"Do you remember the huge tree that grew in front of this house?" she
asked. "Our palma sola? It was the tallest palm I've ever seen. Papa
loved it. It really hurt him when it blew down.... Raul, have more
beans while they're hot. I'm so pleased with my new cook. She's one
of the best I've ever had...."
After breakfast, Lucienne showed him her seedling acacias for it was
early and the conservatory was still cool. A butterfly coasted about
complacently, above the tiers of seedlings now ready for transplanting.
Below the trays, on the floor, rare coconuts split their husks, their
yellow sprouts resembling boars' tusks. In a bottomless dugout canoe,
filled with sand and shells, grew dwarf cacti, mammillaria, opuntia and
cholla.
"Isn't that your father's canoe?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "I just keep it.... I like it here, a memento."
"Wasn't it filled with ferns?"
"Yes, it was."
Mona came trotting in and Raul picked her up and stroked her shaggy
gray head and shoved some of her hair out of her eyes ... her tongue
licked.
"We never escape the past, do we?" he said.
The past accompanied him as he rode home. With Manuel, he rode across
country, under ceibas and palm, the trail winding, sometimes across
streams, sometimes through boulder-piled land. They talked about
Pedro. The people at Mountain Rancheria reported he was living there,
buying and selling guns. The rurales had to be informed. It was a
six-day trip. Would they go after him?
White ibis and rosy spoonbill flew up from a small lake ... a blue
heron sat on a dead and leafless tree, its wings outspread in the sun.
An alligator splashed away from the shore as the horses trotted along a
shell-strewn beach.
"Do you remember this lake?" Raul asked.
"Sure. We shot a grandfather alligator here, years ago."
"I bagged a _tigre_ in the bush," grinned Raul, "a fast, running shot."
"There are no _tigres_ around now."
"I suppose not," said Raul. "We should go _tigre_ hunting, way up the
volcano, where there are plenty of them. Let's try our luck one of
these days."
Dismounting, they rested under _cocos de aceite_, a woodland of
thousands of short-trunked palms. They nibbled tortillas and a coil of
cheese, an armadillo scrabbling in the distance.
"I remember that when it rains here the gnats take over," said Raul.
"Ssh, see, over there," whispered Raul.
Regardless of men and horses, three raccoons, one behind the other,
filed toward the water. All stared at the ground, their tails low; the
leader had an injured paw and limped badly.
"They're late for their food," said Raul.
"Something must have delayed them," said Manuel.
Raul dug for his pipe and filled it and Manuel rolled a cigarette and
they lit from the same match. Again, something ignited in their
eyes--they felt their close communion. Saddlebag under his head, Raul
smoked, the smoke climbing and climbing, the _cocos de aceite_
completely windless.
A blue flycatcher lit on a mossy log, where it preened its wing and
tail feathers lazily.
"Have you heard that the flycatcher is from Quetzalcoatl?" asked Raul.
"Yes, I've heard that," said Manuel.
"I wonder why the old gods died," Raul said.
"People say they died because no one cared any more. Why does anything
die, Don Raul?" Manuel shook his head; he removed his hat and forked
his fingers through his hair. Faced by his own question, he felt
tired, old. The forest could answer that question. Bending over his
cigarette, sheltering it, smelling it, he listened to the woods.
"We couldn't go on living, all of us," he said, exhaling after a long
drag, the smoke flooding over his eyes. "Some of us must be lost, in
jungles, in rivers, fall on the sides of mountains, take sick of fever,
be buried in ruins and little roadside places."
"But the gods weren't buried," objected Raul.
"They were buried at Tenochtitlan, at Monte Albán, at temples in
Yucatán."
The flycatcher went on preening its lovely feathers.
Manuel lowered his voice: "Perhaps the old gods may return. I've heard
it said...."
12
"I guess it was quite a party," said Fernando.
"Yes, Father."
"Who was there?"
