if he had been struck, Raul stepped back.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "Que paso! Luis, Luis!" he shouted. Where was Farias' son?
On the stairway, clutching the rusty banister, he called:
"Luis ... Salvador ... Manuel! Get Dr. Velasco!"
Then he returned to examine Farias. The man felt cold. Without a doubt, he had been murdered hours before. But by whom, why?
Presently, a corral man came and then another; he sent one of the men for Father Gabriel and another for Luis. He covered Farias and sat on the stair, his eyes shut. He blamed his father, blamed himself ... this was another ugly mess for Petaca. What was wrong with men?
Gabriel limped up the stair, a torn notebook in his hand. He must have been doing some scribbling when the corral man called him. His glasses seemed about to plunge from his nose. Breathing unsteadily, hand on the rail, he paused by Raul and asked:
"What ... happened ... to Farias?"
"Someone killed him."
"Let me see. Step aside."
Raul stepped away.
"Let me see." Raul watched as Gabriel folded back the blanket and crossed himself.
"Madre de Dios ... dead. Who could have killed him? He's been beaten. Blood all over. Why, Raul! Raul, where's Luis?" He began to pray, asking understanding, asking peace. Adjusting his glasses and fumbling with his notebook, he came toward the door.
"I sent someone to find Luis," said Raul.
Dr. Velasco arrived, annoyed at being wakened early. He had spent the better part of the night playing dominoes, and losing. Stopping at the top of the stair, seeing Gabriel, he said, "Now, what kind of alarm is this?"
"Someone killed Farias last night," said Gabriel.
Dr. Velasco made a noise and went into the room.
His heavy-lidded eyes screwed up as he examined Farias: he stripped his shirt and turned him over: a knife had gone in again and again. Velasco had a magician's face, gray hair, gray goatee: the features seemed to be hiding something absurd, a little vulgar; that vulgarity and absurdity disappeared as he bent over Farias. Short, small-boned, quick, he swung around to face Raul.
"He's been dead several hours."
"I've got to clamp down on Petaca. Who is capable of doing that kind of killing?"
"We're rarely short of that kind of fellow," commented Velasco.
Gabriel took Luis into the room, and stayed with him, talking kindly. Even in the bad light he saw the youngster's face grow pale; tears streaked his rawboned features; his shoulders jerked.
"Pedro did it," Luis said.
"How do you know?" asked Velasco, in the doorway.
"Sure ... Pedro," the boy repeated, his hands waving. "You did it, you did it," he said, as if Pedro had come into the room.
"Have you seen Pedro?" asked Gabriel, standing behind Raul.
"No. But a few days ago my father and I found his hut, near Mountain Rancheria, in a canyon. Guns ... guns in the hut ... rifles, pistols. Pedro came to the hut with a woman, as we hid. We tried to slip away, but my horse made a noise. Pedro shot at us. He saw us both. He shouted threats. He said he'd kill us. My father and I got back last night. He was going to tell you, Don Raul."
"It's lucky Pedro didn't find you," said Raul.
Gabriel had covered Farias, and bent over him in prayer again.
Manuel appeared on the stair, stopping about midway. "Don Raul," he said. "Did you call me?"
"Pedro has killed Farias. Have three horses saddled, Manuel. I'll go with Luis and see if we can get Pedro. You ride to Colima and get the rurales. Can you show me the way, Luis?"
Luis tapped his thigh where he had worn his gun on trips with his father. "My father," he began, but his voice broke. He walked down a hall to his own room, where he snatched up his revolver, holster and belt. He returned, strapping them on, trembling.
"Don't go, Raul," said Gabriel, coming out on the stair. "Let the law take care of Pedro Chávez."
Raul was at the bottom of the stair.
"The rurales can have Pedro. I won't stop them. Pedro's not at Mountain Rancheria. We can get there before he does, if we move fast. We'll have a chance to get his guns. Let's at least try to get them. Come on, Luis. Manuel, look after the horses! Get water bags. I'll see to the food. We may be able to get to Rancheria within five days."
But it was a hard push, through bad weather, and it took six days to get there and four to come back, ten days of rough riding, wet weather, poor food and little rest. They found Pedro's hut, his woman and guns. Luis had to cover her with his revolver while Raul removed the guns and ammunition, stuffing them into long grain sacks. They rode off in a hailstorm that gradually became a torrential rain. Making a cairn, in the downpour, they cached the guns and ammunition. Freezing cold, they mounted and rode on, hoping to reach a cabin before night.
When they returned to Petaca, through driving mist, Raul was astonished to see rurales in front of Father Gabriel's room. Dirty, fagged and sore, he dismounted and gave his reins to Luis, saying: "I hope this means they've got him."
A stranger opened the door, and Raul found Gabriel in bed, covered with serapes.
"Raul, thank God, you're safe! Is Luis all right?" he asked.
Raul nodded and said:
"What happened to you, Gabriel?"
"Malaria.... This is Captain Cerro.... This is Señor Medina."
They shook hands, the captain holding his riding gloves in his left hand. Raul had heard good reports of Cerro's having organized his rurales into an efficient corps. He was hard-mouthed and gray-eyed; he seemed the kind of a man to do his job.
