In the patio, Vicente ran up to Raul and asked, "Is Grandpa dead?"

"No, son, he fell on the floor."

"Shall I go in?"

"If you want to. Mama's there. You don't have to go inside."

With a frightened face, he dashed off.

As Raul crossed the patio, Gabriel appeared. He spoke, and Raul nodded

significantly toward the bedroom. Gabriel limped past. Raul did not

stop, but walked onto the veranda, to find Pedro Chávez, squatting on

his heels by the steps.

Pedro was six foot two, about thirty-six, a Yaqui, with square

shoulders, big arms, big hands, big legs and feet. His facial tissue

folded thickly across sharp bones and he had the swarthy complexion of

Sonorans. Deep-set brown eyes glared past a Mongolian nose. He wore

his hair long, and strands of it hung over his plaid shirt and buckskin

vest. A single silver button dangled loosely on his vest and other

silver buttons ran down the seams of his black trousers. His feet

bulged in a pair of chamois-colored boots. He carried a Colt and had a

belt of cartridges.

Seeing Raul, he grinned a nervous grin (it was as if he had nothing to

do with the grin) and his eyes blazed.

"I hear Don Fernando is worse," he said, continuing to squat

disrespectfully on his heels. He spoke with obvious contempt.

Raul held himself straight.

"When did you hear that?" he asked.

"Last night. They say he won't eat," said Pedro.

"I just came from his room. He ate last night ... I've been wanting

to talk to you. This time is as good as any. I've taken over the

management. I want you to leave Petaca." Raul realized he had spoken

too rapidly. He stopped.

"I'm not leaving here," Pedro snapped, eyes on the floor.

"I order you to leave Petaca, at once," said Raul, accenting each word.

"I couldn't do that. It's my job."

"I never hired you."

"But your father hired me." Pedro talked slowly, the Yaqui way,

clicking each syllable.

A brown cricket crept over the red tiles, crept near Pedro's boots,

crawled on, circling a little.

"You're no longer employed here. Go to the Banco Nacional in Colima.

I'll write a note to the bank. They'll pay you off. Manuel will give

you my note for the bank."

"Haven't you any money here?"

"I'll pay you through the bank. I want it that way. That way there's

no question about a record of payment."

"I refuse to leave Petaca."

"I'll speak to the rurales."

Pedro lashed with the flat of his palm and smashed the cricket. He

continued to squat, though he swayed on his heels.

"I'll tell the rurales to remove you. They know how. You'll rot in

jail a while. The police will appreciate my attitude. You have your

choice. Now, get out. I've had more than enough of your killings.

When Flores was tied behind a horse and dragged across the ground, you

whipped the horse. I should have killed you myself then. God knows, I

wanted to."

Raul paused to wet his lips. Pedro glared at the floor between his

legs. "You've killed four of our men, two without provocation. I'm

not running that kind of hacienda."

"I get the work done," Pedro muttered.

"I can get the work done without beatings and killings. Don't be a

fool, Pedro. Your job is over. My father can't keep you against my

will. Go back to being a Yaqui sergeant."

"I'll see," said Pedro.

Raul jerked at his belt. The angry gesture made Pedro look up; it

annoyed him to be reminded that Raul was unarmed; then he reconsidered

that thought--his right hand stole toward his Colt: a secretive,

instinctive movement: his hand had performed the same movement on the

hunt or when among brawling men: the timing would be perfect. Raul had

begun to turn away; instantly, instinctively, he whirled around.

"Get out of here!"

Raul's stony face moved Pedro. He got up, hitched his trousers,

hitched his belt, snuffed, examined the cricket stain on his hand, and

stalked off, his spurs nicking the stone steps. He had a cowboy

sprawl, a cowman's gait; he strolled toward the corral, rolling a

cigarette as he walked, feeling the weight of his Colt, insensible to

everything but the urge to kill.

5

Early Sunday morning the wind began to howl. It beat off the delicate

jacaranda blossoms until the garden pool wore a top of flowers. On the

terrace, a strip of honeysuckle tore loose and wrapped itself around

the stone Christ. The sky became a mushy gray, and later in the day

the clouds oozed rain, then hail. Hailstones, the size of parrots'

eyes, flicked at bougainvillaea, jacaranda, cup-of-gold, and oleander

until the garden had little brilliance left. Everything was green and

wet, and the wet green clambered from within, a threat, a tropic

impulse.

Raul recognized the force. He felt it also in the sky as he stood at

Caterina's bedroom window on the second floor. From there, the volcano

seemed to knife the sky at a peculiar angle, with a peculiar pressure.

As he stood by the window frame he felt a tremor. The tiled floor

shifted, swayed, lowered, raised, stopped. It was a mild quake and

Caterina did not awaken. Her rag elephant fell to the floor from her

bed. Eyes on the volcano tip, Raul waited for a belch of smoke. It

did not come. But another quake came. Remaining by the window, he lit

his pipe and listened to fumbling rain and hail.

Caterina had been seriously ill for six days. Dr. Velasco and Dr.

Hernández had puzzled over prescriptions. Nothing had helped the acute

diarrhea, vomiting, and fever. Her temperature had shot up, then had

fallen. Dr. Velasco called it "tropic fever"; Dr. Hernández said it

was "black fever." New medicines had been used effectively in

Guadalajara, and Dr. Velasco had gone for them, reassuring everyone.

He would be back on tomorrow's train that arrived at nine P.M., if it

pulled into Colima on time.

Sitting by Caterina's bed, Raul noticed her pallor, how it seemed more

pronounced in her hands than in her face. The fingers felt lifeless.

Cupping his hands around hers he tried to warm them. He began to rub.

This morning they had gone through the motions of a card game during

the storm and suddenly, about half through the game, she had said, "My

fingers hurt, they're so cold. Papa, let's never finish our game."

Taken by surprise, he had had to blink back his tears.

A dozen jobs had kept him from her since then. Coming out of the wind

and hail, he had found her alone. The Colima nun, her nurse, had gone

downstairs to eat. Raul liked being alone with Caterina. Hearing the

storm, watching it from her window, he thought of things they had

shared: the moth and butterfly collection (Lucienne's idea), horseback

rides, boating on the lagoon, fishing.

She had a tiny bronze cannon that had been mounted on the garden

sundial pedestal. She had found it during a visit to Guadalajara and

had insisted that Raul install it for her and, for a while, she had

primed it faithfully. It had "boomed" each sunny noon, the sunshine

igniting the powder through a magnifying glass.

Some of her dolls were ranged on the floor beside her bed, toppled

bodies, Swiss, African, Chinese, Mexican. She called one "Flaco," one

"Negro," another "Henry." ... He had never known all their names.

Caterina stirred. Breathing fast, she rubbed both hands roughly over

her face, and her lids fluttered open.

"Papa," she said.

"Yes, dear."

"Where am I?"

"In your bed."

"I dreamed ... I was in school."

"In Guadalajara?" he asked.

"Yes.... Oh, Papa, don't send me back to school."

"Why? I thought you liked the school and the Sisters."

"I can't go, and it's too far."

"Not now," he said.

"Papa..."

"Yes?"

"Oh ... Papa..."

Tears came.

"Papa..."

"Yes."

"When shall we go on a picnic?"

"Soon," he said. "Maybe next week. Where would you like to go?"

"'Way up the mountain."

"Up the volcano on horseback?"

"Yes," she said, liking her father's bushy hair and eyebrows.

"We'll do that--all of us. Soon."

She shivered and closed her eyes. It seemed to her that all the window

frames and doorways were merging. It seemed as if the floor had tilted.

"Papa ... have the nurse change me."

"Again?"

"Yes."

"I'll call her."

He went to the patio window and called, and Carmela answered

immediately.

Back at Caterina's side, Raul said: "Carmela's coming right away. You

know, Caterina, I think the sun will be out soon. The hail has

stopped. The wind's rough but it may blow off the clouds."

She did not respond.

As he waited for Carmela, he thought about the timbre of her voice, how

frail it had become, frightened, hurried.

Carmela changed her and made her comfortable.

"Thank you, Sister," Caterina said.

"You're welcome, dear."

Carmela, a whipcord woman, could have carried the Master's cross. She

had a dusky mustache above Mayan lips. Her hair was sheep-thick and

done in twin buns that had long pins sticking in them. Tufts of hair

grew in each of her ears. She walked with a rustler's tread--years of

convent living and nursing had not tamed her tread. Yet she had the

essence of sanctity in her face, and people said that she never lost

patience.

When she left the room, Raul sat on the bed at Caterina's feet.

"She's nice," Caterina said.

"Big," he laughed.

"Papa ... when will my stomach stop hurting?" She began to cry and

covered her face with one arm. "Oh, Papa ... Papa ... ask God..."

"What is it?" asked Carmela, returning.

"Pain."

"Deep in your stomach?" the nun asked, pushing back her white collar.

"Yes."

"Let me give you more laudanum," said Carmela, going to the medicines

on a tray at the dressing table.

"No. It makes me sleep. No. No-ooo."

"Sleep is best for you. It'll make you strong," the nun said,

vigorously rattling the bottle and spoon; she yanked the cork from a

blue bottle sniffed the contents and said, "Ah." Her starched clothes

sounded the same as the rustle of distant hail.

"No..." Caterina said feebly.

"Please," said Carmela.

"Papa ... no!" (Frightened)

"Then later," said Raul.

"Yes, Papa."

The syrupy medicine went back into the bottle.

Gusts swirled through the garden, and the rain-heavy foliage bent low;

window curtains fluttered, their red and white cotton billowing now

inside, now outside.

"Papa, can I give Mona to Lucienne? I want to. Papa, will you read to

me?"

He did not answer her question about the dog. Mona had been Caterina's

pet for over two years. What was her insight into his relationship

with Lucienne? Was she expressing approval ... did she feel she was

about to die?

"Yes, yes, I'll read to you. What would you like? Your Grillo?"

The _Grillo_ was an Italian book about the adventures of a cricket.

"Yes, Papa ... Grillo."

By the time he found the book, she had fallen asleep. The cricket,

printed in orange on the cover of the novel, crept away from his hands.

Sparks of lightning whisked over the blue and white pattern of floor

tiling. He laid her book lovingly on the circular table, cluttered

with the child's things: cutouts, a sewing kit, some dried figs, doll

dishes.... It was a small corner room, with white enameled furniture.

Above her bed hung a pastel portrait of her mother. The portrait, done

with too obvious care, was gilt framed, and dangled from a long wire.

The picture began to sway.

"Another quake," said the nun, from her chair by the window. "That's

the third."

They stared at each other questioningly. Sister Carmela fingered her

beads, and shivered. She hated quakes, and remembered the devastation

caused by the last big shock in Colima.

The quake lasted a little longer than the others; the dolls rocked

together on the floor; a dish clattered; someone shouted, "Don Raul,

Don Raul!"

Stepping to the window on the patio side, Raul saw Salvador.

"A tree has blown down on the stable. Can you come?" Salvador shouted.

"I'll be down."

Raul went down the stairway. Angelina stood on the bottom steps, a cup

of broth in her hands.

"Raul, there was another quake.... How is Caterina?"

"No better. Her stomach pains her a great deal. She's asleep."

"I'll go up anyway. Maybe she'll wake soon and have some broth."

They passed one another without really seeing one another.

"Your father wants to know how Caterina is," Angelina said, as she went

up.

"I'll tell him."

He crossed the hail-splattered patio to his father's room, resenting

the chill. Fernando had ordered his bed moved--to avoid seeing the

distorted landscape. He now faced the patio and Raul paused in the

doorway, sensing his father's gaze.

"How is she?" he asked.

"I'm afraid she's worse."

"You're afraid, poor boy! Why don't you do something to help?"

"Velasco has gone to Guadalajara. He'll be back with new medication

tomorrow."

"You'll let her die."

"Not if we can help it."

"I'm going up to her room."

"You couldn't make it up the stairway."

"Men can carry me," he said savagely. "Or have all the men at Petaca

become too weak!"

Raul turned to leave, but waited a moment.