"General Matanzas, Serrato, Roberto ... the Count, Jesús Peza, the
Radziwills, Federicka ... several asked about you."
"Don't be so damn' polite."
The old man screwed round among his pillows, his cot in the patio of
the serpent fountain. Slouched among pillows and sheets, he resembled
a beachcomber, a feudal derelict. Behind him hung one of Alberto's
cages, an _azulejo_ fluttering inside. Columnar cypress sliced the sky.
Raul perched on a cane chair, his hat on the floor beside him. He had
just returned from an inspection of the lagoon irrigation project, a
job that would put fifteen hectares of land under cultivation.
"I saw your cancellations in the books," Fernando cried, the flames in
his eyes starting. "I want those cancellations stopped." His voice
sounded childish.
Raul did all he could to control himself: he fished out his pipe,
nicked off scale, stared at it, silent.
"You can't alter our records," Fernando exclaimed.
"I'm not keeping our people in servitude," Raul declared.
"Will you free them?" Fernando cried, lips wide. "They'll kill you!"
"We've had them killed. Perhaps it's their turn."
"You talk like a madman!"
"Hasn't it been insane to think we can destroy and destroy and go on
destroying?"
"We must eat," said Fernando foolishly. He wanted to see clearly: the
damn' scum floated about at any time, blocking, filtering; he rubbed
his eyes.
"I'm going about the job of changing things as slowly as possible. The
lagoon project is coming along. I've had the dam repaired in Sector
17. Petaca is being improved. Our people have a right to a better
way...." He thought he could not go on defending himself, repressing
his feelings. "You say we must eat. God knows we've never gone
hungry, we Medinas!"
"Listen," Fernando said. "I've disposed of my mining shares in Pachuca
Incorporated. The money is banked in my name now."
Raul had counted on the dividends for further improvements. He had
counted on them as a financial buffer as well. His lips went white.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard you."
"You talk of improvements. I'll cut your income. I can control
Petaca." Fernando's sheet billowed and sank back.
"You can't!" Raul exclaimed.
"Raul--you can't better Petaca on one hand and undermine it on the
other. Your radical ideas will ruin us."
"So we must hold our own by destroying others."
"It's a system like any other."
"That's no excuse."
"What will you do? Divide our land? The Indians owned it once. Will
you give it back?" His voice crackled.
"That can be answered later," Raul said.
"When? Tomorrow? Next month? How long will you wait?"
Raul replaced his pipe in his pocket and forced himself to reply: "I
haven't decided how to act."
"You'd give our land away!"
"No, Father. I won't give up Petaca."
Fernando forced a quaking hand from under the sheet and wedged a pillow
behind his back. Except for a general diffusion of yellowish light, he
could see nothing.
"I'm almost blind," he mumbled. "When is that optical fool coming from
Colima to fit my glasses? Blind ... you know what it is to be going
blind? Give me a drink."
As the old man drank, he thought of Pedro; he trembled; his fear of
death returned, and he did not want Raul dead.
"Don't go, Raul. Sit down, wait."
Raul held the empty glass and remained standing.
"Did General Matanzas speak to you ... of a new president?" he asked,
with difficulty. He had difficulty in swallowing.
"No. He was drunk."
"Who is to take over Mexico ... does anyone say?"
"Nobody knows."
"What utter fools," he growled. "A ship without a helmsman.... And
here at Petaca I must fight you." Then he said, sadly: "This is a time
of rumors about revolt, about partition of land.... I don't like a
time of rumors." He cleared his throat.
For the first time during their conversation, Raul considered his
father carefully; he saw that he had lost weight; the gnarled face had
shrunken; both hands trembled now. No one had troubled to wash his
hands. No one had combed his hair.