"I hope you've had better luck than we've had," Cerro said.
"I couldn't find Pedro," Raul said. "I didn't expect to find him. I found his hut and took his stock of pistols and rifles. His ammunition. The people at Mountain Rancheria are afraid to talk about him."
"My men got there shortly after you had taken the guns. You disappeared in the rain." Cerro drew his gloves through his fingers as he talked.
"We cached the guns. I'll send Luis for them with some men."
"I left some of my men at the rancheria. We're on the lookout for Pedro. You feel sure that he murdered your man, here at the hacienda?"
"There's not much doubt about that," said Raul.
"Ana Paz came to me while you were at the rancheria," said Gabriel to Raul. "She saw Pedro leave Farias' place early that morning. She's been at the hacienda for years, Captain."
Raul laughed angrily.
"You'd think we needed proof that this Pedro is a murderer. There are any number of witnesses to his killings, at Petaca. Father Storni, Manuel Boaz, Salvador Vega, Luis."
"But I understand he committed these ... ah ... crimes ... under orders," said Cerro.
His remark stopped Raul.
"If so, who is guilty?" asked Gabriel, propping himself on his elbow.
"The person who gave the orders," said the captain.
"My father," said Raul.
Embarrassed, Cerro shoved his gloves under his belt and moved toward the door.
"I'll send men to del Valle," he said. "Pedro may be there. I must return to Colima. I'm glad to have met you, Señor Medina. I hoped you might have better luck on your hunt.... I hope you are well soon, Father."
"Stay overnight, Captain. It's a long trip. I don't want you to leave at this hour; you won't get in till very late. Come, meet my wife, have supper with us."
"I have met the señora. She has been very kind. I'm leaving because I have to be at court in the morning. Thank you. I'm sure there will be another time."
Raul saw him outside and then returned to Gabriel.
"Well, I see you didn't take care of yourself while I was away."
"I'm on the mend—now that you're back."
"How is the fever, bad?"
"It comes and goes, not too severe."
"Has Dr. Velasco been helping?"
"Both he and Hernández. Everyone's kind, especially Angelina."
Cerro's horse and the mounts of his rurales clattered out of the court.
"I hated to lose Farias," Raul said, sitting wearily at the desk.
"I can't see why things like that have to happen," Gabriel said. "Men have no right to assume the law. I didn't want you to go after Pedro."
"These disturbances..." Raul said, but he was too tired to finish his sentence.
"Don't become a killer, whatever happens," said Gabriel passionately. "In all your program here at Petaca you have avoided violence. Let's do our best to keep it that way."
The high altitude crucifix hung in a streak of candlelight and attracted Raul's eye. He studied Father Gabriel's face. It had such a sickly pallor; there were rings under his eyes. Poor Italian, so far from home!
"Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"
"Let me have a couple of those pills, in the paper on the desk. And some water."
"Get better soon," said Raul, helping him.
"Before you leave, let me say ... how good it is to see you. I know you're tired but you're all right." He shivered under his blankets, but smiled.
"You'd better get some rest," Raul said. "I'm getting cleaned up."
"Will you put my glasses on my desk?"
"Of course. I'll send someone with a supper tray. In the morning I'll talk with my father."
Raul went to his room, glad to be home, glad to hear the voices of his servants. When he had washed and changed, Angelina came in. She wore a blue dress and white henequen slippers. It was such a change from the mourning clothes that he started to comment, but checked himself. She waited, in the middle of the room, holding a vase of bougainvillaea in her hands.
"It's so good, your being back," she said agreeably.
"It's good to be back."
"Pedro?"
"He's still at large." He unfolded an ironed handkerchief and put it into his pocket. "Luis and I got his guns.... It's up to Captain Cerro and his rurales now."
"I'm sure they'll get him," she said, and set the flowers on her dressing table where they doubled in the mirror. "I met Captain Cerro. Has he gone back to Colima?" Arranging her flowers, she said: "I like the captain and wanted him to stay.... Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
She walked across the room toward Raul. It was as if she had something unusual to say. She was smiling. But suddenly the floor began to shake, at first slightly, then with marked undulation. She reached out for him and they held each other. Raul waited for the underearth rumbling. She began to sob.
"Take me away. Yes ... yes ... I'll go to Guadalajara and live. Take me away, Raul. Raul ... I have to go. I can't bear it here. All these quakes, these killings." She paused and caught her breath. "Will there be ashes and lava and smoke again?"
He kissed her forehead.
"You know it wasn't a bad quake," he said.
She held to him, as she had during her grinding pains before Vicente had been born: those tortures had made a groveling animal of her. Oh, to be in love again, to be treasured, to be kissed every morning and every night.... "Raul, I feel another quake!"
Terrified, she broke away and went to the door leading to the stair and stood under the door frame.
"I think there won't be another one," he said calmly.
"I want to be with you.... Let me sit at the dining table with you. I can't bear it alone." The husky voice moved him as much as what she said.
Taking her arm, he led her downstairs. She curled her feet under her legs on a chair next to his. A new maid, a charming village girl, served, walking lightly, humming, her stiff skirt swishing. Angelina mentioned the quake to her and the maid said, with a shrug, "It was nothing."
