"He took it hard," said Gabriel.
"When it came time to tell him, I couldn't spare him," said Raul.
"Such hate," said Gabriel,
"He tried to spit on us. Did you see his lips?" asked Raul, resenting
the scene, feeling he would never be able to forget it.
"Ssst, Raul. It's bad enough."
"It won't be bad for our people."
"I know ... I know," said Gabriel.
"Tomorrow our people will have grain."
"Tomorrow, yes ... tomorrow," said Gabriel. He brushed flies from his
bald spot and scanned the sky, his gold rims twinkling. "It has gotten
cloudy. It may rain. The corn needs rain. I must go, Raul. I must
talk to others."
Walking away, he felt for the small bronze cross he wore on a neck
chain. The cross was buried in the hairs of his throat. He prayed as
he walked, fingers enclosing the metal. He prayed for the hacienda
people; he asked help for the old man; wisdom for Raul; let good come
of this transition, no additional anguish.
In his room, the door closed, a candle lit, he knelt on the bare tiles
before the mountain crucifix: as he knelt, a lovely bone figurine
appeared on the barren wood: the figure had hung in his mother's house
in Padua, very old, very yellow, very fragile. A women knelt beside
him, in this illusion, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. It was cloudy
and sultry and the Italian light filmed the room; the woman was
speaking.
Strange he could not recall her face, only the form, wrapped in blue
cloth. The sound of her voice was also lost.
"Mother," he said aloud; then he pushed aside his longing for Italy and
his home and family and began to pray:
"Jesus, help us. We are many here. Bless us with a special mercy.
Take us to your sacred heart; we are your children ... the haciendas
are headed for troubled times. Help us to be decent to one another."
4
Sitting in his living room, Raul tried to rationalize his own actions.
It still seemed illogical he had waited so long before assuming
authority. Slouched in a red plush chair, he regarded his son, writing
at the desk, doing an assignment given him by his school. Vicente
would return to his school in Colima on Monday. A brass candlestick,
holding five candles, burned beside the boy; the back of his blond head
was toward Raul. Raul listened to the scratch of pencil on paper. Now
and then Vicente sighed. He was ten, attractive, sweet-mannered,
bright, and kind. He said he wanted to become a priest--"like Father
Gabriel." Raul hoped he would change his mind and administer Petaca
someday. How quiet Vicente had become since Raul had taken over the
hacienda! It was as if he understood the gravity of the changes; the
responsibilities. Yesterday at breakfast, Chavela had spouted, as she
served: "Is it true? What will happen? Is that why Don Fernando won't
eat? You know he won't eat anything at all. Why, he won't talk to me!"
Vicente had dug impulsively at his sliced pineapple. "You leave things
to Papa," he had said.
Raul went over his decision, blaming the delay on his character. He
saw the old Christ face and knew Alberto had sprung the latch, though
other things had contributed their influence. He had been too slow,
like so many Mexicans--willing to see men suffer. Afraid to stop their
suffering. Afraid to be myself, he thought. When have I been myself?
At school, abroad? No, I was a foreigner there, reticent, shy. This
is home--Petaca--with its evasions, its ignorance. That's it. Perhaps
I'm ignorant, ignorant of life's meaning and my own purpose!
A week or more before in Colima, the fat, ignorant _licenciado_ Don
Pascual had had something to say: "Mark my words, Raul, we're in for
trouble. Far off, lost as we are in Colima, men are angry. When men
grow angry, they're like bees, and when they swarm anything can happen.
Mark my words!"
The Don Pascuals can be right. I must watch my step. I must reform
old ways slowly. And he remembered that he had done nothing slowly as
yet. Could he learn to work slowly? He brushed his hands restlessly
over the arms of his chair.
True, Fernando had refused to eat. He had not summoned Pedro. He
talked to no one.
Vicente had gone to him and given him water. He had lingered around
his bed and talked; discouraged and embarrassed by his grandfather's
silence, he had wandered out of the room.
"Why is he like that, Papa?"
"He'll be all right in a day or two," Raul had assured him.
Caterina came into the living room, took a book from the corner
bookcase, and strode out, unaware of her father and brother. She was
slender, dark, olive skinned. She liked to parade about with her wavy
hair loose over her shoulders. She loved scarlet dresses and had one
on. Only thirteen, she was a rare sight on an hacienda. Raul wondered
if she had chosen a book to read to her grandfather. She was fond of
him--blind to his cruelties, oblivious of his ugliness. She found in
him something no one else could find.
If he continued his starvation, he would soon die.... Fernando Medina,
El Clarín, starving himself! It didn't make sense. Perhaps Caterina
would induce him to eat. She could coax better than anyone.
Raul was tempted to follow her, but instead he got up and paced the
room, walking noiselessly. In front of the fireplace he lit his pipe,
flaring the head of the match with his thumb-nail. Vicente smiled at
him and he grinned back.