"Raul--will Caterina want me?" The old man asked humbly, his voice

normal.

"It might help her."

"Then?"

"I'll arrange for you to be carried up later."

At the stable, Salvador and others were stacking roof tiles knocked off

by the fallen eucalyptus. Branches of the huge tree lashed at the men,

and the air smelled of oil from the bruised leaves and bark. Someone

inside the stable bawled an order; cattle shuffled; a hinge of wind

opened and closed. Raul inspected the tree, recalling its shaggy

beauty, and fought the gale as he climbed between branches. Someone

began to chop at a branch that had gouged the roof. Salvador tapped

Raul's arm.

"I'll get men with a bucksaw," he said.

"Have them saw the trunk close to the roots ... about here," said Raul,

indicating a bruise on the tree. "Cut it there and then it can be

yanked away from the stable wall."

"I'll bring some oxen," said Salvador.

"Put a chain to a whippletree and drag it off."

"Some of the wall may crumble."

"Have the grain moved to a dry place. That should be done right away.

You can saw the tree a second time, nearer the top; that'll free two

sections." It seemed impossible, measuring the stabbing roots, wet and

naked, that the tree could have toppled. "I'm going back inside, to be

with Caterina. She's not doing well."

Salvador nodded sadly, the wind tearing his hair, his three hundred

pounds impressive, soaked with rain.

"May God help her," he said.

Raul felt the kindness in Salvador's voice; he needed kindness and

assurance. He was shaken by the storm, the quakes, and Caterina's

condition. Gripping his hat brim, he entered the house through the

kitchen. Inside, by the door, near the adobe oven, a boy of five or

six sat at a low table, eating. He glanced shyly at Raul. Servants

broke off talking. Raul pulled off his hat. A woman was cleaning

_garbanzas_, another was grinding coffee, and others were washing

clothes. They bowed. The smell of coffee surprised Raul; it seemed so

unrelated to his troubled world. He patted the boy's head, and asked:

"Will someone find me two men? I want Don Fernando carried upstairs."

His hand on the child's chair, he thought of other peasant children,

many of them beautiful: how many died every year of diarrhea or

dysentery on the hacienda, on every hacienda? He asked himself whose

boy this boy might be. Such a calm face. A little embarrassed by his

own emotions, he returned to Caterina's room. He told himself that no

one escaped death, that death came even to God's house.

When Caterina had had her broth, Don Fernando was carried upstairs, an

easy trick with Manuel at one side and Esteban, a young fellow, a

Coliman, very tall, very thin, at the other. They brought him in a

chair and set him beside Caterina's bed. The wind still lashed, and

Fernando shivered under his blanket. The two sick ones grinned at each

other. Fernando reached out, patted Caterina, then straightened and

sank back in his chair. He frowned, cleared his throat and rumbled,

imitating someone:

"Get up, pretty princess, I command you." He clapped his hands softly

and at once hid his shaky arm. "I, the magician of El Rey del Mundo,

bid you get well. Chia, chia ... hear the magic word." Laughter

transformed his miserable face. "Come, little one, we'll go to the

castle with the gold door."

Raul and the nun smiled, smiles of apprehension.

"My king, I shall obey," said Caterina, her eyes aglow, holding her

hands out to him. "Oh, king let us visit the castle."

"At once," said the magician.

"At once," whispered the girl.

"When I was a boy," Fernando began, his voice full of tenderness, "I

got sick. The same trouble as yours. Just as bad, and I was seven or

eight. I remember it very well. Papa rode to Colima for a doctor, and

bandits beat him up on the way home--his mozo ran away and left him,

when he saw the bandits closing in. Remember that story?"

"Tell it again."

"The men beat him and stole his horse and he began to walk home,

limping along, because he had been so bruised and hurt. It was a long,

long way, maybe ten miles. Dark. Cloudy. Pretty soon he heard a

horseman. He hid behind a cactus bush. It was the doctor, following

him, going as fast as he could to Petaca. He was astonished to find

Papa, walking, all bruised and hurt. He helped him and they got on the

doctor's horse and rode home...."

Sometimes Caterina had thought about the bandits; sometimes she had

wondered how badly hurt Great-Grandpa had been. She wanted to question

her grandfather now, but her head throbbed.

Fernando studied her face, considered its pallor, the feebleness of the

eyelids, the tremble in the lips. Her throat pulse fluttered.

"Raul and I will stay here with you," he said.

"Raul," Fernando said.

"What is it?" Raul replied.

"Bring me morphine."

"She wouldn't take her dosage."

"I'll give it to her."

"She wouldn't take the laudanum," Raul said.

"Bring the morphine," said Fernando.

Raul's shoes rubbed slickly on the tiled floor.

"A spoon..."

"Here's a spoon."

"Caterina--a little dose, for Grandpa?"

"Yes."

"Raul, lift her head."

"Take it, child.... You'll be all right."

"Yes ... Gran'pa."

The face trusted him. She swallowed the medicine and sank back on the

pillows.

"Rest now and we'll go to the castle together and I'll tell you how I

found a tiny statue of the Huastecas. You haven't heard that story....

We were riding horseback through a barranca in San Luis Potosi; men had

been digging a ditch for irrigation...."

Most of his life he had lacked the power of affection, except with

Caterina. He bowed his head; he could say no more; he felt beaten,

dried, useless. Life would have been all right had he been able to

reach outside himself. Carry me downstairs; put me to bed. The fool.

The old, ugly fool. Tired. Carry me.

When Don Fernando was taken away, Angelina began her vigil, she and the

nun. She heard workers sawing the eucalyptus, observed the moon's

climb, felt the nip of the night air, dozed fitfully in her easy chair.

Awake, she prayed for her girl, a faithless prayer, since she believed

Caterina fatally ill; she had seen too many children pass away with

fever and dysentery to have any illusions. Doll faces--looming through

a bad dream--wept and pled for Caterina. Chapel music sounded ...

there was no God, not really ... only wandering....

The nun stretched on a cot and snored, her responsibility forgotten.

Toward dawn, the birds began, high-flying parrots and then the garden

orioles. The caged birds in the patio answered, and a strange bird, in

the grove behind the house, scraped tin note against tin note.

Vicente, sleepy eyed, yawning, padded in, barefooted. He stood

silently by his sister's bedside. Until now, he had shunned her room

unless she asked for him. Ever since Grandpa had been confined to his

bed, Vicente had feared death, and, alarmed by Caterina's white face,

her stillness, he had kept away. After a glance he stole downstairs,

into the kitchen, hungry, cold, uneasy.

The chapel bell clanged its stiff bell for Mass and, after Mass,

Gabriel went to sit beside Caterina. She brightened, finding him

there, wiping his glasses, smiling.

"Were you here all night?"

"No, I just came in."

"I thought I saw you all night ... holding a candle ... for me."

"No, my angel, that was your mother who was with you."

"I don't remember her."

"You were sleeping."

"I want to get better."

"You are better. I can see you're better today," he lied.

"Has Doctor come?"

"He'll come shortly, with new medicines. Let me call Carmela. It's

time for you to eat. Then I'll come back and read to you."

"I'm not hungry."

He hoped food might strengthen her; her anguish filled him with pity

and love. Such a sweet child. The small face had darkness working

from within--around the eyes, inside them; their own personal magic had

dimmed. Her lips moved stiffly.

What was it his mother had said? When the sight darkens, the shadow of

the cross is beckoning. He shook his head, sorely troubled. His

fingers drummed on his knees. He wished Dr. Velasco could arrive, by

some miracle, before nightfall.

Gabriel got up, determined to help. "Carmela, Carmela," he called from

the window.

"Yes."

"Can you bring the child something to eat? I think she should have

something."

"Right away, Padre. I'll heat something, some atole. I'll be right

along."

Sitting on the foot of her bed, he began to talk to her:

"Delgado's cleaning the pool.... You should see the jacaranda blossoms

scattered on the water, flowers and leaves too. Did you hear about the

eucalyptus? It blew down, the giant one beside the corral. They had

to saw it into sections and drag off the pieces with oxen...." He

found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. Perplexed by

the gravity of her illness, he tried to ransack his brain for some old

remedy. Carmela came with a tray and he rose and said good morning to

her.

By coaxing, they got Caterina to eat some thin _atole_; but then, in a

little while, she vomited, and knotted under the covers, shivering with

anguish.

By the time Dr. Velasco arrived, pounding in on a weary, sweaty horse,

she had been dead several hours.

The doctor slapped his forehead and turned away, his black kit on the

desk, the new medicines bulging in his coat pocket. Only the nun was

there, in the darkened living room, to see his despair. For a long

time they sat there together, saying little.

While the nun fussed with Caterina's hair, Raul sat in the easy chair

and listened to Angelina sob, her sobbing padded by the thick stone

walls of her room and heavy doors. Something in her had snapped: she

said it was the end: she meant, he thought, that she would never see

Caterina again: as for him, he felt he would find his child someday;

and yet he asked the question: Where? Just now she would not hopscotch

in the patio, squeeze his hand during Mass, fill his pipe, dash to meet

him after a full day in the hacienda campo, giggle at supper. Sitting

stiffly, watching Carmela arrange Caterina's hair, he tried to deny

weariness. He felt as if he had ridden horseback for days. He prayed

to St. Catherine, remembering how lovingly they had christened the

child in her honor.

Suddenly his wife ceased sobbing; the nun left the room; a door closed;

the ramrod of silence jabbed him. Death was silence. Sitting erect,

he observed a cinch strap of blackbirds over the stable roof where the

eucalyptus had crashed. Strange they flew silently. Blackbirds were

_hacendado_ birds: he had often thought of them that way: they were the

black plunderers. Rapacious, yet not so rapacious as the owl.

Without glancing at Caterina, he walked out, walked down the stairs

blindly, asking himself whether he had attended to civilities,

telegrams to be sent from the Colima office, a notice for the Colima

paper, the casket, the grave prepared. His hand on the wrought-iron

railing, he sensed his own mortality....

What was life for?

6

The burial was to take place before sunset.

During the afternoon, the chapel bell had tolled intermittently and

alarmed pigeons had flown about. Even the livestock had become

restless. Small boys, Caterina's friends, had yanked the bell rope,

their ragged shirts and trousers flapping dismally.

Manuel and Salvador carried the casket out of the chapel, following a

path through the grove. The flowers on the box caught at branches and

twigs, falling, littering the route. Bougainvillaea, cup-of-gold,

roses, lilies, jacaranda blossoms that had survived the wind, rain and

hail. As the men put the casket down by the grave, a hummingbird dived

and clicked at the flowers; the men stared sadly; the ebony rapier

poked; the red-green-blue feathers throbbed; then a second and third

hummingbird whisked the blossoms.

At the morning chapel service, the ceremony had been touching because

Vicente had raced from the room, sobbing. Gabriel had not said the

right words: his mind had turned back to Italy and his reminiscences of

the death of a childhood friend had indicated more than he had intended

of the transience of life, the beauty of childhood. Peasants had

crowded the chapel: men in white, women with blue _rebozos_ over pink

and white blouses and skirts, half clad children.

Someone had heaped bougainvillaea over the altar and on top the

mango-shaped glass dome that protected the jeweled virgin of Petaca. A

wreath of pink and white carnations had leaned against the casket.

Candles had burned on the altar and at the ends of the coffin. The

virgin's jewels, her rubies and emeralds, gleamed.

Lucienne von Humboldt had come first. From her hacienda, Palma Sola,

by the ocean, she had driven to Petaca in her blue and yellow victoria,

scarred and bitten by sea air. The black she wore made her seem older

than twenty-six, and accentuated her auburn hair and the Germanic

character of her face. Her hazel eyes, glossy thick hair, and

rose-colored skin impressed everyone.

Baroness Radziwill and her big family had arrived next, a wreath of

evergreen on the carriage top. She had placed a gold plated

candleholder for Caterina and lit it herself. A beautiful woman in her

sixties, with gray hair and black eyes, she had a motherly manner with

everybody.