A tall kerosene lamp with a pewter base and blue shade lit the table. All the windows stood open; the air, warm withpastoraclouds, did not move. A dead moth lay beside Raul's plate; he pushed it about with a spoon, too tired to think.
"Father set fire to his bed while you were gone," she said.
"What ... was he smoking?"
"Cigarette or matches ... anyhow, Chavela threw water on him."
His face brightened.
"She threw it all over him."
They laughed together, a little ashamed of their disrespect.
"How he must have spluttered," said Raul.
"Oh, he did, he really did! And while you were away, the optometrist came to fit his glasses. They had a time. But he'll have new ones tomorrow. The doctor thinks he'll be able to see fairly well."
"I hope so," Raul said, though Velasco had told him that glasses would not remedy his father's eye condition or would be temporary, at best.
He enjoyed the dinner, his first meal since morning. The new maid served steak, dry rice, sliced tomatoes and tortillas. She poured a dark Spanish wine. For dessert he ate aflan, hot chocolate andpan dulce. The bright face of the village girl went in and out of the blue lamplight, as Angelina talked.
Quite abruptly, he said:
"I'll go with you on the train to Guadalajara. I can get away in a day or two. I have to see about our mine shares. The bank's correspondence with me is so much wasted paper. I have a hunch it's time to sell because Roberto is selling some of his stock."
"I like hunches," she said, nibbling a mango. She thought of Lucienne's mining interests in Guanajuato, and bit into her mango harder than she wanted to.
In the morning, Gabriel received a letter that excited him and made him feel better, and he sent a man for Raul. He was having breakfast when Raul arrived. While Storni munched a roll and drank coffee, Raul waited, troubled by his friend's yellow face and fingernails. For the time being, he had no fever or chills, but when would they come again? With a flourish, Gabriel put down his cup, rubbed his hands together, and cleared his throat.
Raul glimpsed a coat of arms on the letter.
"I had to make you wait a little but now I'll read it to you: 'Dear Gabriel, I have not written you for a long time. Your letters have gone unanswered because I am a careless, busy hulk, as you know. Far busier these trying days than you might surmise. Still, busy as I am, worried by political conditions, I have been thinking of you. You won't be able to say I have no heart, when you lay down this letter.
"'I have not forgotten the part you have played in my thinking. I am not always foolish. Years ago we used to discuss things that shape the world. Those were memorable days.'"
Gabriel stopped to fix his glasses and wipe his nose, and ask, "Do you know now?"
"Roberto."
"I'll read on," Gabriel said: "'You have wanted to brighten your chapel for a long time. Since I, too, love Petaca I want to donate the stained-glass windows. In fact, I have ordered them. Salvador got the dimensions for me. The windows are being made in Mexico City; only a small part of the leading has yet to be done. They will be coming to you very soon.
"'In remembrance of meaningful days. Perhaps I am religious—who knows? Cordially'...."
Gabriel could not speak Roberto's name; tears shone in his eyes. He removed his glasses and blew his nose.
"Good for Roberto," said Raul.
"Ah, yes," said Gabriel.
"Get rid of that malaria so you'll be up and around soon. It wouldn't do to have the windows arrive and you in bed. I'm sure they'll be beautiful," said Raul, ready to leave. "All of us will enjoy them. I wish I had given them."
"Ah, to be sure ... well, I can't say how grateful I am.... But I have something else to tell you, before you go. The same man who brought Roberto's letter brought another one. You know how it is: good news and bad news, a pair of horses."
"What's the bad news?"
"The Colima hospital isn't getting along. They haven't money to hire workers. They're facing a serious situation."
"How much money do they need to hire workers?"
"Several thousand pesos. Father Gamio tells me that they have to pay more for workers and that ... they wonder if you could help. They mention several thousand pesos, no exact amount."
"Shall I send five thousand—for the Medinas?"
"God bless you, Raul!"
"We need His blessing, Gabriel."
"With five thousand they can get some new equipment perhaps!" Gabriel's outburst delighted Raul.
"I should look after the hospital better than I do. Father Gamio can't do it all himself. I'm off to Guadalajara later today, Angelina and I. She'll remain there. I'll be bringing Vicente back when I return. He wants to ride and hunt ... there's another fiesta. You can expect us in three or four days."
"If you see Roberto, tell him how grateful I am."
"I'll tell him. Is there anything you need?"
"Nothing, thank you, Don Raul. Maybe some newspapers?"
"I'll bring back papers and magazines. I'll leave my check for the hospital in thetienda. Will you have someone pick it up off my desk? Write an accompanying letter, a gracious one, for Petaca."
"I'll be glad to."
"Goodbye, Gabriel." He smiled affectionately. "Get well."
"I'll pray for you and Angelina," said Gabriel.
"Adiós."
"Que le vaya bien."
Shortly after lunch, Raul and Angelina drove toward Colima, the horses pulling well. Gray clouds darkened the landscape; across the lagoon, between its shore line and the volcano, a sandstorm blew. The great peak seemed old, harmless, a dusty, withered thing.