Raul went for Chavela and brought her back with comb and brush and pan
of warm water and cake of soap. As she held the basin, he washed his
father's hands, remembering some old legend of men deriving power and
adding to their own longevity by such an act. Chavela dried Fernando's
hands and washed his face as he lay with eyes closed, silent. He fell
asleep, while she combed and brushed his hair. Raul got his hat and
climbed the stair to his room. At another time he would question
Fernando about Pedro's gun smuggling.
In his bedroom, he smelled Angelina's perfume and, as he changed from
boots to shoes, he went over their disaffection, wanting, no matter how
absurd, how contradictory, a touchstone that might bring about harmony.
Downstairs, Gabriel rested, seated in a big armchair, drowned in a
book, his robe pulled up from his legs, his sandals kicked off. Light
from the veranda drilled holes through his spectacles as he read.
"When did you come in?" asked Raul, poking about.
"I've been at the bookcase quite a while. Last week I got lost in
Josse's _Historia_ and now I'm trying Locke's essay on _Understanding_."
"I'm the one who needs understanding."
"Not as much as I need it," said Gabriel. "What is it we need at
Petaca?" he wanted to know.
"Friendship."
"Can that be it, Raul?"
"You taught me that, Gabriel. You've looked after the cuts and bruises
and listened to the bitter stories. You've found ways of expressing
friendship in the little things, a new altar cloth, medicine for
Motilinia, a straw horse for a boy's birthday."
Quiet, Gabriel thumbed the leather book; for years he had encouraged
one after another; it pleased him that Raul should speak out. What he
had accomplished he could not say.
One force had worked consistently against him and that was Don
Fernando.... As enemies, they had stormed over every sector of the
hacienda. Already Raul had re-opened the school and secured a teacher,
an able young man from Manzanillo, handy with guitar and songs.
Secretly, Gabriel was a little jealous of Raul's successes. But he
knew the inner man, the inner conflicts, and probed no more.
Both read in the shuttered, still living room. The bookcase occupied a
corner, the top of it strewn with bric-a-brac: silver cup, barometer,
Dresden doll, porcelain animals, the deed box.
Raul took down the _Journal of Las Casas_ and after reading a while at
random he said, "I never find much time for reading any more."
"In Italy, I read a book a fortnight ... that was my goal."
"Perhaps life was easier in Italy."
"It's a matter of habit," said Gabriel.
"I'm sure you're right. I get more out of my smoking than I do out of
my reading."
"When I first came, I read till late every night," Gabriel said.
"I remember how late your light used to burn."
"Well, my eyes aren't up to that kind of reading any more," said
Gabriel, regretfully, and fingered the bow of his glasses.
In a loud voice, Salvador called Raul from the doorway of the veranda.
"Tomás is hurt," he said, as if reporting the weather.
"Which Tomás?" asked Raul, laying down his book. Petaca had two,
little and big, both stable workers.
"Little Tomás."
"What happened?" asked Raul, rising.
"His leg."
"Yes."
"A horse kicked him. I think the leg is broken."
"I'll go with you," said Gabriel.
The man lay on the ground in a stall, almost buried in gray straw and
gray light. An enormous dusty cobweb drooped above him.
"Are you badly hurt?" asked Raul.
"Yes ... patrón."
"Where?"
"My leg, patrón."
"Where--down low, or high up?"
"Low."
"Umm, I wouldn't want you kicked in the groin. Help me lay him flat,
Gabriel."
Storni knelt in the dirt and together they made Little Tomás more
comfortable. They removed his sandals and explored the injured leg;
the break was obvious.
"Let's take him to my place," said Gabriel.
"Where do you want him?" asked Salvador, and bending over he gathered
Tomás as if he were a child.
Tomás began to whimper.
"No, no ... take me to my hut," Tomás begged. "Patrón ... por favor."
"It's closer," said Raul. "Take him to his own place."
It made no difference to Salvador; he said something cheery and
swaggered out of the stall and across the stable yard to the row of
huts built recently. Tomás and a friend shared a hut. Salvador laid
him on a straw mat, just as he would set down pottery. The man-length
space had no furnishings, but Tomás' macaw wabbled in and climbed onto
his arm and, when Raul scared off the parrot, it squatted in a corner
and clicked its beak peevishly.