"How are you doing, boy?"
"Almost done."
"Good for you. Is it hard?"
"Hard enough."
Raul drew reflectively, enjoying the sweet warmth of the Cuban tobacco.
He kicked idly at the pelt of the mountain lion beside the hearth.
Dust and ashes puffed from the old, dried hair. On the mantelpiece, a
great beam of unpeeled cedar, between a pair of crystal candle holders,
lay the lion's tail, torn off by Vicente and Caterina during some game.
Walking the length of the room, Raul tried to concentrate. There was
only concern: where to begin? Who needed help? How much corn and
wheat were to be allotted? Yesterday, he and Velasco and Hernández had
worked with the sick. He had put men to building huts behind the
stables; the stable hands must have places of their own and not
continue sleeping with the cattle. He had men clean the well that
watered the stock. Carts had gone to Colima for lumber. Tomorrow he
wanted repairs to begin on the granary roof. He wanted to speak to
Gabriel about reconditioning the schoolroom, he wanted to see Salvador
about the oxcarts.
Where to begin ... the thought haunted. It seemed to him a million
beginnings could add up to nothing. Most of all, he wanted to reassure
his people. Life at Petaca would have to even out over a long stretch
of time to reassure the peasants.
Fussing with his pipe, he crossed the patio to look at his father.
Fernando lay asleep, hand over the edge of his bed. A book lay open
beside him, almost ready to slip to the floor. Perhaps Caterina had
read to him. Raul smiled, as he took in an empty soup bowl under the
bedside table lamp ... bread crumbs peppered the floor.
Going to the veranda, to the intricate grilled gate that closed the
front of the house at night, he saw a bonfire across the cobbled court,
near the far wall. Flames bloodied the wall and the turret on top.
Men huddled close and seemed to be heating tortillas or making _tacos_
over embers scraped from the blaze. Someone began to pluck a guitar,
and Raul caught the glint of wood and strings. A man sang: "Es de los
que bailan grande obligación darle a su pareja ..."
When had his people known freedom. Had it been under the last Indian
emperor, Cuauhtemoc? Had it been under Moctezuma? Had it been at
Chichén Itzá or Palenque? Surely, in some bygone age, his people had
been freer and suffered less. Men still worshiped the old gods. A
while ago, at the base of the volcano, at a place called Ojo Blanco, he
had discovered an altar encrusted with blood. Turkey blood, said
Manuel, since feathers had gotten stuck in the black crust. Deep
inside a granite niche, a stone figure had grinned apishly.
"Toltec?" he asked Manuel.
"I don't know, Don Raul."
Higher up the volcano, on the seaward side, his men had reported other
altars, through the years. On his own climbs, Raul had come across
other idols, one a bloated thing of obsidian, the glass unpocked by
time. Had these men known happier days?
The moon shone brightly, and it was chilly. He wanted to stroll along
the lagoon and yet felt he should not walk alone, not for the time
being. As a boy, he had played along the lagoon, speared frogs, sailed
boats, waded and swum. As a boy ... What about Vicente? Would anyone
molest him? Of course not. Then his own risk was an exaggeration.
He got a jacket, went through the garden, and opened a rose-trellised
gate that led to the shore. First one frog and then another plopped
into the water. A night bird startled him by whirring off from sedges
near his feet. He stood still, his heart pounding. At once, he called
himself a coward, but as he began to follow the shore, he realized
someone was trailing him. He stopped, his hand on the trunk of a
primavera tree and waited for the man to approach.
"Coming ... coming," came Manuel's voice. Raul broke into a chuckle.
"Why are you following me? Haven't you anything better to do?"
"You need company."
"I suppose I do. A night bird scared me. I'm an old woman."
"It's no time for an old woman to be about alone," laughed Manuel.
"I'm not going far."
"I brought this," said Manuel, tapping his revolver.
"For the frogs," said Raul.
"Not tonight," Manuel said.
Raul walked on, across clumps of grass that had wiry tops.
"I think we're overdoing this gun business ... too much precaution."
Raul was touched by Manuel's solicitude. Who else, beside his
children, cared so much at Petaca? Even if there was no danger, it
amounted to the same thing. Their walk took them through cane, and a
snake slid toward the lagoon, its gray-white body sparkling, as if
carrying dew or pieces of spider web. He and Manuel had routed many a
snake along this shore. Ash, eucalyptus, pepper, jacaranda, primavera,
tabachin and palm grew here. His grandfather and father had planted
them. Close to the shore some of the trees had not done well, but on
higher ground all were superb. Paths wound among them. Where
moonlight scraped a circle on the ground, Angelina had placed a rustic
table and chairs.
Raul sat on a log, and Manuel crouched on his heels, his back against
an ash tree.
"Were the men having tortillas in the court?" Raul asked.
"Yes ... they hadn't had any for several days."