Their carriage clattered over atzontlibridge; here, on one side, a Medina had erected a plaque in 1761, mortaring it deep inside a niche where it had weathered the years with scarcely a sign of wear.
"Hasta la eternidad," it began, and the phrase ran through Raul's mind as the horses trotted, clopping over firm ground.
Angelina leaned against the faded plush on her side, lost in herself, her folded parasol hard against her side, fingers motionless in the handle strap sewn with gold threads.
Until eternity, he thought, gazing at her uneasily, recalling those lines from their marriage ceremony.
Sugar-cane fields lay on both sides. The road twisted and grew rough, and the driver slowed his horses. A tall knob of a man, he sang in a deep bass, improvising expertly.
Raul hoped the train would be more or less on time because he hated arriving in Guadalajara late, when the air was chill and cabmen were sleepy and crusty. He anticipated a satisfactory adjustment of the mining business. He would invite Uncle Roberto to dinner: Angelina, María ... the four of them enjoying the lobster at the Copa de Leche. It would be fun returning to Petaca with Vicente; the boy was putting on weight, growing too. Nowadays his talk was all about horses: "Tell me about Esmeralda, has she foaled? Is Canelito in pasture? How's Chico? I've read that the heaviest work horses are in France, is that true, Papa?"
While she held tightly to her parasol, Angelina thought of Estelle. She planned an afternoon with her at the hairdresser's: their hair, their nails. They would obtain good seats for the Degollado Theater season: plays, musicals, vaudeville. Because Caterina had not been dead a year, they'd have to steal away. Her head began to ache. She objected to the swaying, the country roads, horrible country roads. Soon, Estelle's face would be lifted to hers, laughter, laughter, laughter....
And it was rather as they both had hoped. The train was on time and the mining deal went well and the four of them enjoyed lobster at the restaurant.... Gray skies, rain sloshing the houses, carriages and streets ... rain ... but the rain didn't matter to Angelina. She met Estelle at her home, on López Cotilla, a tiled house under lofty eucalyptus.
Estelle covered her with kisses. They exchanged little gifts, and had supper in a Directoire dining room adorned with gold candles, the rain scuffing across red and green glassed windows. To Angelina, Estelle had the beauty of something original.... It was as if hair had been invented for her, or hands, or laughter, for her own particular use. Estelle's pile of yellow hair, so disarranged, so beautifully curled, her pink dress, so sheer, sewn with dozens of nacre buttons, her dishabille, they were as Angelina saw her in the bedroom mirror. And when she went to bed with Angelina she took all that glory and absurdity.... Laughter, laughter....
Raul and Lucienne camped in a canyon at twelve thousand feet, close to the timber line, where a fire munched pine logs and emitted wisps of smoke. Directly above them a lava cliff bulged and towered, an ominous flat slab, that had been chiseled off centuries ago. Time and erosion had broken chunks that now cluttered the ground. Lucienne had climbed among the lava blocks, noticing the various kinds of plant life pushing their way through. For her, this rock bowl had a spirit of its own.
Two men had accompanied them on the ride up the volcano and, at supper, all had shared venison, rice and tortillas. Raul had shot a buck and it hung nearby from a tree. It was a starry, chill night, without wind. Raul and Lucienne bedded down under several serapes—the men slept lower down in the canyon. Only the sound of the fire and the stamp of horses broke the silence.
After a while, Raul asked:
"Are you asleep?"
"I'm cold. Can you put more wood on the fire?"
"Of course I can. Right away."
"Put on several logs."
"How's that?"
"That's lovely. Now hug me. I'll soon get warm. The sparks are flying 'way up the cliff."
"Are you too tired to sleep?" he asked.
"It's not that.... I'm not used to all these strenuous things," she laughed, her mouth against his neck.
"I love you, my dear," he said.
"Darling, it's wonderful anywhere with you."
"Do you want to ride higher tomorrow?"
"This is high enough, Raul."
"How brilliant the stars ... at this altitude."
"There are clouds again. It could rain."
"It looks only threatening."
"A wet trail won't help," she said sleepily.
"We've got sure-footed horses," he said.
"I climbed near here with my father, during the dry season. We saw the ocean from the rim ... such a clear day," she said.
"We used to cut wood below here. There's a first-rate stand of pine a few thousand feet down."
The fire sputtered and jets of steam puffed. She felt the warmth penetrating her serape, and was grateful.
Her hand found his face. His hand found her breast.
"It's nice to wake up like this."
"Alfredo used to climb mountains. You know Alfredo Villaseñor? What happened to Alfredo? He was a likable fellow. Your father wanted you to marry him."
"He went to Europe ... and I don't know what became of him."
"Did you like him?"
"Very much ... for a while."
He had a faded picture of Villaseñor, mountaineer, Spanish, freckle-faced, well dressed, demanding.
"I'm the sort who runs away to the mountains, takes his own woman, a sorry Catholic, Lucienne. I've been thinking of my lapses. I profess one thing and do another."
His seriousness woke her a little and she said, emphatically, "There's such a thing as tolerance—the scripture teaches that."
"Not license."
"Love sanctifies things."