Count de Selva had come with his fat wife and three sons. As workers

gathered in the forecourt, afoot and horseback, the Count had remained

in his carriage. His servant had cleaned off the mud-spattered coat of

arms on the doors and had polished the blue running boards and fenders.

An obese, asthmatic man, de Selva preferred to wait until the chapel

ceremony began before showing himself; he had come only out of respect

for the Medina family, scarcely remembering Caterina.

Lucienne removed a ring from her handbag and buried it among the

flowers on top of the casket, Manuel and Salvador waiting in the shade

of a palm tree. She nodded to them and said:

"I put it in there. She wanted to ... I had promised it to her." She

did not care whether they understood her.

She wondered if anyone realized the courage it had taken to come here.

Was Angelina defiant? Was she terribly bitter? Her face, so forlorn,

had filled her with compassion. She should never have come to Petaca

... her city friends meant so much to her.

Neither man spoke; it was not for them to comment. Manuel admired

Lucienne for her love of Raul and her affection for Caterina, and he

appreciated the hundreds of kindnesses she had shown him through the

years. They had been friends since her girlhood. Her beauty filled

him with pleasure. Noticing her black dress, he recalled her recent

return from Europe, the hatboxes, suitcases full of gowns and

high-heeled shoes ... things she had forgotten for her garden. Anyone

who appreciated plants and flowers as much as she appreciated them had

a place in his heart.

Raul found Lucienne by Caterina's grave, and her black clothes startled

him. They shook hands, their eyes lowered; he could not bring himself

to look at her; he had merely glimpsed her at the chapel service.

"I'm sorry you lost her, Raul," she said.

"A lovely girl," he said, as if he had memorized the words.

"Such a dear child. I loved her."

"She wants you to have Mona," he said.

"Mona, her little dog?" she asked, hoping that a few words, any words,

might lessen his strain. Such a sad, dark face.

Palm fronds laddered the space behind her.

"You taught her to collect plants and butterflies."

"Did I?"

"Now God has taken her...."

"I wish I thought so, Raul."

"Don't say that," he objected.

"You know how I feel, you know what I believe. I can't lie, even at

this time." The gentleness of her speech took away its offense. "I

wish I could believe in immortality. It would be my comfort too, you

know. I need that comfort."

Raul fingered his pipe in his pocket. It was not often he resented

Lucienne's Teutonic independence, her foreignness, her atheism.

Glancing beyond her, he felt the sorrow of his friend Manuel, expressed

in his face, stooped shoulders, and bowed head. He looked at the raw

burial place, the palms with their tattered greens and browns, fronds

over the headstones and markers in this family plot. A mound of vines

hid his grandfather's stone, and the same vines in exuberance scrambled

toward the newly upturned earth that would cover Caterina. Raul

determined to have the cemetery cleaned and properly tended: by the end

of the week the graves should be cleared and reornamented with shells.

Men were approaching, carrying Don Fernando, who had refused to attend

chapel service but who had demanded to be brought to the grave. The

men stumbled over roots; Fernando cried out; lizards fled under vines;

birds soared away.

The Radziwills and de Selvas walked together and Father Gabriel and

Angelina followed; then the peasants, like white ants, sifted through

the grove. Vicente, ashamed of himself, had hidden in the stable.

They were a courageous-looking lot. The sunburned _hacendados_ had the

bodies of people who live outdoors, for even the asthmatic Count had

been a stockman. The powdered women stood out among the peasants who

needed only a feather or two to put them back a thousand years. Fine

faces, buck faces, pretty girls, hags with tortilla cheeks, all gazed

with sympathy at the grave of the child.

A bright cloud hung over the group, its shadow twisting toward the

slope of the volcano. Shadows flecked the grove, the bent heads, the

casket and its wilting flowers; other shadows fled across fields where

oxen grazed. Gabriel said a few words and prayed and Angelina wept,

clinging to Raul's arm, hating his black, hating Lucienne. She longed

to return to her room and hide her grief, to be away from Lucienne's

auburn hair, her placid face. Had she never known tragedy? Why had

she come? Not out of respect! No, no ... to see Raul, to bribe him

away, to laugh at her sorrow ... let me go, Raul. I'll go back alone!

Slowly, everyone began to leave the grove.

Raul thought himself the only one left, and then he saw his father in

his chair among the trees. A great iguana peered at him from a palm

immediately behind: its iridescent greenish head and dark eyes faced

the ground, the tongue licked out. Click, click, ssh, ssh, said the

blackbirds.

"Shall I call the men to carry you?" asked Raul.

"No," growled Fernando. "I told them to leave me here."

A flock of parrots fanned through the wood, loros, with red on their

shoulders, yellow daubs on their beaks.

"My wife's gravestone is the parrots' roosting place," said Fernando.

"She gave up her fight too soon. They'll not dump their excrement on

my grave any sooner than I can help it."

Raul kicked at a scrap of palm and admired his courage.

"Death is for fools," the old man spluttered.

"Then we're all due to be fools," Raul said.

"Light a cigarette for me."

Raul's wax taper flared and dropped among the fronds and and grass.

"Caterina was no fool," Fernando retracted. "But you shouldn't have

buried her in her scarlet dress."

"What would you have liked?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Your men have come to carry you."

"Let them wait. I came to sit and think. I'm old enough to sit and

think. Over there is Pepe. He called himself 'The Tiger.' Under that

crooked palm is Mama; I was glad to see her go because she never had a

well day. There's Papa--the man I murdered. He'll be glad to see me

go." The old man's voice was blown by the wind. "I counted them one

day last year ... quite a lot of them buried there. The jungle has us

under its vines and lianas and rot...."

"I'll have this place cleaned next week."

Fernando guffawed.

"You'll have it cleaned. What for? Can you keep back the jungle? Are

you thinking of Caterina? The jungle has her already. This palmera

stretches all the way to the Pacific. You can't stop it, boy....

Neither can you change the hacienda."

"I can try."

"I'll stop you whenever I can. I've decided to have a special chair

constructed. In my chair I can look after the hacienda."

"No, Father. Your day is past. It's my job!"

Fernando spat. "You and your radical ways. God, you can't run this

place!"

"Why not?"

"Everyone will laugh at you."

In the tree behind Fernando, the iguana decided to climb higher, its

head waggling, tongue forking.

"That's the least of my worries. I'm thinking about the people and

their chance to live as men ought to live."

"They're not men," said Fernando, coughing over his cigarette.

"They've been called animals, many things. I think they're men."

"You'll ruin Petaca ... I could summon a lawyer and preserve my

control. I suppose you could declare me physically or mentally

incompetent. It would be touch and go, maybe one bribe against

another. I'm not that kind of fool. We'd lose Petaca. I'm not that

far gone."

"The courts are no place for us," said Raul, knowing how easy it would

be to expose the Medina crime; he began to walk away, thinking of

Caterina, disliking the conversation, the grizzled face of his father.

"I hadn't finished speaking," said Fernando.

"I don't want to listen."

"I've talked to Pedro."

"I told him he had to go."

"He'll stay," the old man croaked.

"Let's keep sane," said Raul, curbing his emotions, shutting down on

his voice. "You must accept my way; hostility will finish Petaca. We

have to settle things between us. It's time I had the administration.

You've had your day. There never has been any mutual planning, so now

I have to work out the problems alone."

"I tell you, you'll ruin Petaca!" Fernando exclaimed; his cigarette had

died out, but he still held the stub between his fingers.

Parrots jabbered and a few of them roosted in the iguana tree.

"Get me out of here, before the parrots use me for a headstone!"

"I wish we could work together."

"That's sentiment--not sense. I've never wanted to work with you or

anyone. In Europe, you picked up ideas. Hell, I know what men are. I

know what life is!" He shouted for the men who had been lugging him;

his voice broke and became that of an old woman. "Get me out of here,"

he quavered.

Raul followed a palmera path that wandered toward the ocean. He

thought: I won't forget that place with the old man's talk squirming

among the graves. Tomorrow I'll go back and see whether her grave has

been taken care of ... maybe I'd better go back later tonight....

From a hill, the hacienda resembled a small fort, disguised among

garden and trees. The volcano blocked the horizon, dragging an ugly

purple scar above the green valley and dark green lagoon. Where banana

trees fanned into a screen, Raul sat down, overcome with grief. The

banana leaves, shaking in the wind, chopped his thoughts to fragments:

he saw the open grave, Caterina in her red dress, the chapel, and

Vicente running away, Angelina crying: it would have been better to

have put Caterina in a buggy and taken her to Colima, as sick as she

was. How stupid to have become dependent on Velasco and Hernández.

What is wrong with people? he thought. He felt more and more confused.

The shaking leaves irritated him; he felt shut in, dominated by the

grove. Shortly, he rose and walked through the palmera, to find the

spade sticking where the workmen had left it. It was dusk now and

fireflies blinked yellow and green. One of the bugs flickered about

him, as he began to shovel the dirt onto her coffin. Stars were

brilliant ... fronds motionless now. The spade rasped. The box

sounded hollow. Raul brushed away sweat. The smell of the fresh earth

choked him and he leaned on the handle, remembering that she had dashed

after fireflies, shouting, bottling them, sharing them with Vicente.

Salvador found Raul leaning on the spade and, without a word, took it

and went on filling the grave.

"Let me have a cigarette paper, Don Raul," he said, as Raul started off.

"Of course," said Raul, and gave him paper and tobacco.

As Raul passed the corral, Chico neighed. Head over brick wall, he

called and Raul thought of a night ride and then dismissed the idea.

While he stroked the horse's head, Manuel joined him and they lit

cigarettes: as the match flared, they studied one another, read one

another's minds, a communication without words.

Raul inhaled deeply, and said:

"I know a sculptor in Guadalajara and I'll have him make a bronze

figure for Caterina's grave. The next time I go to Guadalajara, I'll

visit his studio. I want the figure of a young girl carrying flowers.

Our family burial plot is as cheap and ugly as the fields. It doesn't

have to be."

"Caterina deserves something good," Manuel said.

Raul patted Chico's nose and distended lip, and the horse bobbed his

head, snuffling.

"I must go and be with Angelina now," Raul said. "I don't know where

she is: is she in her room?"

"Father Gabriel's with her. In the living room."

"I'm glad of that. I'll join them."

He felt tempted to mention the owl's cry in the night: no, that would

be unwise: peering at the sky, he imagined broad, dark wings headed for

the lagoon: the bird would glide low, searching for a frog in the

sedges, a snake, a toad ... a child.

7

Lying in the palmera, Raul wiped his handkerchief over his face. The

August heat sopped matted fronds of trees, trickled down lianas, webbed

ladders of foliage. A cooked iguana revolved on the bamboo spit in

front of Raul. Manuel, squatting on his heels, turned the iguana over

a tiny fire. Raul sat up and removed his revolver from its holster and

began reloading, cursing the border fracas that had taken them so far

from Petaca. As he shoved in a greasy bullet, the earth commenced to

rock, trees shook, lianas bent.

The men gaped at one another. A growl drummed underneath them, drummed

at the palmera, rattled rocks and seemed, somehow, part of both earth

and sky. Raul felt the sand give underneath him and sprang up,

revolver in hand. The palm next to him, a tree many years old, leaned

over, and then the growl passed farther away and disappeared.

"That was a bad one," Manuel said.

"The volcano," said Raul.

Another shock reached them as they ate their iguana: the sand heaved,

palms waved like flags; numbness hung in the air; the sun died out;

birds cried as though in pain. A full-grown _tigre_ rushed past

Manuel, crazed with fear. His plunge sent up a flock of birds that

cackled insanely.

"Let's get where we can see the volcano," said Raul, stuffing his mouth.

"Listen," said Manuel.

A volcanic explosion sounded like air passing through a bamboo tube.

"I'll see about the horses," cried Manuel.

They were yanking at their ropes as Manuel raced toward them, whacking

foliage aside, hoping he could get to them before they broke away. He

tied them to a ceiba, where they had some sort of forage.

