"Dear Estelle,
"As you said, it must be destiny that brings me back. Something rules
me. As I rode out of Guadalajara, I felt a harshness clawing at my
brain. Poor thing, she can't tell the shape of her mind or why it
cries so, or what it wants. Of course it wants you, but there is this
something else, dark, darker than I dare admit.
"So when I got back to help with the fiesta, I wanted to see if I could
straighten myself out a little. I fixed all the clothes for the
Virgin, and dressed. I thought: this is the last time. But Trini came
in and we got to laughing.
"Fiestas are such bores, and this one was no exception. They praised
Farias for getting in the best corn crop ever. There were Indian
dances--the viejitos were best.... Doblado killed his bulls as badly
as ever ... fireworks ... and all the time I kept thinking of Lucienne,
because she came and met Raul secretly. So people told me. I wanted
to get sick.
"Raul and I had a bad quarrel, at supper, only yesterday. He said: I
want you to live in Guadalajara permanently.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Can't
you stand me any more?' And he turned white. I thought he would
choke. I just stared at the candle flames prettily. I wonder how you
would handle him? He said: 'You came back to fix the Virgin's
wardrobe. It's something you always liked to do. You can come back to
Petaca, any time. I'm not banishing you.'
"'So I can come back sometimes--how nice! And do you want to keep
Vicente forever?' I cried.
"'We can share him, as you like. We can work that out later.'
"'Why later? Later! Haven't we waited too long?'
"'Too long for what?'
"'For me."
"It went on and on. He says it's for my own good. But now I'm sick,
and I can't go away...."
Abruptly, she got up from her desk. Barefoot, in a loose gray robe,
she walked to the veranda windows, already hating what she felt she
might see: men on horseback, women and children, people walking and
talking. She had been writing very rapidly, and rubbed her hand as she
gazed out. She thought she heard Don Fernando call, and went toward
his room, dream-walking, one hand over her breast, the other lifting
her skirt a little.
The old man was raving at Chavela, who seemed frozen to one spot, a
dishtowel over her arm.
"We must wipe out such crooks as Enriquez and Ricardo Magon! What
messes they made in Chihuahua and Coahuila! There's more than meets
the eye in their actions."
He squirmed under his bedclothes, the sheet sliding over his head so
that only one eye stared out.
"Listen to me: under Porfirio Díaz we have known prosperity ... our
centennial celebration told the world ... there must be no political
tricks."
When Angelina appeared, Chavela nodded and went out, shaking her head.
"I'm here," said Angelina. "Chavela had to go."
"Angelina, come sit by me. Fix my bed.... We must find another Díaz.
We can, you know." He talked a while longer, as she arranged his bed.
She sat beside him, her hands limp in her lap. She remembered a dream
she had had during the night. Caterina had been frisking in the patio
with Mona. Mona had just been washed and combed and her gray-gold hair
stood up beautifully. Caterina wore a scarlet dress. She tossed Mona
a ball, but as Mona ran toward her she became a dog of glass bones and
glass hair.
Angelina trembled. She whispered to Fernando:
"It was a glass dog ... Mona's a glass dog."
He didn't hear her.
Afraid, she climbed the tile stair to her room and locked the door.
She moved stiffly to the window, and looked down to the patio fountain
and cypress below. She thought she saw Raul lying beside the fountain.
Men began to whip his naked back. Drawing the curtains, she threw
herself on her bed and began to talk to herself.
"I mustn't blame him for Caterina's death. I must stop thinking about
her. About Raul. I must just let things drift along. Nothing has
changed, not too much.... I must think that nothing much has changed.
It has to be that way. Close the shutters."
With a great effort, she got up and took her embroidery and began to
stitch.
Just before supper, Raul found her asleep across the bed, her fur over
her shoulders. He had a hard time waking her and when she woke she
griped childishly:
"Go away," she said, "let me sleep. I need rest, please let me sleep.
I won't eat any supper. I don't want any ... just let me sleep."
He helped her to bed and then went outside. The moon was low, the
stars faded, the volcano glassy. Coyotes barked behind the grove. He
felt stupid about Angelina. Could the doctors help her?
He longed to paddle across the lagoon. Why not find Manuel? He
knocked at his door and Manuel flung on his shirt and joined him
gladly. They spent most of the night on the water, paddling and
talking together in Indian and Spanish, about his mother, the beauty of
darkness, ghosts, the good old days.
They returned near dawn, had something to eat in the kitchen, and said
good night. Raul tried to slip into bed carefully and not disturb
Angelina, but she straightened and said:
"Where have you been?"
"Canoeing."
"I wish you wouldn't go on such escapades. You're not a boy."
He did not reply, but adjusted his pillow and tried to settle onto the
mattress.
"I want to go to Colima tomorrow," she said, her head turned away. "I
must leave Petaca, if only for a day. I want to see Vicente, too.
Don't you want to see him? The church has been repaired, Raul, and we
must attend Mass, on the first of the month. A ceremony in honor of
the reconstruction. The hospital isn't fixed. Why are they so slow?"
Her husky voice, softened by her sleepiness, lulled Raul.
When she woke, men were loading stone onto an oxcart in front of the
house, burros were trotting over cobbles, boys were spinning tops.
Glancing at Raul, sprawled on the bed, she tiptoed to the bathroom.
Her maid had already filled the tub, and she sank into the cool water.
"Ah," she sighed. "Clavo said, 'It is the flesh ... with lightning in
each bone' ... cool water ... morning...." Her face looked younger.
There was no fear there.