"Then will the Church accept us?"
"Accept me?" she said, making it a pointed question. "I won't accept the Church. Hush, hush, Raul, it's time to sleep. Think where we are, up here, at the top of things...."
"Are you warm?" he asked.
"Very warm. Let me sleep on your arm."
"Tomorrow we have a long ride," he said.
In a matter of seconds, she fell asleep, breathing gently, her arms around him. He turned thoughts over in his head while listening to a wolf howl, high on the cliff above. How ridiculous to ask: Will the Church accept us? As if Angelina no longer had anything to do with my life. Yet, as he lay there, staring at the gathering clouds, he felt she had less and less to do with his life. Guadalajara would claim her, the parties, friends, theater—Estelle Milan.
It was drizzling when they awoke. They had breakfast around the campfire, the horses tethered nearby, ready for departure. As they began the slow descent, the drizzle changed to rain, chilly, at times falling fast. To reach the regular trail, they filed through a forest of scrub oak. Shale made the going tricky, but the rocky area did not last long. Once on the main trail, they quickened their pace and then—like a great swab—mist puffed over them and swallowed trees and boulders. Because of the mist, Raul had trouble with Chico. Somewhere below nine thousand feet they crossed a number of small cornfields, mist along their edges.
"I wouldn't want to live up this high," said Raul.
Dressed in white tropicals, Raul's men shivered. Raul felt cold and a little shabby in old blue denim. Lucienne was comfortable in corduroy: tan jacket, dark green riding skirt, darker beret, raincoat. Italian boots, laced with yellow laces, reached almost to her knees. She loved the mist, and sang as they plugged along, corkscrewing through pine. Unpacking her plant press, she stopped for a rare fern.
In a flash of sun, the mist broke and below them lay a rancho, a ragged L-shaped patch of lava rock huts with yellow straw wigs, a chapel and municipal building.
"Are we going down there?" Lucienne asked.
"I want to speak to the jefe."
"It looks wild."
"Haven't you been there?"
"No, I've never been there."
"The jefe wearstigreskins."
"You're joking."
Raul's men laughed at her.
A rough but short route got them to Palma Sola in the late afternoon, sun at their heels. Before freshening up, Lucienne and Raul went to see some monster turtles lying in beached dugouts. Each one had barnacles on its wounded shell: how their red eyes begged for freedom!
A fisherman, coiling hand line, put his foot on the gunwale, pointed at one and said, "It came from far off," as if he had a magical probe that reached undersea and understood all mysteries.
"Turtles stare in such a sad way," Lucienne said, as they went into the house. She spun her beret onto a chair.
"They know they have to die," said Raul.
"I like plants because they can't look at me, can't accuse, can't plead. They never fill me with a sense of guilt and sorrow."
At a window, facing the beached dugouts, she clasped him tightly, tasting the flavor of transience: she saw her parents' death, saw herself in Europe, thought of other lovers, other friends. Almost tearfully, she kissed him and said, "Let's get dressed for supper."
"You must be tired."
"Not too tired."
At supper he said, "I'm afraid I have to leave tomorrow."
"Can't you stay on a day or two?"
"Can't we meet in Colima soon?" he asked.
"Of course we can."
"But it's never like here—or in the mountains."
"It's such a closed feeling, people, too many people. Maybe we can meet before I go to Guanajuato. When I wrote you about the mine it didn't seem so serious. The manager thinks the mine is giving out."
"So serious ... I hope not."
"Without that income, what shall I do?"
Breaking open a crisp roll, he studied her and considered the problem. He had descended the mine's moldy ladders. He had checked the ore, had had it assayed, had estimated the output. Few mines had less to offer, for both gold and silver ran low. The copper percentage might pay, but no copper smelter existed in Guanajuato.
"I hope I can help. I'll send Señor Rul around to check for you. Maybe it's a case of mismanagement."
"I trust my man.... He can't produce ore if there isn't any ore."
"Let's not let it worry us, Lucienne."
"I hear that the peons are quitting, are in revolt," she said, when they were alone in the dining room. "My people whisper. I pick up remarks."
"What do you hear? Is it about Palma Sola?"
"Other haciendas ... threats, anger, disobedience. It's as you've said: they're turning against us. I'm afraid."
"There won't be trouble here," he said. "Father has so many enemies, we'll have trouble at Petaca, if it comes anywhere. Three-quarters of our land was Indian property years ago."
"So was mine," she said.
"If the peasants revolt, we must give in or fight. We have no choice."
"Not a pleasant prospect," she said.
"It hasn't been pleasant, sweating it out in the mines, sweating it out in the sugar-cane fields, up at dawn, down at dark, always in debt...." He reached for his pipe but did not fill it.
"I don't defend myself against father's accusation of political idealism, weakness, call it whatever you want. I'm groping. But I can see how the people suffer ... in almost every hacienda. Díaz wasn't right for us!"
"I hear of your changes at Petaca. People are amazed at what you've accomplished."
"I like to help. I feed my people. If they're sick they get care. I let them go to Colima to buy things. I've canceled debts in the tienda de raya books. I talk over problems. Many places could do that ... but we have so much to live down at Petaca. I'm glad there never were beatings and killings here."