"Salvador came tonight, to live at the hacienda," said Raul.
"I know," said Manuel. "He'll be a lot of help."
"Do many know of my decision?"
"Most of them, I think."
"How do they feel about it? What have you heard?"
"I've heard only good things: some are very pleased, even excited."
Manuel moved closer and squatted beside Raul. For a while they were
silent, listening to the waves and the night sounds.
"It's beautiful tonight," Raul said.
"Perhaps it's too beautiful. The charcoal makers, who came down from
the volcano today, say smoke is seeping from the crater."
"If there were much smoke we would have seen it ... wouldn't we?"
"Perhaps," said Manuel.
"You sound pessimistic. What is it? Tell me why you followed me?"
"Pedro is here," he answered, after a pause.
"You know that for a fact?" asked Raul, stiffening.
"I saw him. He came from Manzanillo."
"Where did you see him?"
"In the stable, with other men."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No. He's drinking. He's out for trouble." Manuel spoke with a
peculiar emphasis, recalling Pedro's drunken brawls, Raul's
displeasure, Don Fernando's disregard. Manuel took time to pull a
grass blade and poke it between his teeth, and then said, "He's very
drunk."
The moon floated directly overhead, a spray of cloud in front of it.
Something shook the dried fingers of a palm--a bird.
"Pedro came to talk with Don Fernando," said Manuel.
"I won't stop him," said Raul.
"I hear he says he'll never leave Petaca."
"He talks big. He's afraid."
"No--he's not afraid. Don't make that mistake, Don Raul!"
"Pedro has to leave.... I won't put up with him," he exclaimed.
In his mind's eye, Raul saw Pedro roping cattle in their corral, his
lasso pinning a yearling. In the corral and on the range he had no
rival. But as overseer, his cowpuncher skill meant nothing. He had
not the slightest concept of what cooperation meant.
Returning, they took the road that led straight to the hacienda and
entered the feudal wall through a seldom used gate. Raul said
good-night to Manuel and lingered on the terrace, beside the swimming
pool. Lighting his pipe, he reminded himself he must fill his tobacco
pouch. The pool was flecked with jacaranda flowers, bats zoomed.
Elbows on the adobe wall, Raul searched the volcano for a sign of
smoke. High on the flank, nearest the ocean, he detected a red spark;
perhaps a charcoal burner's fire. In the living room, he put his pipe
on the desk, filled his pouch, and blew out the candles.
During the night, Caterina called him:
"Papa, Papa ... come."
She was having a bad dream and he rubbed her legs and stomach and
quieted her, kissed her cheek and tiptoed back to bed. Sleep would not
come and for a long time he contemplated the starry windows. Angelina
lay curled in a kitten's ball. Suddenly, clearly he heard an owl cry.
Before he could restrain himself, he sat up. Angelina stirred and
muttered. Ridiculing superstitions, he lay still and tried to plumb
the stars.
In the morning, the children got up first and dressed happily.
Caterina dashed down the stairs singing, her loose slippers clumping
the tiles. "Soy la golandrina ... soy la golandrina..."
Almost at once she rushed back up the steps, screaming:
"... Grandpa's fallen on the floor! I think he's dead! Grandpa's
lying on the floor ... quick, quick. He's fallen out of bed!" she
cried, repeating herself till her mother hurried down. Caterina hid
her face in her pillow and sobbed. Raul threw on his robe and got into
his slippers.
A gentle rain trickled across the window glass of his father's window.
Shadows, formed by the water on the pane, shimmered on Fernando's face.
His features seemed a little less ugly. He groaned, as Angelina
propped up his head and gave him a drink.
With his hand on a bedpost, Raul contemplated his wife. Her face was
tender, and she spoke sweetly. Her attitude helped him feel
compassionate. Together, they placed Don Fernando in bed and covered
him. How pitiful, shut off by sickness and age. His hate had raised
walls around him. It was more than hate, Raul knew. In Guadalajara,
three or four months ago, he and his father had attempted to locate a
pump suitable for irrigation. After a futile day they had gone to the
nearest cantina, a fairly disreputable place. His father had ordered
drinks. Then, when the waiter had gone, he had turned to Raul:
"I can't forget it, even here! I try to get away from it. I drink to
get away from it; I ride like hell to get away..."
"What are you trying to get away from?"
"You're not that stupid, Raul! After all these years! Christ ..."
Swiftly, he had gripped Raul's hand with cold fingers.
"It's my father ... I often see him. I thought you knew."
In Fernando's eyes, in the cantina, there had been the glaze of fear.
Fear and regret had cut him with their termites. Nobody cared for him,
unless it was little Caterina. She had not seen Flores dragged behind
a horse, across a field and back again, across a field and back again
... she had been in school in Guadalajara.
Chavela brought a tray of breakfast things, and Raul left the room as
Angelina began to wash the old man's face, saying: "Come now, you're
all right. Come now."