"I'll go for Velasco," said Gabriel. "I'll get him here as soon as I
can, Tomás."
Raul had Salvador bring water; there in the hut some of Tomás' fear
vanished; he managed a twisted grin; his face, streaked with straw and
sweat, had the eagerness and pathos of a student. Salvador's corn cob
fingers removed straw from his hair; sitting beside Salvador, Raul lit
a cigarette and then a second one for Tomás.
"What horse kicked you?" he asked.
Salvador picked up more straws.
"Yours ... Don Raul."
"Chico! That damn' horse! What the hell was Chico doing in that
stall, Tomás?"
"I was leading him ... to be shod ... he kicked me ... I fell into that
stall ... I fell."
"Ah," said Raul, smoking, disappointed in Chico.
Later, outside the stable, he watched men curing a batch of iguana
hides; they had the pelts submerged in a chemical solution and kneaded
them with wooden mauls. Other men padded saddles with milkweed and
sewed and polished leather. Under a thatched _ramada_ they had a dozen
saddles on saw-horses; he noticed one of his own, a reddish McClellan,
from Texas. The air smelled of leather, strong saddle soap and polish.
Sun streaked the stable wall. Raul strolled among his men, chatting,
whistling, smoking.
A teenager, in torn shorts, gutted a snake. Above him, head high from
the ground, in a carved niche, stood the figure of St. Christopher. A
Medina had placed it there generations ago, a pink stone carving done
by a local artisan. A snakeskin dangled from St. Christopher's arm and
another swung from the saint's sandal. The snake collector looked
worried as Raul inspected his workshop.
"Why do you want so many skins?" Raul asked. "Are you trying to get
rid of all our snakes?"
"No ... to make belts."
"You cure them for belts?"
"I can make other things." The youngster could scarcely work his
tongue; he thought Raul would accuse him of selling his products; he
leaned over so far his straight hair touched his bloody knife.
"What can you make?"
"A pouch ... maybe a hatband."
"Make me a tobacco pouch. I'd like a small one, about this big."
"Yes, sir." (Faintly)
"Make me a good one."
"Yes, sir."
He believed in the man's kindness.
The snake boy and Little Tomás and his father faded from Raul's mind as
he walked toward the burial plot in the grove. Juggling a smooth white
stone, he walked past the rear of the mill; above--he did not stop to
look--gulls cried. Usually gulls did not fly this far inland. A dog
barked ... it might have been Mona chasing after a girl's ball.
The graves had been redecorated with shells; the jungle had been pushed
back; lianas had been cut; vines had been ripped down; trees had been
trimmed. For the first time in years he read his mother's name on her
marker. Her marker consisted of a red _cantera_ globe; he sat on it
and listened to the gabble of parrots and still, high up, somewhere,
the cry of gulls.
In a few weeks Caterina's bronze figure would be cast and, if the
artist remained faithful to his sketches, it would be a graceful girl
bearing a bouquet of roses in her arms, her dress swirling over bare
feet. Soon it would acquire a patina and become part of the jungle.
Perhaps it would tell others what a beautiful child she had been.
Perhaps ... then he remembered his murdered grandfather and looked at
the marker Roberto had set up, a dignified shaft of fluted marble.
Time had cracked the stone and quakes had knocked it out of line ...
nothing defied the years.
Nothing had helped his father forget his crime.... He, too, was buried
here, the best of him, the kindness that a man normally had.
He returned slowly to the house and sat on the long veranda. Men had
gathered in the court; one had a guitar and his voice had the old
pleading tone. Rocking on an old hide rocker, Raul listened to the
singer as the sky filled with stars. The big dipper hung above the
court. Someone lit a bonfire. Suddenly, Raul realized that Manuel had
been sitting near him for some time.
13