When he returned to Petaca he found a letter from Angelina, gay and trivial. It heartened him until he reached the final paragraph: "I think Mona is really my dog, not Lucienne's. I think she won't always stay at Palma Sola but will come to me, changing so prettily, her glass bones shining...."
What did Angelina mean. "Glass bones shining?"
In his easy chair, in the living room, he reread her letter; the last paragraph continued to bewilder him. He thought of showing the letter to Gabriel, but dismissed the idea and crumpled the sheet and tossed it into the fireplace. Holding out his hands to the blaze, he leaned his elbows on his knees. He did not need a confidant but needed to be alone. Wind puffed across the house, making a wintry sound. Raul felt disappointed when Father Gabriel appeared, rolling Fernando in his wheelchair.
Glass bones shining, Raul thought, seeing that his father was mere bones, sunken eyes, perhaps accented by his new glasses. Fernando stretched out his bony fingers toward the fire and sighed.
"The cold spell will help the corn," he said, his voice thin.
Raul could think of nothing to say.
"Nothing like a fireplace," said Gabriel, sitting down; he was tired, still fighting off his malaria; he, too, was hunting for thoughts. "Raul, I see you've had the Swiss clock repaired. I've always liked it."
"I brought it back from the jeweler's last week," Raul said.
All three eyed the clock on the mantel, a white marble clock veined with black, thin and tall.
"Humph ... you had your clock repaired, what of it?" Fernando said.
Raul and Gabriel waited, ill at ease.
"Time is for getting; get what you can before it gets you. You don't find it on a dial." With his good hand, he pushed angrily at the arm of his chair; each man heard the tick of the marble clock.
"While you were away last week," said Fernando, "I sold the horses in Sector 9." The Clarín stared at Raul maliciously. "Señor Filar paid me sixty pesos per head. We've never done better. I stopped the corn planting in 21.... That sector must be kept for pasture." He beat the side of his chair. "Sitting right here, I can manage Petaca. My people understand me." His voice shrilled, broke.
Raul walked over to the piano. Someone had placed Caterina's picture there, and her face comforted him.
"'A house divided against itself...'" Gabriel began.
"God, don't spout at me!" cried Fernando. "Have some sense. Life is cruel."
"Life is what we make of it," said Gabriel, very gently.
Raul accepted the truism, knowing it was one thing in his father's mind, another in Gabriel's, and another in his own. He tried to remain silent.
"I don't like the bronze figure you had put on Caterina's grave," Fernando objected.
"I haven't seen it yet," said Raul.
"You're ostentatious," said Fernando.
"It was done out of love," said Raul, moving close to the front windows where he could see the forecourt.
With a jolt, Fernando remembered his love for Caterina, remembered the child reading to him, feeding him, remembered his old, old longings for affection. His fear of death came again; he floundered, hoping he might touch something kind before the end.
"Yes ... yes, I'm sure ... it was love," he admitted.
"What did you say?" Raul asked.
"It was love ... not ostentation. But I would have put something else on her grave ... not a statue of a girl."
"What would that have been?" asked Gabriel, curious at this about-face.
"An animal, a frog, a bird ... I think I would have put a bird there."
"I thought of putting her sundial there, her noonday cannon," said Raul.
"Get me a cigarette," said Fernando, to Gabriel.
"I'll light one for you," said Gabriel.
The ticking of the clock came into being again.
Fernando's thoughts faded backward into time: he heard his father speak. His head throbbed. Everything had grown indistinct. What was the purpose of death? Was death talking to someone who never listened? Was death shoving something inside something already black?
"I want to go to bed," Fernando said. "Push me. Help me to bed, Gabriel."
Raul tried to say good night but could not utter a word and neither could Fernando. A rubber tire on the wheel chair squeaked; the wind and the clock continued. His feet toward the fire, he thought of Lucienne and their mountain trip; then he got up and got his jacket and went outside, the wind whipping his hair. So the little figurine had been placed beside the grave.
He found the statue just as he had hoped it would be, the right size, the right pose. True to the artist's sketches, a young girl carried a bouquet of roses and contemplated them lovingly. The bronze had many lights and shadows. A gust of wind blew Raul's jacket, as he stood there, looking.
Manuel, carrying a large box of sea shells, found him testing the statue's base, for balance and security.
"I like it very much," Raul said.
"It's beautiful," Manuel said, setting down the box. "I had them place it for you. Is it all right?"
"It's just the way I wanted it."
Manuel began laying down shells, one by one, in a design around the base of the figure, white shells, most of them identical in size, about as big as the hand.
Raul found a spade and began leveling behind the statue, where Manuel had not placed his shells.
"Shall I lay them in rows, here?"
"I like them that way, Manuel."
Blackbirds shot past on the wind; a large white butterfly wobbled by, as if injured; on a mound of sand an iguana scratched its way over a vine, its head cocked toward the men.
Spade in hand, Raul stepped to a crooked marker that read Alberto Saenz, in jagged lettering. The musician had died during Raul's Guadalajara trip. Raul missed him now. So there would be no more cedar harp at the fiestas.