Another explosion told Raul the volcano had let loose; he planned to

push through the palmera to the closest hill and take stock of the

eruption. With his hunting knife, he sliced more iguana and, putting

on his hat, lunged after Manuel. Rolling their eyes and snuffing, the

horses dragged at their reins and kicked. Raul grabbed Chico, and

handed Manuel a chunk of meat.

"We can eat as we ride," he said. "Let's make for the nearest hill.

Maybe we can see what's happened."

As Raul mounted, yellow cup-shaped primavera flowers spattered his

saddle, hat, and shoulders. The tree, loaded with blossoms, had been a

landmark for the last few miles. Manuel swung onto his horse, took a

mouthful of iguana, checked his rifle in its scabbard, and nodded to

Raul.

Here no trail cut through and both horse and rider had to worm ahead, a

slow, painful ride, Chico rebelling, fighting back at fronds and

lianas. Parrots sputtered and he snuffed and threw his head. When he

tried to plunge through bamboo, Manuel dismounted and swung his machete.

"We'll have to do it slow. You take my horse, Raul."

A great hive of maggots, a brown clot, in the arms of a red birch,

broke as Manuel swung the knife. Sweat dripped from his face and arms.

He stopped to peel off his shirt and knot it around his waist. His

Negroid features, streaked with dust and pocked with leaf fragments,

had whitened. He worked with big long sweeps of the machete, realizing

haste was futile. His eyes became slits, and he called back at Raul:

"There ought to be a place to break through soon ... soon now."

"You ride, Manuel. I'll cut."

"No ... you ride," said Manuel, wheezing as he chopped.

"I wonder what happened at Petaca?" Raul said.

"Plenty."

Raul left his saddle and slashed with the bone-handled knife and a load

of ants sprayed over him. He backed away, shouting:

"Next time, I'll look, and then cut."

Before long, they reached a hill strewn with wreckage from a forest

fire: old palm logs humped the sand and rocks; the horses walked across

fronds so burned and fragile their ashes rose in spurts. From the

crest they saw the volcano.

A black horse's tail, some twenty thousand feet long, arched above the

peak. The smoke seemed too enormous to be moved by any wind. Lower,

behind other mountain ranges, ranges that flanked the cone, black teeth

of rain gaped, ready to bite into the earth.

Neither Raul nor Manuel spoke. Faces streaked, their white clothes

filthy, they merely looked, steadying their horses. A chain of yellow

traveled through the volcanic smoke and then the flame became red and

gradually bloomed into more smoke.

"I've never seen so much smoke," Raul said.

"Lava must be pouring down," Manuel said, recalling his mother's

sobbing, when he was a boy; the peak had threatened them then and the

ground had trembled drunkenly. Some said she had been all right till

that day. Some said a man had quarreled with her, beaten her, and

hurled her into a corner of their hut. Manuel reached into his pocket

for a shred of iguana and chewed it and said:

"What do you think ... Do you think it will get worse?"

"I don't think so. The cone is blown open now." Raul sat erect, his

face set. "We have a long way to go and I'm worried about Petaca."

They soon found a trail and trotted their horses, horses and men

swaying to avoid lianas and thorned branches. Manuel had his machete

in its case. He slouched over the pommel and munched iguana, as if it

were chewing gum. Thirsty, he wanted to drink from their gourd but

something kept him from taking a sip.

Early that morning, men had fired on them as they searched for Farias,

missing along the del Valle boundary. While completing his check of

the upper corn crops in Sector 11, he had been taken prisoner, he and

his son, Luis.

For Raul and Manuel, it had been a dismal and useless search; the

hacienda people had said they knew nothing about Farias and Luis and

yet someone had tipped off Raul, telling him Luis had escaped and gone

back to Petaca.

Again they rode through cactus country, sandy but free of boulders, the

cactus tall and strong, with lianas and vines swinging from the top of

one to the top of another, a desolate camouflage, suggesting primordial

days.

Sky had darkened appreciably and explosions indicated further

eruptions, yet no quakes rumbled or shook the ground. When the riders

topped a ridge, long-tailed, blue flycatchers winged from cactus to

cactus, and parrots clattered in a forgotten language. An iguana slept

on a log ... all seemed normal here.

Feeling his cinch strap slip, Manuel got off, checked the strap and

yanked it up a notch. A shot rang out as he pulled the leather.

Raul felt something burn his shoulder; he felt he had been slapped by a

heavy branch; then he remembered that they had not been moving and put

his hand to his shoulder and saw blood.

Swiftly, throwing himself off his saddle, he lay on the ground and

shouted:

"Down, Manuel. They hit me!"

Manuel let go his bridle and yanked his rifle, tearing it from its

scabbard. With rifle in his arms, he looped his bridle over Chico's

head and then--all in a rolling motion--buried himself in the bush.

Quietly, he asked:

"Can you shoot, Don Raul? See anyone?"

Raul hunched along the sand, dug his toes and squirmed behind a heap of

vines and bush.

"Hope they don't get our horses," he muttered.

Pain drenched in a kind of perspiration over his brain and he lay

motionless, eyes shut, gasping for breath. He thought: It's Pedro ...

if I could only get him! It's no good, I've got to sit up, think

straight. That damn bullet can't be so bad. Can't seem to see

clearly. Now ... now, that's better. Cabrones, to chase us, hunt us.

God damn them! Ai, chingado!

Manuel had begun firing, shooting across the trail, picking at trees

and vines. His bullets clicked dry stuff and some of it shattered and

the dry shattering sound emphasized the danger. A parrot squawked. A

couple of shots spanged near Raul and he rolled on his uninjured side,

forced himself to sit up and saw three men rushing through the bush,

bent double.

"There they go!" he shouted.

Manuel fired several times, his old Remington shooting fast ... then

silence.

Raul could hear Manuel crawling toward him; the horses were moving

noisily, tangled among bushes; he recognized Chico's snuffling;

Manuel's gun clicked against a rock; leaves scraped close by; his head

appeared.

"Where did you get hit?" he asked, dragging himself closer.

"My shoulder."

"How does it feel?"

"Can scarcely see ... for the pain."

"I saw the men, had a good look. Who the hell does Pedro think he is!

Here, let me pull open your shirt, Raul. You're bleeding."

"A handkerchief in my back pocket."

"I'll need it for the wound."

"Wait ... have to move," said Raul, sitting up, so Manuel could pull

out the handkerchief. "Got to move more ... this way ... try to shake

the pain."

"Do you think you'll be able to ride?"

"Later ... I'll manage."

"You're hit deep.... Let me tear the handkerchief and make a wad."

"Aah ... aah ... I taste blood."

"You're not hit in the chest. You're imagining that. Here, I'll tear

my shirt and bind your chest and shoulder."

He was aware of the darkening sky as he ripped the shirt. He was

aware, too, of the dark stalks of cactus and bush around them, the

nervousness of the horses. All right, it was going to rain. All

right, they'd be on their way soon enough. He'd have to steady Raul,

help him mount. Lucienne's place was the closest. Tighten the

bandage, help him get up. That crazy Chico might refuse to stand. All

right, he would use his own horse.

Rifle in hand, he walked alongside Raul, his eyes mere slits. Raul

rocked in his saddle, pain making it impossible for him to sit erect.

"Slow enough?" asked Manuel.

"It's not bad."

"I'm taking you to Doña Lucienne's. It's the nearest place. Chico's

coming along behind."

"We'd better ride home," said Raul.

"It's too far to Petaca."

"I can make it."

"No, it's much too far."

The horse shied at something and the jerk cracked pain throughout

Raul's body; without Manuel he would have fallen. They rode in

silence, the rain coming in little spurts. Manuel sniffed the air--his

nose opening wide.

"The rain smells bitter with smoke," Manuel said. "Can you taste it?

Let me get in front, to keep the branches from hitting you."

From time to time he stopped, suspecting ambush; he wanted a chance to

think out his route, make it as short and easy as possible for Raul,

whose gray, tense face haunted him. Such a tortured look! What an

unlucky day--the eruption, the shoulder wound. It was as if old Don

Fernando had power over everything.

Had he clipped one of Fernando's men? Pedro's silver-buttoned trousers

had seemed close. But firing, lying down on rough ground, wasn't

accurate. A bush could deflect a shot.

In a gully, among mesquite, cacti and palms, Manuel removed the bloody

handkerchiefs, brushed off ticks, and wadded a strip of shirt. Their

water gourd held half and he made Raul drink and then sopped the inside

of his hat.

To Raul, for all the pain, the care meant a great deal, it slid him

back into the past, when he had broken his arm while playing ball with

Manuel; he recalled another morning on the lagoon, when the canoe had

overturned ... he grinned at Manuel.

"You've been around a long time," he managed.

"Got to take care of you. Can you ride again?"

"Yes."

"Have some more water."

"I can't. You drink, Manuel."

"I can wait. Let's go on, to Lucienne's."

Raul wondered, as they rode, whether neighborhood haciendas had been

damaged by the shocks: maybe San Cayetano, Palma Sola, Fortaleza, Santa

Cruz del Valle.

At del Valle the Jesuits had a _mayordomo_ nobody could reason with;

someday, when things calmed down a little, he would visit Señor Oc.

This Farias trouble had to be thrashed out. The hacienda folk

mentioned Pedro, not Oc. Was that out of fear? He knew he wasn't

thinking clearly. These border fracases were bound to lead to serious

complications. Everyone said the Jesuits mismanaged del Valle through

absentee supervision but something had to be done.

Jab after jab of horseback pain did away with his thinking. His eyes

fogged. Clinging to the pommel, he ducked when Manuel directed, let

himself be supported, swayed, straightened. Lucienne's? Where? When?

They could miss the hacienda in the growing dark. The rain was turning

cold.

But, as they neared the ocean, the rain stopped and the sky cleared and

shortly after dusk they reached her home. A frenzy of dog barks met

them, then they heard the surf and then they heard women wailing in the

open, in front of the chapel. Two bodies lay just inside the door,

covered with burlap, candles beside them.

Built in 1820, Palma Sola had the white spread of seaside haciendas of

that period: its porch stalked on salt gnawed posts, its Marseilles

tiled roof defied storm and quake, every wall was thick and every

window deep set. Grilles were salty green and shutters were paintless.

Nestled under palms, Palma Sola looked as though it could last another

hundred years.

Manuel and a servant helped Raul into the living room, and Lucienne

hurried in.

"What happened, Raul? Is he badly hurt, Manuel?"

"It's his shoulder, Doña Lucienne."

"Did Chico throw you? No--there's blood."

"Sit down, Don Raul," said Manuel, helping him.

"Not bad," said Raul.

"Sit here," said Lucienne, pulling up a chair.

Raul felt around for the chair. Dimly, he made out Lucienne; then, as

strength returned, as he drank water, he saw her, her auburn hair, her

look of concern. She touched him and at the same time he received a

shock for there, at his feet, sat Mona, Caterina's fuzzy dog, tongue

lolling. She barked happily; the bullet pain dug deeper; he tried to

rise.

"Please sit down, Raul," said Lucienne, restraining him. "Jesús Peza

is here. He can help you. Marta, run for Jesús."

Marta, a pigtailed girl, Lucienne's maid, dashed out of the living

room, with Mona at her heels.

Raul fought his dizziness and tugged at his belt.

"Drink this," said Lucienne.

Someone had brought tequila.

Raul smelled it and the strong smell helped him before he could get it

to his lips: tequila almendrada: he let the fiery stuff grab him. Why

not get drunk? Why not wipe out pain that way? What could Peza do?

"Here's Peza," said Manuel, stripping off Raul's wet shirt.

"Well, Raul, what happened, man? I see you got drenched."

"Hello, Jesús."

"Where are you hit?"

"In the shoulder," said Manuel.

"Shoulder ... hmm, hmm," said Jesús, and peered into his friend's face.

"The last time I saw you was when I filled a molar. A month ago, maybe

two, wasn't it? Well, I can help you. I'll fix your shoulder.... You

just settle back in that chair."

Jesús Peza had fixed many wounds in and around Colima: _tequila_

wounds, dog bites, stone wounds, wire, gun, knife and horse wounds: as

dentist, teeth and mouth often came last. He had not brought his kit

to Palma Sola but borrowed a poniard-like knife from Ponchito,

Lucienne's gardener. Jesús had the head of a gamecock and as he pecked

at Raul's wound he talked fast:

"Fetch me several clean towels, Marta.... Hmm, I tell you that was a

bad-enough earthquake; I don't know what's got into that volcano

lately.... Fetch me a basin of water and some soap, Manuel.... Hmm,

this knife is not so damn dull.... Hell broke loose in Colima, they

say; I've got to get back.... Did you hear about the church, Raul ...

hmm?"

"No," moaned Raul, barely hearing anything he said.

"Don't be brutal," said Lucienne, backing away.

"I'm not brutal," Jesús objected. "People who don't know anything

about surgery always accuse me of being brutal. Hmm, the probe is

already underneath the bullet. It's not so deep. I'll wiggle the

thing out in a jiffy ... now, a towel, please. Madre de Dios, no,

don't tell me I'm brutal; it would be brutal to leave the bullet in...."

Raul gasped.

"Whose bullet is it?" Jesús asked. "A friend of yours, maybe."

"Pedro Chávez," said Manuel, rolling and lighting a cigarette, wanting

to give it to Raul.

"Bad chap, that Pedro. The rurales should kill him," said Jesús, and

he sucked through his stained teeth for the bleeding annoyed him. His

gamecock head bobbed; his comb of hair leaned to one side; he grunted

and pushed.

Lucienne held another glass of tequila for Raul; she wanted to run

because she could no longer look.

"Ah," said Raul, blacking out.

"Almost two hundred people were killed in the cathedral," Jesús went

on, speaking of the Colima church. "Funeral ... that stupid rich

Navarro died and everybody went to the funeral and the roof caved in on

the people ... hmm, bad, very bad."

"Is it bad, Raul?" asked Lucienne.

"Hmm ... one should never go to funerals; I tell all my friends that.

See, look, here I have it. Here's your bullet! Rifle bullet. Quite a

chunk. I thought so. No wonder it went in deep." Jesús juggled the

bullet in his palm and poked it with the point of the poniard, one eye

shut. He was a connoisseur of bullets. Crimes of every sort

interested him. Grumbling about powder and various calibers, he worked

over Raul, stopped the bleeding and bandaged the shoulder.

Gradually, Raul sensed relief. Shifting in his chair he inspected the

servants who had been watching. Lucienne ordered Marta to clean up,

and the bloody towels and bowl disappeared. Peza, still grumbling,

went outside for a cigarette. For the moment, the cool, long room,

with its gray shuttered windows, belonged to Raul and Lucienne. She

helped him to her sofa, backed him with pillows and opened windows. A

glass between her fingers, she sipped and talked. The sea rolled its

watery sound. Raul let his eyes close, and tried to imagine he had no

branding iron of pain.

"... Two men died at the mill, when beams dropped and part of the mill

fell on them. You remember Ortiz and Gonzales?"

She was dressed in dark gray, a flowing pleated skirt with a pleated

jacket.

"... The men are lying in the chapel....

"... Jesús is going back to Colima right away. He's worried."

He tried to say he was worried about Petaca but he couldn't manage a

word.

"Some of the chapel walls have cracked," she said, still standing by

him.

Voices outside the house rose: a man shouted and boys began an

altercation; a dog started barking.

Lucienne sat on the sofa, touched his face, his hands. For a second,

she felt he was hers and the illusion pleased her; the day's trials

dropped away and left her thinking of another day, on the beach. Tide

low, they had walked to a cove where red-barked trees shaded the sand.

Some baby manta rays had been washed onto the beach; seagulls flew low

... Raul had said....

Jesús was saying goodbye.

"Goodbye, Jesús," said Lucienne. "Thank you so much. I hope

everything's all right at your home in Colima, with your family. Tell

the padre about Ortiz and Gonzales. Perhaps he can send someone to

bury them tomorrow. If not, we'll bury them without a priest. What

else can we do?"

Jesús wore boots of brown English leather and seemed to be memorizing

their creases as Lucienne spoke. His small figure, in neat khaki

trousers and blue shirt, looked pitiful.

When he had gone, Raul had a cognac. He asked himself whether any

bones had been broken? By the shot or by the fall, when he hurled

himself from the saddle.

A white peacock perched in a long open window. It was quiet now and

the surf-sound fumbled over the dark furnishings, desks, tables, chairs

and sofas from the 70's. Things had not been well cared for and yet

their good craftsmanship fought neglect and climate. The woods were

mahogany, oak, rosamorada and magnolia. On the walls hung Directoire

prints, oil portraits and a poor copy of an Ingres nude, all of them

palely lit by a brass center lamp that swung from the ceiling on a

brass chain.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asked, from a high armchair. "How

far you had to ride to get here. Manuel is wonderful to you...."

"We should have been more alert."

"You can't always be," she said.

"I suppose not. Anything can happen in the campo."

"I'll fix you something to eat. Manuel must get you out of those wet

trousers."

"Lucienne ... you must send word to Petaca."

"Should Manuel go?"

"I think that's best."

"Try to rest.... I'll see about it," she said.

Pain kept Raul awake most of the night. All her doctoring helped very

little; again and again he saw Lucienne by the lamplight of the

adjoining bedroom; she would come and bend over him and whisper

something.

"Try to sleep....

"Are you thirsty?"

In the dim light, his face had about it the tragic quality that had

haunted her at the burial. Death was such a wearisome thing. Dear

Raul, sleep, sleep. This is really your home. We've always been kind

to one another ... we can go on being kind. We have that assurance.

Only a little while ago you and I were children, playing together....

I can see you in the dining-room doorway, tears streaming down your

face, Mama and Papa lying dead on the floor, just as they were when

they took them from the sea. Oh, love, I want to share your pain.

"Let me get a hammock for you," she said, "to let the air come all

around you. Maybe that will help you rest."

She slung a long white hammock for him and he found it more restful

lying crosswise, swaying a little....

Mona wandered in and licked his fingers, when his hand hung over the

side of the hammock. She lay underneath, on the cool tiles.

Strange, lying here in her bedroom, strange to be alive, strange that

Caterina is dead ... stranger still is Angelina's coldness, her sorrow,

her introversion ... what is it we say to one another, or don't say?

What is it that heals us? Something for one, something else for

another. She wouldn't like to care for me but she would like to look

after a child. Strange sound the sea makes, strange what life is.

In a few days I'll be back at Petaca. I'll see her and she'll ask

about my shoulder and I'll ask about the earthquake. There must be a

way to change ourselves. Lucienne says there is no God. How does she

know? Has she searched? She spends her time with her plants and her

friends. Gabriel has said "God is." For him it's as simple as that.

And I must talk to him, to change myself. Caterina didn't live for

nothing. Her faith was real to her....

Lying alone in Lucienne's tiny servant's room (a room that had no

furniture), Manuel saw his soul sitting in front of him, about three

feet high, made of clay. He had often seen it. It had a bulging

forehead, close cropped hair and scraggly beard. It spoke in an

African tongue, faintly. He listened and tried to understand. Wasn't

it repeating the same things? The voice rose. The soul seemed to

grapple with something; it snuffed the air ... Manuel, breathing hard,

turned restlessly on a dusty straw mat, woke and gazed about at the

tiny room.

Up long before dawn, he washed in the sea, ate, talked with Lucienne

about Raul's condition and then saddled his horse for Petaca.

Flashes of lightning streaked the gray sky and before he had ridden far

it began to rain. He welcomed it, glad the stink of smoke and ash

would vanish. A borrowed poncho wrapped around him, he felt warm and

comfortable; he was sure none of Pedro's men would be out in the

downpour. Passing a stone roadside cross, he thought of Ortiz and

Gonzalez, dead in Lucienne's chapel. A man's luck gave out at the

strangest moments. Raul's luck had died out yesterday. He would have

to fight back....

Slashes of rain struck across the road and men on burros appeared out

of the rain, the riders crouched under raincoats of palm, fibrous,

soppy masses. Each man bore a hoe. The burros trotted wearily, heads

down.

An embankment, gutted by years of erosion, led onto a bridge of

sixteenth century red masonry, crumbling and narrow. In the center, on

a limestone panel, a Humboldt had had a sonnet carved, before his sugar

plantation had collapsed or before his mine had petered out in Jalisco.

Empire builders, those Humboldts. Beyond the bridge, sweeping over

fields, the rain rippled over sugar cane, breast high. Above, on a

rocky hill, was the stone fence line of the Medina property, a great

crooked L.

For Manuel, the green sweep of cane held a promise: he hoped for a few

acres and felt that Raul would let him have them soon. Many men hoped

for acres of their own. Pedro had promised land, if men sided with

him, land he had never owned.

Ping of a muzzle-loader stirred a flock of duck from a Medina pond and

a scrawny, lame man popped out of bushes and hailed Manuel, a duck

slapping his leg.

"Cubo," said Manuel.

"Manuel--que tal?"

Manuel rolled a cigarette, the man walking toward him.

"Any word about Farias?" he asked of this family servant.

"Not a word."

"Raul was shot by one of Pedro's men. He's at Palma Sola. I've just

come from there."

"Is he badly hurt?"

"Pretty bad. In the shoulder."

"Madre de Dios."

His old musket and old bare legs and thin arms seemed to have been

eaten by the rain. His torn whites stuck to the quivering bird.

Thinking of Raul, he rubbed his fingers over his powder horn.

By the time Manuel reached Petaca it was nearly noon; pigeons drowsed

on the roof; dogs snoozed on the cobbles. Manuel stabled and rubbed

his horse and, while he rubbed the flanks, whistling a little, a man

hurried in: El Cisne, the stable hands called him, a flour-skinned

fellow, young, tubercular looking.

"Farias is back," he said. "And Luis, too."

"Good," said Manuel. "I want to talk to Farias. Where is he?"

"He's at the mill."

Manuel's horse pushed her nose against her feedbox to ward off flies.

"I'll be right along."

"Where's Don Raul?"

"Injured--at Palma Sola."

"Qué malo!"

They walked toward the mill, the flour-skinned fellow behind Manuel,

his whites billowing with air as he strode.

Here and there, tiles had crashed during the quake; an adobe hut, where

plows were stored, had collapsed, dumping adobes like dominoes. From a

distance, the residence seemed to have escaped. Manuel did not

question El Cisne. The path led quickly through an orange grove to the

mill, an eighteenth century building, with French earmarks, even a few

fleurs-de-lis. A Medina had hired a Gascon architect to do both mill

and house but the French influence had long ago disappeared from the

house, due to quakes and remodelings.

New ragged cracks appeared in the east wall of the mill, Manuel noted.

Men sat by the pool, Farias among them. He and Manuel greeted each

other heartily, slapping each other on the back.

"Tell me what happened."

"Pedro tried to keep me, a deliberate mix-up with some del Valle men,

to cause trouble. It's just as Luis told you. They'd have kept us

both if they could."

"You got away today?"

"I got away yesterday, but it took time to reach Petaca."

"The fools--to keep you. Raul is wounded and at Palma Sola. Pedro

tried to get him when we were riding in the campo."

Several workers stood up. One of them stopped whittling.

"What's that?" demanded Farias, instantly blaming Don Fernando. "Tell

us again."

"They tried to get Raul, out in the campo. A rifle shot. It's a nasty

wound ... deep in the shoulder."

"Did you see Pedro's men?" someone asked.

"Sure, we saw them," said Manuel.

"God damn that Chávez," a man cried.

"Jesús Peza removed the bullet.... When did Luis come in?" Manuel

asked Farias. "We lost him day before yesterday."

"He came in yesterday," said Farias. "He's dog tired but he's all

right. They stole his horse."

Above the mill, the volcano released streamers of smoke, smoke that

fanned wider and wider as it climbed. It had commenced as they talked;

now everyone saw it, considered it silently, as if hypnotized. Manuel

thought, as he looked, Raul will die. The haciendas will fall. In the

smoke he saw the bodies of peasants, dead cattle, rifles, machetes,

trees, women, children. Destiny ... the force that takes us, one by

one.

Farias stepped up close to Manuel.

"The Clarín tried to kill Raul," he said. "The man's insane." Years

of resentment went into his remark; he rubbed chaffed wrists and galled

hands and regarded his Petacan friends, most of them bearded, in their

fifties and sixties; they had stomached Don Fernando with patient

desperation; all of them craved freedom.

"Don Fernando wanted another killing," someone said.

"You'd think he'd have enough by now."

"Of course he put Pedro up to it."

"His own son ... anything to have power over us."

"Times will go worse for us, now that Raul's wounded," said a one-eyed

man, with machete dangling from a cord around his neck.

Almost superstitiously, they felt the old man would regain his power

and impose his violence. Hunger, sickness and fear had crucified their

faces and yet there seemed to be room for this new dread. A paunched

man tipped back his hat and fumbled a cigarette. Another coughed and

spat....

Ashes from the volcano sifted on the pool, gray, powder-fine, moving in

tiny eddies; the same ash flecked the men's hats, beards, shoulders and

sleeves. A swallow dipped over the pool and then banked away, as if

repulsed by the ash. Silence kicked at the walls of the mill, at the

jacarandas and palms, at the fields beyond them.

"I must go and speak to the señora about Don Raul," Manuel said,

heading toward the main house. "See me later, in the kitchen, Farias."

8

Sitting in a hammock on Lucienne's porch facing the ocean, Raul saw

himself, a self-portrait: the slightly over-fleshed face, brown skin,

tough hands, twisted eyebrows. Not a big man, part Spanish, part

Indian. His eyes had taken on a hurt look these days, his mouth had

hardened, shoulder muscles had sagged. Briefly amused, he saw himself

as a Colonial canvas--reading in a stiff-backed chair, a cat on the

floor at his feet, a vase of paper roses on a side table.

Tomorrow, Lucienne's victoria would take him home, away from lolling

hammock, the sound of the ocean, back to his people. He thought of his

wife, of her discontent. Petaca's deed, in its cedar box, had been the

deed to many souls. Yes, Petaca had drained away her spirit, warped

her. It had changed her, a painful change.... Her rebellions had been

brushed aside. The weather was bad, the food was monotonous. She

said: But I haven't any friends here. I said: Can't you read

something! Go look at the stars.

But it's so dark outside, Raul, so dark.... I love the stars, but if

we could just go to the theater tonight. I want to see a play.

Remember that play set in Salamanca.... We liked that play, remember?

You have your work. I don't see what's wrong with my wanting friends.

I went to school with them. Remember, I'm from Guadalajara.... I like

Estelle.... She's....

Slowly, Raul got up and circled the house, to the garden side.

Lucienne was talking to her gardener. He had been clipping hedges and

they walked among them, stepping over little heaps, pointing,

gesturing. Barefooted, wearing light blue, she laughed gayly at

something he said. Her hair blazed against the dark hedge, beside the

gardener, a wizened, half-naked man.

She came toward Raul. "Don't the hedge leaves smell wonderful?" she

asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Like the woods," he said.

"Let's go together one of these days," she suggested. "Way up the

volcano, the way we used to ... after the fire and smoke have gone."

"Will the fire and smoke ever go?" he said, letting his discouragement

get the better of him.

"That's no way to talk." She kissed him. "Sit on the bench, there,"

she said, quietly. "Maybe you shouldn't be walking around. I'll

change the bandage soon."

"We can skip that.... Let's leave it."

"Who'll change the bandage at Petaca?"

"Manuel."

"Not Angelina?"

"She doesn't like blood."

"Stay with me a while longer."

"I can't, Lucienne. Who knows what my father may do? With me away, he

may press every advantage."

"You must turn Pedro over to the rurales."

"I know," he said.

"Don't wait."

"I've waited too long already," he said. "But Pedro's not hanging

around Petaca, waiting to be turned over to the rurales. They'll have

to get him."

A banging started beyond the hedge, where the gardener had resumed his

clipping. Raul glanced in the direction of the noise.

"They're trying to mend a damaged spring in the victoria," she

explained. "I want them to do something to it, to make it better, for

your trip tomorrow. It will be a hard-enough trip for you, I'm

afraid." She sat by him, smiling.

"As long as it doesn't fall apart," he said.

She played with his fingers. Through his open shirt, his gold cross

dangled on his chest, reminding her she had once shared his faith, when

they were youngsters, before her belief had been destroyed in Europe.

It seemed to her everyone she had met abroad had been either agnostic

or atheist. Viewing Mexico from across the sea, the country's peasant

credulity had gradually become absurd. Within a few years, she had

ridiculed its faith.

"Raul, I'll miss you."

"You have your friends."

"No friends are like you."

"Ride to Petaca with me, Chula."

"I can't.... I must see the families of the dead. There are many

things to look after. I wonder what happened at Petaca?"

"We're buried in duties," he said too loudly.

"Is your shoulder better than yesterday?"

"Yes.... Yes."

The worker banged at the damaged spring.

"I wish we could meet soon in Colima," she said. "Will Angelina be

going away ... perhaps?"

"To Guadalajara?"

"Yes."

"Since Caterina's death, she doesn't seem to want to go away," he said.

"I've suggested it.... No, she refused."

"How long has she known about us, do you suppose? Do we know how

difficult we've made her life?"

He didn't know, but he knew he should never have married Angelina, that

he had been carried away by her prettiness, by fancy, by passion,

lopsided but nonetheless real, nonetheless foolish, passion for her

city manners, her frailty....

Really, how long had Angelina known?

Lucienne felt they had been considerate, as she thought about it, but

she wasn't sure. It struck her, with brief but keen poignancy, that

Angelina had never been married to Raul. What about her charming,

corrupt friend, little Estelle, her secrets?

Her head against him, her hand in his, he sensed the beauty of her

garden, tall poinsettias, cerise bougainvillaea, roses, honeysuckle,

_azucenas_. A row of lilies crossed a stretch of grass under crooked

cypress.... This was Lucienne's workshop. She neglected her friends

for her garden, a collector's garden: rare columbine, carnations,

violets, asters, unusual willows, acacia, papaya, fig, breadfruit and

zapote. She grew pittosporum, succulents and cacti. She had Humboldt

fever ... her hands felt rough. Something was always germinating in

her glasshouses. When she had come back from Europe, along with her

Parisian lingerie, Swiss jackets, and Italian hats, she had smuggled

seeds or plants. A Japanese rosewood on one trip, a Greek olive tree

on another.

"What happened to the camellias, the northern ones?" he asked, after a

long silence.

"They seem to be doing all right.... Will you be good to yourself,

Raul? I'm worried about your shoulder. I won't know how you're

getting along. Get well!"

The worker banged at the broken spring.

"With all these troubled times, Petaca gets farther and farther away

from me. I think about you in so many ways," she said. "Your quarrels

with your father. Pedro. Your Caterina. Ah, darling...."

"Do you really think I'll succeed in helping Petaca? All my efforts

can amount to very little in the end."

"That's all any of us can hope for," she said, "a little progress."

"I wish I had your help."

"But I'm no hacendada. I have my servants, my flowers, my trees." She

eyed her garden, its paths, its shade patterns, its sun. "Nobody is

treated badly here.... I've just four regular men now. Gonzalez and

Ortiz will have to be replaced. My women come and go. I guess I live

too near Colima to keep them long. When my old Guanajuato mine stops

paying me dividends, then I'll have to become an hacendada.... Just

now, I live in peace ... just enough ... you know, my dear."

Someone called Lucienne, and she went into the house.

Raul appreciated Palma Sola. Nowhere in Europe had he discovered such

a spot and he doubted whether one existed, such a tropic garden where

ocean sucked at discontent. Here palmera, garden and ocean talked

together--like old friends. As pain returned, he forced himself to

listen to the fronds; their brushing fingers made the sound of falling

water.

But there was more to Palma Sola than serenity: there was heat, when

the only possible relief was a dip; there were storms; there were cloud

banks and scattered fogs; there were phosphorescent waves that

swallowed the horizon.

The pain moved in again and Raul thought of Pedro. He wanted him out

of the way. Perhaps the Yaqui had murdered somebody. At the earliest

opportunity, he would spend a day in Colima, butter some palms and put

the rurales wise: the gray-uniformed men would tip their caps and Pedro

would be a marked man.

A marked man, for a dozen crimes ... the criminal instinct, nothing

else. Protected by my father. How can there be law and justice when a

single person can dictate? Yet I will be dictating when I summon the

rurales ... the law protects me against the lawless ... and the church

has a law against divorce. So I am dictated to, in turn.... Well, I

must get up and walk around, toughen myself for that long ride tomorrow.

He got away early, before the sun broke through the low mist. He

leaned out of the victoria and called goodbye.

"I hope that spring doesn't come apart," she said.

"Simon's a good driver," Raul said. "We have at least one good spring.

We'll make out fine."

"I love you...."

"Goodbye."

"'Bye, Chulo.... Write me...."

It was a superb morning, the sun barely topping the palmera, mist

blurring the ocean, haze concealing the volcano. Silver trimming on

the guard's saddle sparkled. Creaking and bumping, sagging on its weak

spring, the victoria rolled out of the sand, one of the horses

whinnying. Sand gave way to hard ground and Simon cracked his whip.

"Vamos!" he shouted to his team.

Parrots, scarcely larger than hummingbirds, flicked out of the trees

and seemed about to strike the carriage. The victoria traveled slowly,

swaying from side to side like an old fat man. Little by little, the

gray trunks of the palmera hid the beach and house.

Raul tried to make himself comfortable by pushing his good shoulder

into the cushion. I'll get used to it. Simon knows what he's doing.

There will be good stretches of road. Damn these annoyances.

Before long, they passed a family riding on burros, then several

oxcarts loaded with firewood. At noon, they saw Indian women, spinning

flax as they trudged along, their bare feet stubbing through deep sand.

Later in the afternoon, they met a hill Indian, in buckskin, bow and

quiver over his shoulder ... he dog-trotted past, saluting no one.

At dusk, they drove through a herd of belled goats. Their shepherds

had black and white serapes over their shoulders. By a campfire

alongside the road, Raul noticed a youngster with two honey bears on a

rope--cubs the size of house cats.

I'll buy one for Vicente, he thought, and leaned out of the window and

called the youngster. The carriage slumped into a pothole, and a

spring seemed to snap. Simon bellowed angrily at his horses and the

campers howled with laughter. Raul asked the boy how much he wanted

for one of his bears.

"You may have them both, patrón."

Raul recognized that hacienda courtesy.

"I want one for my son."

"They're both yours," insisted the boy, rising, drowning disappointment

behind a wooden grin. His small body might have been put together out

of muscled vines.

"For one bear," said Raul, and handed him some pesos.

The boy reached out, his pets tugging him; he bumped against the wheel

of the victoria. Raul felt the cool snout of the cub; quickly, he drew

the animal inside, where it sniffed and pawed excitedly at the closed

window.

Simon whipped up his horses.

Cuddling the furry ball under his good arm, rolling on through the

night, Raul leaned back in his seat, pleased he had something for

Vicente. Then he remembered that Vicente would be in Colima, at

school. A flash thought said: Earthquake, and he wondered what had

happened to Vicente and his school?

He hoped Angelina would greet him happily at Petaca. Why not one more

illusion? Life had so many disillusions in it before the end. He told

himself he must confess to Gabriel: or had his confessions, through the

years, been altogether too revealing? The victoria swayed and he

groaned and hugged the bear.

At Petaca, he brushed dust and hair from his freshly laundered suit

and, holding the bear under one arm, mounted the lantern-lighted

veranda steps. A number of servants greeted him. Instead of returning

their greetings, he stared at the earthquake damage: the east wing of

the veranda had crumbled into a heap of rubble; the cross of Palenque

on the roof line had fallen; a section of the garden wall had toppled;

stones, adobe, bougainvillaea and honeysuckle lay on the ground.

Inside the living room, a hole gaped at the east end.

Chavela approached him--as he inspected the damage--her big hands

bulging behind her apron.

"Don Raul, I ... Madre de Dios, que pasó! Were you badly hurt?"

"I'm better."

"You were shot ... they shot you, patrón."

"Yes ... but where's Angelina? The house has been badly damaged."

"She's upstairs, in bed. She's..."

"Is she ill? Was she hurt? Why wasn't word sent to me!"

"She feels weak, after the quakes, the volcano smoke. We had it bad

here."

"Take the honey bear, Chavela. Keep it for Vicente."

She unwrapped her damp hands and grasped the bear, frowning; she hated

all pets, feeling that they stole food from the mouths of children.

Her arms smothered the bear, and it clawed futilely.

Without saying more, Raul ascended the stairs, glad Angelina had not

met the victoria, knowing how painful the sight of it would have been

to her....

Above Angelina's bed, there was a jagged plaster crack, where a picture

had hung. Propped against bolsters, she held out her hand to him.

"Raul, how are you?"

"My shoulder's about well."

"Manuel said it was a rifle bullet."

"Jesús Peza fixed me. Lucky for me he was at Palma Sola."

"Sit down, won't you?"

"How are you, Angelina? Why are you in bed?"

"The quakes. Have you seen what they did to us?"

"I've seen some of the damage ... I just came in."

She sat up higher, her dark hair flowing around her, her eyes extra

brilliant, her willowy body showing through a gauzy pink gown. He sat

beside her and tried to enjoy her beauty, the fragrance of her perfume

and powder.

"What have you heard from Vicente?" he asked.

"He's all right. We've heard from the school." Her words came slowly.

"Who found out about him?"

"Esteban. I sent him."

"And the school itself?"

"The upper floor was damaged. Several were killed at Mountain

Rancheria.... Petaca is ruined ... what happened at Palma Sola?" Her

nose wings widened and her mouth trembled.

"Two men were killed there. I hear it was very bad in Colima. But you

must know about that."

"Yes ... yes, I heard," she said, indifferently, and her indifference,

so sudden and so cold, made him feel like a stranger.

"I heard that maybe two hundred died," he said.

"Is it true that Pedro's men ... ah, shot you?"

"There's no doubt about it. Manuel and I saw them. Pedro was there."

"When Manuel came to me, I sent him to your father."

"I'll speak to my father soon."

He wanted to smoke but did not care to let her see how his arm

movements pained him. He clenched and unclenched one hand, staring at

the wall.

"Why haven't men been put to work on the roof of the living room? A

rain will come and we'll be flooded." He stood. "I'll see to things."

She gazed past him, at the opposite wall, and saw herself wearing a fur

coat, entering the theater.... She smiled and arranged her hair.

"I'll find Manuel," he said.

"Yes, he's around," she answered, the words curt. "Let's have time to

talk one of these days. I'd like to plan to leave soon. The quakes,

the smoke, the dead ... I don't seem to be much help." She picked at

her fingernails. "You'll find time for the house ... for Manuel."

In the game room, Raul got Manuel to change his shoulder dressing.

Leaning on the pool table, he fought the pain.

"The carriage ride messed you up."

"I suppose so."

"I'll change the dressing again first thing in the morning. Hold

still."

"I'm riding to Colima tomorrow to see the rurales."

"Pedro's not here. Wait a day or two."

"Is the hole in my shoulder so bad?"

"Bad enough."

"Then I'll see Jesús in Colima ... let me sit on the edge of the table,

Manuel."

"Better?"

"Better."

"Colima got it bad, so Esteban says. Many buildings wrecked."

"So bad as that?"

"Stores have been knocked apart. The Sangre de Cristo church lost its

roof. The hospital had the upper floor damaged. Houses have gone to

pieces. People are camping in the Plaza; there's almost no water...."

"Take it easy with that bandage. We'll have to send men to help in the

town; I'll talk to Pepe, Flores and Tonal; they can help. Maybe we can

go to town together. If the rurales can't see me I can leave my

request in writing.... We'll see an end to Pedro...."

"The bastard," snapped Manuel, helping Raul put on his shirt.

"Not so fast!"

"I've just come from the graveyard," said Manuel, trying to sound

matter of fact.

Raul forgot his shoulder.

"What happened there, in God's name?"

"Some of the graves opened ... the quake."

"Caterina's?"

"I, I filled her grave ... took care of the others ... have almost

finished."

They glanced at one another, the glance of brothers, the glance of men

who had seen a great deal of life and death. Raul's hand felt for

Manuel's arm and gripped it with gratitude and affection.

9

Donato Farias:

1 bandana 0.25

2-½ kil. tobacco 2.30

cig. papers 0.70

shoes 3.50

2-½ met. cloth 2.25

(for trousers)

6 kil. beans 1.80

4 kil. sugar 1.20

salt 0.62

dried chili 0.10

------

12.72

Farias had purchased these items during the last month.

Each week he earned twelve pesos but received nothing in

cash. His total indebtedness at the _tienda de raya_ amounted

to 1,291.68 pesos. Raul, perched on a three-legged stool at

the desk in the _tienda de raya_, mumbled Farias' name and

x'd his account; then signed and dated the sheet. Flipping

to the S pages, he canceled Salvador's account, which totaled

over fifteen hundred pesos. Esperito, his father's bookkeeper,

had faked entries and Raul spotted them with half an eye;

the corroded brass pen between his fingers, he felt Esperito's

pocked face over his shoulder, objecting. Let the ghost

object: Esperito had been packed off to Guadalajara, to

another job of pencil chewing and peso bickering.

Raul wiped the nib of the pen on the desk blotter, pleased

that he had control and could be generous. Deliberately

tapping the tobacco into his pipe bowl, liking the aroma, he

smoked a while, hacienda noises coming in through the open

windows. Sun streaked the freckled Petaca map, with its

residence, ponds, villages, roads and mountains. His father

had tacked it up. A colored print of Porfirio Díaz (as a

young man) dangled over the stained flattop desk. A Mosler

safe, with New England autumn landscape on its door,

squatted under a heap of account books, cattle magazines,

boxes of nails, screws and bolts, its casters in dust, sand and

pigeon feathers.

All other space in the room was shelved with supplies,

soap, boxes of nails and hinges, bundles of machetes, bolts

of cloth, cans of tobacco and oil, packages of tobacco and

cigarette papers, tins of coffee and gunpowder, the thousand

and one things needed at an hacienda. A thousand times a

week Petacan men and women talked of the _tienda de raya_

and cursed its prices. The same words were heard at a

thousand haciendas. The _tienda_ was the core of the peasants'

lives, for there they bought their servitude, since no

_hacendado_ permitted purchases anywhere else. The _tienda_

was everyman's ball and chain. Sons inherited their father's

indebtedness. If a man fled, the rurales had a way of picking

him up with uncanny rapidity.

In the corner, the shelving was broken by a glass gun case:

Winchesters and Remingtons stood in a row. Revolvers and

pistols, holstered and unholstered, crowded the rack, with

boxes of shells neatly stacked behind them. The guns and

shells were the only neatly arranged things in the store.

Everything else had been put down carelessly, was dusty and

tangled with cobwebs.

Raul fiddled with the counterfeit coins a forgotten _mayordomo_

had nailed across the rim of his desk: the five-peso

silver piece turned rustily on its nail; the ten-peso coin had

a big nick out of the side; he remembered the copper

two-centavo coin was like one he had had as a boy; quite a bit

of counterfeit money had found its way to the hacienda

during the nineties.

Wind puffed through the open room.

Feeling relaxed, he got up, shut the door and walked

toward his father's room. His wound had stiffened, as he sat

at the desk, and he pumped his arm as he walked, appreciating

the fit of his new red leather boots. His jeans and gray

shirt, carefully tailored, were also new. Scratches from the

palmera marred his cheek and he picked the scab as he

paused in his father's open doorway.

"Hello," he said.

His father grunted.

"I'd like to talk to you," said Raul.

"I can't very well stop you," said Fernando. "Come in," he

added peevishly.

"I see you've had breakfast," Raul said.

Chavela was removing dishes and silver and placed them

on her Tarascan tray. A stupid grin on her face, she worked

awkwardly. Amused, Raul watched her, knowing how clever

she could be in the kitchen, supervising others. When she

had gone he pulled a chair up to the bed. Through the

grilled window, the sun spread over the carvings on the ugly

wardrobe. Fernando smoked a fresh cigarette and asked:

"Did Farias tell you that our rock fences had been deliberately

pulled down along the del Valle line? Or did he keep

that information to himself?"

His voice quavered; propped on his pillows, one arm under

the sheet, his hair uncombed, his face unshaven, he filled

Raul with pity and disgust.

"I've talked with Farias. I plan to visit Santa Cruz. I'll talk

with Señor Oc."

"You'll find him a trickster."

"I've never met him. He's your enemy, not mine."

"You imply...." The old man's voice climbed; he wanted

the peace of his own folly.

"I came to talk to you about this." Raul tapped his shoulder

where a bandage bulged under his shirt. He thought it would

be easy to say, but the words choked in his throat.

"Don't accuse me of attempting to assassinate you!" Fernando

screamed.

"I'm leaving for Colima in an hour or so. I'll have a talk

with the police. I'll have Pedro picked up and jailed," Raul

said, forcing himself to keep calm.

"Who'll be your overseer?"

"Salvador."

"Salvador, the oxcart maker! Jesús, use your head!"

"I like honest men."

With tense fingers, Raul emptied and filled his pipe; his

eyes took in the smooth, familiar bowl and stem. Neither

man spoke and the chatter of servants crossed the room;

a child called: "Run, Lupe, run."

"You may as well get it into your head that I didn't send

Pedro after you."

"You sent him after Farias."

"I wanted to involve those Jesuits. I hate those bastards.

I wanted to work up a little trouble ... we've always had

difficulties with the del Valle people." He sounded extremely

tired; a flip of his fingers sent his cigarette somersaulting

across the tiles.

Raul saw himself in his father's mirror; he shut his eyes

and bit his pipe stem.... In Guadalajara, his father had

said: "I sometimes see him...."

"You think in terms of morals," Fernando went on. "We

don't live in a moral age. Do you believe Díaz is a moral

president? Surely, at your age, Raul, you're not that blind!

You're not moral yourself--if we come to that. I've never

been moral but you, well, you seem to feel you're God himself!"

Raul wished he could forget the decayed face, the glaring eyes.

"I don't like what you've said."

Fernando chortled.

"You and your Lucienne don't like a lot of things, I gather.

She hides in her flowers and you hide in her lap."

Raul jabbed his pipestem at Fernando. "You hired Pedro;

he's been your private assassin; get rid of him."

Fernando's lips collapsed. His eyes slapped shut. House

noises filled the room.

"Let me say this," said Raul, pipe in both hands, eyes on

the smoke that trailed from its bowl. "Maybe I'm as corrupt

as you say. But I happen to love Lucienne, if that makes any

difference. I've been promiscuous.... We've all played

with hacienda girls. But you have played with lives. You've

let people starve for a whim. You've had them kicked and

whipped and killed. You've stopped our school. You let

Esperito fake entries in the account books. That's corruption."

"You should be able to name things," growled Fernando,

his hands under the sheet, the sheet under his chin. "I'm

sure you learned everything when you were in Europe, all

the pros and cons."

"The record here at Petaca speaks for itself. I know how

many men you've had killed."

"Many men have killed and not been held to account.

Every general kills."

"That kind of reasoning makes nothing right."

"Do you know how dangerous these times are?" asked

Fernando. "Do you?"

"I can only guess. Perhaps it will take only a spark."

"A spark to touch off a conflagration," said Don Fernando,

one eyebrow going up.

"You mean a revolution?" asked Raul.

"That."

"I doubt if it will be revolution. It won't get that bad. If

it gets that bad, we'll be put back a hundred years. A

revolution will cost us that much."

"You sound prophetic," laughed Fernando.

"I'm going to help," Raul said.

"I don't want to lose Petaca, whatever happens," said

Fernando, feeling the land to be his only friend.

Raul shoved his hands in his pockets and rose to leave. It

took all his will power to look at his father briefly.

"I'll send Arrillo to shave you," he said. "I'm going to

Colima. I hear the quake damage has been serious ... I

want to see what I can do to help."

The room quiet, Fernando feared death: he wanted his

son's new boots, trousers and shirt; he wanted to strap on a

gun. Through his bloodshot eyes, as he gazed at the sunny

patio, he saw himself at twenty-five or thirty, in new clothes,

stalking off to Colima. His arm refused to stop shaking; he

groaned; death would not let him alone. He tried to make

out the serpentine fountain. Was that a woman dipping

water? A girl dipping water? The dim figure reminded him

of Caterina, and he heard her reading to him, as she had sat

beside his bed. But he put Caterina out of his mind and

groped for his copper bell and rang.

When Chavela came, he said: "Pedro's at the mill. I want

him here.... Oh, Christ, stop looking like a scared calf!

Pedro won't hurt you. Get out there and tell him I want him.

And bring me another cigarette when you come back."

Fernando enjoyed the prospect of seeing his renegade; it

amused him, too, that Pedro had gotten himself into trouble.

Like an old cat, Fernando drowsed till Pedro appeared.

"What took you so long?" he began, instinctively aware

that considerable time had elapsed since Chavela had left.

"I waited for Don Raul to leave."

"Afraid of him!"

Pedro did not care to reply; he was impervious to the old

man's jibes.

One hand was stuck in his enormous leather belt, he was

dressed in white, no guns, no cartridges. His boots were

dusty. He had left his hat somewhere. A long timothy straw

dangled from his mouth.

"You went too far," Fernando exclaimed. "I don't want

Raul killed.... you were to kill Manuel. Farias was to

have been a blunder for the Jesuits. That didn't work out.

You're clever but you're not clever enough. I'm not the

murderer of my son. My business with my father taught me

something. Now, I want you to leave Petaca. Get out!"

"What?" said Pedro, hand to the straw in his mouth.

"Raul has gone to Colima to talk with the rurales. They'll

come here for you. They'll scour the hacienda. At least you're

warned." Fernando grinned at the other's dilemma. "Get

out. You're licked."

This was something Pedro had not foreseen. He removed

the straw from between his teeth and smelled the end of it,

frowning.

"You may need me," he mumbled, unable to think.

"Go to Mountain Rancheria. You have friends there. It'll

be safe enough. Get out, before I decide to turn you over to

the rurales." Fernando chuckled.

"All right. Mountain Rancheria. I'll go there ... all

right."

"Come back here in an hour or so. I'll let you have some

money."

"Give me enough for some guns. I need guns."

Pedro's face became eager; he tossed away the straw and

moved close to Fernando's bed, his spurs rattling. Bending

low, he smiled.

Fernando caught the rebel instinct in that grin. God, he

thought, to be out of bed. "Guns," he said. "Why do you need

guns? What will you do with guns?"

"Sell them, Don Fernando."

"Men are buying guns?"

"Yes. Now I can make money. Big money."

"Is General Matanzas in charge of the garrison?"

"He doesn't know people are buying guns.... He

mustn't know."

"Guns," Fernando muttered. "Money for guns."

"There will be trouble," said Pedro.

"I gather that," croaked Fernando. He no longer feared

death. He asked Pedro to have men place him in a chair and

carry him to the _tienda_. Alone, at the desk, he opened his

safe and counted 2,000 pesos for his overseer. Guns! With

the bills before him he felt powerful again. The smell of the

pesos told him insane things. The map of Petaca confirmed

his illusion: 1,800,000 acres, corn land, wheat land, sugar

cane, mountains, valleys ... his. Yet, as he stared at the

map, he realized he could not distinguish one sector from

another. Troubled, he began shuffling the bills; then he

noticed the open account book. In spite of his shaky hands, he

found the accounts Raul had canceled. Groaning, he slid

forward, tried to grasp the desk, tried to rise and collapsed.

Somehow, he held to the top of the desk. The guns in the

gun rack became sticks. The door became a black hole. He

felt his eyes ... they were still open. Slowly, he rested his

head on his arms.

Presently, someone rapped and the door opened.

"Don Fernando?" called Pedro, coming inside and closing

the door. He stepped to the desk and jogged Fernando's

back and the old man looked up; instantly, Pedro realized

he could not see.

"Don Fernando," he whispered.

Fernando could not reply. He lowered his head again.

Without hesitation, Pedro picked up the money and

jammed it into his trouser pockets; then he stood still and

listened carefully; he glanced through the open windows;

an oriole sang; a horseman clattered by; then footsteps

seemed to be coming toward the _tienda_.

One of Fernando's bearers rapped. Pedro let him in and

together they carried Fernando to his room, Chavela

hovering about squeaking and clucking. Angelina brought

ammonia. Someone went off for Father Gabriel.

Calmly returning to the _tienda_, Pedro checked the safe.

The old man had spun the dial. Hands in his pockets, walking

stiff-legged, he went to an empty stable and sat on a

feed-box. He had never had so much money. His hands trembled.

It frightened him to count it ... his tongue hung out.

"... two hundred, three hundred, four-eighty, six

hundred, seven hundred ... seven hundred and twelve pesos." He

stopped counting, hurriedly stuffed the money inside his

hat, and strapped the cord under his chin. His face was red.

His jaw sagged. Guns ... guns. They'll be afraid of me at

Mountain Rancheria. His tongue skated round his teeth. In

the gloom of the stall, he smoked a cigarette and thought of

his Yaqui home, the Sonora country, how far away it was.

Of a sudden, it seemed close. With hundreds of pesos he

could take the train.... Nobody would know him.

Again he counted the money, got up to fifteen hundred

and fifteen pesos and stuffed the bills inside his hat, fingering

his chin strap. Rising, with a great sigh, he got his horse and

threw on his saddle.

As he rode uphill, he watched volcano smoke elbow across

the lagoon, a calm gray surface. Petaca lay below. Oxcarts

crowded the courtyard as men returned from an irrigation

job along the lagoon. Sitting his gray, a spirited stallion, he

knew the renegade's fear: the Clarín had planned to pay

him off, could trap him if he wanted to. Well, Don Fernando

might never recover. To hell with Petaca and the old man!

He had money enough to make out. Roweling his horse,

Pedro climbed the slope toward Mountain Rancheria. He

would buy and sell guns there ... somebody would want

his services.

10

Alberto Saenz, the Christ-faced musician, balanced empty birdcages on

top of his head, as he trudged along the shore of the lagoon. Soon he

would reach Petaca and could rest. A string of smoke hung out of the

volcano, but the air was clear. No doubt the worst was over. Scooping

water from the lagoon, he drank from his palms, and the sedgy flavor

pleased him. Rising, he stroked his beard and resumed his walk, along

the pebbly shore. Herons let him come close, wading no deeper, beaking

their feed calmly: what harm could a fellow do with cages on his head?

At Petaca, he sat for a while on the veranda, watching, drowsing.

Workers were busy at the far end, where the quake had demolished roof

and arches. Stonecutters pecked with hammers and chisels, fast, light

strokes; a mason sloshed mortar in a box, adding sand to his mixture.

All were bare-headed, barefooted and all wore white. Alberto wore

white--his trousers slashed on the outside, above the ankles, his

buttonless shirt open on his white-haired chest. Head against a

veranda arch, he dreamed of other visits, Raul's kindly mother, the

runaway carriage from La Calera, the fiesta of the Virgin of Petaca

when they had burned four _castillos_.

Before taking his cages to Raul, he prayed in the chapel. Kneeling, he

let the whiteness of the room take him: he had been a lover of Mary

ever since he could remember: without a doubt She had saved his mother

during the black plague. Strains of music he had played through the

years came to him, as he knelt. Stepping toward the altar, he touched

the glass dome covering the Virgin: her rubies, emeralds and diamonds

never changed. Some night, as the dawn arrived and birds began their

day, She would speak and Jesus would gently remove him from this life.

Friends would wash him and borrow the hacienda grave box.

Back on the veranda, he picked up his cages, knocked, and asked for

Raul.

A new servant from Ameca said harshly:

"You wait on the veranda. No, go round to the kitchen. Get along,

wait in the kitchen."

"I'll wait right here," said Alberto, and turned away, to sit on the

steps.

Raul overheard, came outside, and accepted the cages. Together they

hung them in the patio. Alberto had ideas as to what kinds of birds

should be put inside. Raul understood how much the old man prized his

gift. He led him into the kitchen for something to eat. His bearded

face, through the closing door, brought to mind the man decorating the

hill cross and his own resolve to assume the hacienda responsibilities.

On the veranda, Raul talked with the stonecutters. In a short time the

house would be repaired. This afternoon, he had to ride to the pond in

Sector 17; the quake had cracked the dam and released most of the

water. A group of workers was already there, but the job had to be

pushed before the dry season.

Oxcarts creaked across the court, each loaded with stone for the

veranda. One cart was new, made by Salvador, and pulled by his

_garbanza_-colored oxen. Salvador drove his cart and young Esteban

rode another, his goad over his shoulder, spear-like, his team black

and white. Pigeons fluttered about the carts, as if they hoped for

grain.

Salvador greeted Raul with a friendly grin.

"It's hot this morning."

"It's hot to haul stone," Raul said.

"These loads will give us enough to finish the veranda."

"Who supervised the cutting?"

"Alejandro."

"He's doing a good job," said Raul, and started into the house, pleased

with the progress.

"Ah, before you go ... I'd like to say that Isidro found sixty pesos in

the stable. They must be yours. I have the bills." He dug into his

back pocket and drew out his red bandanna, the pesos knotted inside.

"As far as I know, I haven't lost any money," said Raul.

Salvador held out the cash to Raul, and mopped his face with the

bandana, puffing loudly.

"I'll see. I'm pretty sure it's not my money," Raul said.

"Keep it in the tienda, till you know. None of us lost it," said

Salvador, and laughed his silent, rocking laugh, his eyes dancing.

"Where would we get so much money?"

"Salvador, where did you say Isidro found it?"

"In a stall, by a feedbox."

"Queer," said Raul and took the money and went inside the house.

In the bedroom, Angelina sat beside the patio window, barefooted, in

her white dressing gown, a cat in her lap. She was embroidering a

pillowcase.

"I had a letter from María," she said, without glancing up.

"Yes," he said, hoping she would not read it, since her sister's

letters were garrulous and about people he scarcely knew.

"I got it this morning. Father Gabriel just came back from Colima, and

brought it to me." She attempted to sound sprightly.

"How is she?" Raul asked, getting his boots for the ride to the pond.

The cat jumped down and Angelina turned toward Raul, her legs showing

under the robe. A boy's legs, he thought, annoyed. A girl's body,

with boy's legs. She's never grown up. She loves children but hates

the sex act. What is it that fills her with fear? I used to try so

hard to please her ... and she tried to please me.

He struggled with his left boot.

What are the bubbles of fear behind her eyes? As if the pigment had

broken loose and was swimming to the surface. The smile smiles and the

eyes hide something.

We've lived too many years together to disentangle our emotions. The

boot hurts, at the heel ... it used to fit fine. I don't want to wear

my new ones.

María wants her to come to Guadalajara, but she doesn't need an excuse

to go to Guadalajara, or anywhere. Fifteen years ago she wouldn't have

left me for anything in the world--or I her.

Blinking at his right boot, he began to yank it on....

"María wants me to come to Guadalajara soon. She's worried about me,

after the quakes."

"I think you should visit her," he said. "Has she finished remodeling

her house?"

"The remodeling's done.... I need some mourning clothes," she said.

"Have them made in Guadalajara."

"But you know how long that takes? That takes forever." The way she

hit the last word piqued him, but he said nothing.

"I'll be glad to get away from that new cook. She puts oil in all our

food. Look how she prepared the chayotes last week! Did you ever

taste the like!"

She turned back to her embroidery, but thought:

He's putting on boots to go somewhere, he's always going somewhere.

Maybe I did say I wouldn't leave. Maybe I did say that Caterina needed

me. He never speaks of her ... he doesn't miss her.