Manuel said that his box of shells was empty and that he was going for more.
"I'll go with you," Raul said.
They walked together, and Raul asked, "Was Alberto born at Petaca?"
"Yes. His father was born here too."
"Who'll play the harp for us now?"
"Cipriano."
"Cipriano's only a boy."
"He plays well."
"Do you know who taught him?"
"Alberto," said Manuel.
"How time passes," said Raul.
He and Manuel found cowboys struggling with a bull, outside the main corral, the bull flat in the mud near a watering trough, three lariats on him. While mounted cowboys kept the lariats tight, a veterinarian stuck a hypodermic needle in the animal. The bull bellowed. At a signal, the lariats went limp and the bull struggled to his feet and made off.
The veterinarian, a small man wearing a five-gallon hat, explained the bull's serious condition to Raul, emptying his hypodermic as he talked.
He had been trained in northern France and had ideas and methods of treatment frowned upon by mosthacendados. Raul welcomed his care, for under his supervision Petaca cattle losses had decreased 20 per cent.
In the dying light the volcano had a greenish mist over it and, with no smoke coming out of the crater, expressed indolence: it said men will dawdle in hammocks and rest onpetates, that fruit will have time to ripen, that birds will be able to build their nests wherever they want to, that animals will find cool hideouts to escape the summer heat ... nothing will change, only the clouds, the flying things, maybe a fish, nothing more.
Raul understood the lie, and grinned back at the old king.
Roberto sat on the veranda at Petaca and sipped aron fuerte, his feet on the railing, a handkerchief in one hand. He felt happy though tired, happy to be showing off his new dark green riding suit and tired because he had already performed his stock of equestrian tricks. It was almost mid-morning and growing hot and humid, a clear, cloudless day.
"Federicka rides better every year," he said to Raul, sitting beside him, drinking, eyes on Federicka as she jumped a barrier.
Baroness Radziwill executed precise jumps on her claybank, her split skirt flapping gayly. For a stout woman she was a fine rider, and her horse carried her weight well, taking each hurdle rhythmically.
Armand Guerrero, her friend, followed on a Cuban horse, sailing over the whitewashed logs, all of them participating in an improvised arena, sodded and graveled for their annual get-together.
"Armand's mare is heavy-footed," Raul said. "Maybe a bit too old."
Count de Selva sat down beside Raul, breathing through a corner of his mouth, an unlighted cigar between his fingers. Dressed in duck, like Raul, his clothes rather creased, he brushed dust off his knees and groaned because of his asthma.
"There used to be quite a showing of us—quite a showing," he said. "I can remember when as many as fifteen of us families turned out.... Say, that Benito does well enough. If he's as good a mayor as he is a horseman, we'll get things done in Colima."
Benito Serrato had a lean black that carried him proudly, ribboned tail switching. Benito, wearing black, tilted his derby as he rode, sitting erect, quirt dangling from his wrist.
The circle in front of the house had become dusty, but a breeze carried the dust away from the veranda, toward the lagoon.
"How many families are here today?" asked the count.
"Um, several ... four or five ... I hope others will come," said Raul.
Federicka Kolb wore red. Her cousin, Eloise Martini, rode a gray which she had matched with a finely tailored outfit. The pair rode side by side, laughing as their mounts cleared the hurdles gracefully.
Roberto jiggled the ice in his glass. "It's getting too muggy to ride—or I'm getting too fat," he said, and patted his paunch. "Nothing like beautiful women on beautiful horses to rest the eyes."
Raul had a horse, known locally as a good jumper, and he put the mare over the hurdles, enjoying her leaps, thinking her so much steadier than Chico. Her great yellow mane, tied with white ribbons, flared at every jump.
Vicente tagged behind.
"How are you coming, boy?" Raul called, as his son curbed his range pony.
"Some people have come to see you, Papa. See, Captain Cerro and his horsemen ... a lot of rurales. I guess you'll have to speak to them."
Raul slipped from his saddle to shake hands with the arrivals. Cerro had brought a number of his best men. Could they ride? Perhaps it wasn't customary, but they would appreciate it very much. Dr. Velasco and Dr. Hernández had also come. Then, to his astonishment and delight, he saw Lucienne.
Bareheaded, she stood in the midst of them, proud, one glove removed. She seemed on the verge of running off and couldn't find much to say beyond civilities. When she got Raul alone she criticized herself for coming, for riding a white horse, for wearing white. She felt her hair falling about her neck and shoved it up underneath her beret.
"Lucienne, have a drink on the veranda with us," said Raul.
Roberto took her arm and hugged her.
"Lucienne ... something cool. Will you ride with us?"
Angered, she drew away, and said: "I wouldn't have come if something terrible hadn't happened yesterday. You know"—she paused to swallow—"they broke into the hacienda Refugio and killed the priest and killed Francisco Goya and his sons."
"Who?" asked Roberto.
"Armed men—I don't know."
"Who told you this?" said Raul.
"Jesús Peza. He told me. He was there, doctoring someone. He got away," said Lucienne. "He's back in Colima."
"My God!" exclaimed Roberto.
"How far is Refugio from here?" Raul asked. "What's the shortest way, Velasco?"
"Forty miles or more," said Velasco.
"Maybe fifty," said de Selva.
"What can we do to help?" asked Gabriel.
"I'm sending men immediately," said Raul. "Gabriel, look after Lucienne. I'll be back shortly."
"Hello, Lucienne, what seems to be wrong?" asked the Baroness, curious that she had come to Petaca, aware of some kind of excitement.
Lucienne explained briefly and sat down with Gabriel on the veranda, out of the sun. Removing her glove, she said: "I'd like a drink. Would someone get me a drink?"
Others had crowded round her and she had to repeat in detail the Refugio tragedy.
Father Gabriel put a drink in her hands.
"There, my dear."
"Thank you.... No, I didn't ride here alone.... No, Francisco wasn't disliked at the hacienda ... but of course...."
"Who knows what was behind the killings?" said the Baroness, in a harsh voice.
"We're all in grave danger," said de Selva.
"You can rely on us to help," said Cerro, behind Lucienne. "I'll inform General Matanzas."
"Yes, yes, do that," the Baroness said.
"Díaz has gone ... that's the reason for this situation," said Roberto, his calm words peculiarly distracting.
"If he hadn't left us ... if he had chosen a successor, there would be no rebellion," said Armand Guerrero.
"No, no ... it's revolution," said de Selva.
"We must protect ourselves," said someone.
"How do you fight hate?" asked Lucienne.
"With hate," said de Selva. "I've been telling you. It's coming. It's here now. The new priest at Refugio is dead. Francisco Goya and his sons are dead. What more do you need to hear?"
Federicka Kolb and her cousin overheard de Selva, and Federicka began to sob, for she had known the Goyas for years.
"Why ... why?" she asked.
"The men who killed them criedDown with the haciendas!" said Lucienne.
Raul returned and said: "I have sent men to Refugio. I'll go there later myself."
Felipe Meson, anhacendado, in his fifties, sturdy, gray-headed, sunburned, with the face of a crippled hawk, gestured toward Raul.
"You're making a mistake at Petaca," he exclaimed. "You can't pacify the peons. You can't trust them. They'll kill you now."
"I haven't tried to pacify them," Raul explained. "I've tried to help them."
Everyone was crowded on the veranda, with servants going about, serving drinks and putting ice in glasses.
"How can one man help at such a time as this?" asked the Countess.
"I simply want to look after my people when they're sick, see to it they have enough to eat, stop floggings and killings. Could Matanzas know about Refugio?" Raul asked Captain Cerro.
"I'll see, when I ride back. We'll be leaving shortly," said Cerro.
"You'd better supply us with escorts," said de Selva.
Lucienne finished her drink, stood up, and arranged her hair and beret; pulling on a glove, she said: "Raul, you must take care of Petaca. It's walled and you can post guards."
Raul did not reply: a question began in his brain: What about Palma Sola, wholly unprotected? What about de Selva's place, the Radziwill hacienda, the Meson house?
Shortly, luncheon was served in the garden, and they tried to talk of other things. Nothing seemed to go right, however; some of the food was missing, some of the drinks. The servants were confused and whispered among themselves. De Selva talked of fleeing to Mexico City, where he owned a house. "You should have had a town house, Raul." The Baroness mistrusted almost everyone at her hacienda, yet could not make up her mind to desert her property. Roberto and Dr. Velasco drank together. Lucienne, Gabriel and Raul ate at a small table under a chinaberry tree.
One by one, the families drove away, Raul seeing them off. The Count, coughing badly, leaned from his carriage window and told Raul how to defend Petaca. Roberto rode off on a magnificent black he had borrowed from a Colima friend.
Already mounted, Lucienne called goodbye: "I'll be with some of Captain Cerro's men. Be careful when you go to Refugio."
"I'll be careful. Will you stay in Colima until I can send men to help at Palma Sola?"
"Yes—Federicka has asked me to stay with her."
"Right. Stay with her. I'll see you there."
"All right, Raul."
Lucienne's horse backed away, swung around, and she waved.
Raul sent Vicente back to his Colima school in the rurales' care.
He did not get to go to Refugio, for that night Angelina returned on the train—her carriage rolled up to the house, accompanied by a guard of rurales. Greeting her calmly, Raul discovered that she was also calm, calm in an indrawn way, as if pain sucked at her, chilled her from deep within. Something dead shadowed her face. Something dead underlined her voice. She said she was ill, but this was more than the fatigue of travel. No one had told her about Refugio; that was easy to determine. She clung to his arm and asked him to have a snack with her, and yet she could eat very little. She sipped some brandy, her gaze on window, candles, door, servants, nothing for long.
He planned to tell her about Refugio in the morning, hoping she might sleep an undisturbed sleep. He would break the news as undramatically as possible.... Had something tragic happened to her in Guadalajara? Certainly something had precipitated this long train trip—to the place she hated most.
It was not until Sunday that he learned the reason for her return. She did not confide in him. He found a partly finished letter on her desk; seeing it addressed to María, he read it, hoping for a clue to her state of mind.
Dated Sunday morning, it began: