When Raul awoke and went downstairs, he saw Angelina driving off in
their carriage. He had meant to accompany her, but had been too sleepy
to say so. From the veranda, he enjoyed seeing the Placier sway down
the eucalyptus lane, its spokes shining. Someone had harnessed two
blacks and two whites, splendid horses!
After breakfast, Raul went to the mill to see Farias, who had his room
on the second floor. As he climbed the outside stair, a peacock wailed
on top the wrought-iron railing. Raul shook the rusty rail and the
bird spurted to the ground, shrieking as it fell.
He knocked on the door of weathered pine. There was no answer. A
large knothole had fallen out at head level, and he looked inside.
Someone lay on the bunk, his arm flung over the side. Pushing the
door, which swung heavily, Raul stepped in.
Blood stained the floor, serape and bunk. Raul rolled the man over and
removed the serape from his face and chest. Someone had beaten him ...
Farias was dead....
As if he had been struck, Raul stepped back.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "Que paso! Luis, Luis!" he shouted. Where
was Farias' son?
On the stairway, clutching the rusty banister, he called:
"Luis ... Salvador ... Manuel! Get Dr. Velasco!"
Then he returned to examine Farias. The man felt cold. Without a
doubt, he had been murdered hours before. But by whom, why?
Presently, a corral man came and then another; he sent one of the men
for Father Gabriel and another for Luis. He covered Farias and sat on
the stair, his eyes shut. He blamed his father, blamed himself ...
this was another ugly mess for Petaca. What was wrong with men?
Gabriel limped up the stair, a torn notebook in his hand. He must have
been doing some scribbling when the corral man called him. His glasses
seemed about to plunge from his nose. Breathing unsteadily, hand on
the rail, he paused by Raul and asked:
"What ... happened ... to Farias?"
"Someone killed him."
"Let me see. Step aside."
Raul stepped away.
"Let me see." Raul watched as Gabriel folded back the blanket and
crossed himself.
"Madre de Dios ... dead. Who could have killed him? He's been beaten.
Blood all over. Why, Raul! Raul, where's Luis?" He began to pray,
asking understanding, asking peace. Adjusting his glasses and fumbling
with his notebook, he came toward the door.
"I sent someone to find Luis," said Raul.
Dr. Velasco arrived, annoyed at being wakened early. He had spent the
better part of the night playing dominoes, and losing. Stopping at the
top of the stair, seeing Gabriel, he said, "Now, what kind of alarm is
this?"
"Someone killed Farias last night," said Gabriel.
Dr. Velasco made a noise and went into the room.
His heavy-lidded eyes screwed up as he examined Farias: he stripped his
shirt and turned him over: a knife had gone in again and again.
Velasco had a magician's face, gray hair, gray goatee: the features
seemed to be hiding something absurd, a little vulgar; that vulgarity
and absurdity disappeared as he bent over Farias. Short, small-boned,
quick, he swung around to face Raul.
"He's been dead several hours."
"I've got to clamp down on Petaca. Who is capable of doing that kind
of killing?"
"We're rarely short of that kind of fellow," commented Velasco.
Gabriel took Luis into the room, and stayed with him, talking kindly.
Even in the bad light he saw the youngster's face grow pale; tears
streaked his rawboned features; his shoulders jerked.
"Pedro did it," Luis said.
"How do you know?" asked Velasco, in the doorway.
"Sure ... Pedro," the boy repeated, his hands waving. "You did it, you
did it," he said, as if Pedro had come into the room.
"Have you seen Pedro?" asked Gabriel, standing behind Raul.
"No. But a few days ago my father and I found his hut, near Mountain
Rancheria, in a canyon. Guns ... guns in the hut ... rifles, pistols.
Pedro came to the hut with a woman, as we hid. We tried to slip away,
but my horse made a noise. Pedro shot at us. He saw us both. He
shouted threats. He said he'd kill us. My father and I got back last
night. He was going to tell you, Don Raul."
"It's lucky Pedro didn't find you," said Raul.
Gabriel had covered Farias, and bent over him in prayer again.
Manuel appeared on the stair, stopping about midway. "Don Raul," he
said. "Did you call me?"
"Pedro has killed Farias. Have three horses saddled, Manuel. I'll go
with Luis and see if we can get Pedro. You ride to Colima and get the
rurales. Can you show me the way, Luis?"
Luis tapped his thigh where he had worn his gun on trips with his
father. "My father," he began, but his voice broke. He walked down a
hall to his own room, where he snatched up his revolver, holster and
belt. He returned, strapping them on, trembling.
"Don't go, Raul," said Gabriel, coming out on the stair. "Let the law
take care of Pedro Chávez."
Raul was at the bottom of the stair.
"The rurales can have Pedro. I won't stop them. Pedro's not at
Mountain Rancheria. We can get there before he does, if we move fast.
We'll have a chance to get his guns. Let's at least try to get them.
Come on, Luis. Manuel, look after the horses! Get water bags. I'll
see to the food. We may be able to get to Rancheria within five days."
But it was a hard push, through bad weather, and it took six days to
get there and four to come back, ten days of rough riding, wet weather,
poor food and little rest. They found Pedro's hut, his woman and guns.
Luis had to cover her with his revolver while Raul removed the guns and
ammunition, stuffing them into long grain sacks. They rode off in a
hailstorm that gradually became a torrential rain. Making a cairn, in
the downpour, they cached the guns and ammunition. Freezing cold, they
mounted and rode on, hoping to reach a cabin before night.
When they returned to Petaca, through driving mist, Raul was astonished
to see rurales in front of Father Gabriel's room. Dirty, fagged and
sore, he dismounted and gave his reins to Luis, saying: "I hope this
means they've got him."
A stranger opened the door, and Raul found Gabriel in bed, covered with
serapes.
"Raul, thank God, you're safe! Is Luis all right?" he asked.
Raul nodded and said:
"What happened to you, Gabriel?"
"Malaria.... This is Captain Cerro.... This is Señor Medina."
They shook hands, the captain holding his riding gloves in his left
hand. Raul had heard good reports of Cerro's having organized his
rurales into an efficient corps. He was hard-mouthed and gray-eyed; he
seemed the kind of a man to do his job.
"I hope you've had better luck than we've had," Cerro said.
"I couldn't find Pedro," Raul said. "I didn't expect to find him. I
found his hut and took his stock of pistols and rifles. His
ammunition. The people at Mountain Rancheria are afraid to talk about
him."
"My men got there shortly after you had taken the guns. You
disappeared in the rain." Cerro drew his gloves through his fingers as
he talked.
"We cached the guns. I'll send Luis for them with some men."
"I left some of my men at the rancheria. We're on the lookout for
Pedro. You feel sure that he murdered your man, here at the hacienda?"
"There's not much doubt about that," said Raul.
"Ana Paz came to me while you were at the rancheria," said Gabriel to
Raul. "She saw Pedro leave Farias' place early that morning. She's
been at the hacienda for years, Captain."
Raul laughed angrily.
"You'd think we needed proof that this Pedro is a murderer. There are
any number of witnesses to his killings, at Petaca. Father Storni,
Manuel Boaz, Salvador Vega, Luis."
"But I understand he committed these ... ah ... crimes ... under
orders," said Cerro.
His remark stopped Raul.
"If so, who is guilty?" asked Gabriel, propping himself on his elbow.
"The person who gave the orders," said the captain.
"My father," said Raul.
Embarrassed, Cerro shoved his gloves under his belt and moved toward
the door.
"I'll send men to del Valle," he said. "Pedro may be there. I must
return to Colima. I'm glad to have met you, Señor Medina. I hoped you
might have better luck on your hunt.... I hope you are well soon,
Father."
"Stay overnight, Captain. It's a long trip. I don't want you to leave
at this hour; you won't get in till very late. Come, meet my wife,
have supper with us."
"I have met the señora. She has been very kind. I'm leaving because I
have to be at court in the morning. Thank you. I'm sure there will be
another time."
Raul saw him outside and then returned to Gabriel.
"Well, I see you didn't take care of yourself while I was away."
"I'm on the mend--now that you're back."
"How is the fever, bad?"
"It comes and goes, not too severe."
"Has Dr. Velasco been helping?"
"Both he and Hernández. Everyone's kind, especially Angelina."
Cerro's horse and the mounts of his rurales clattered out of the court.
"I hated to lose Farias," Raul said, sitting wearily at the desk.
"I can't see why things like that have to happen," Gabriel said. "Men
have no right to assume the law. I didn't want you to go after Pedro."
"These disturbances..." Raul said, but he was too tired to finish his
sentence.
"Don't become a killer, whatever happens," said Gabriel passionately.
"In all your program here at Petaca you have avoided violence. Let's
do our best to keep it that way."
The high altitude crucifix hung in a streak of candlelight and
attracted Raul's eye. He studied Father Gabriel's face. It had such a
sickly pallor; there were rings under his eyes. Poor Italian, so far
from home!
"Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"
"Let me have a couple of those pills, in the paper on the desk. And
some water."
"Get better soon," said Raul, helping him.
"Before you leave, let me say ... how good it is to see you. I know
you're tired but you're all right." He shivered under his blankets,
but smiled.
"You'd better get some rest," Raul said. "I'm getting cleaned up."
"Will you put my glasses on my desk?"
"Of course. I'll send someone with a supper tray. In the morning I'll
talk with my father."
Raul went to his room, glad to be home, glad to hear the voices of his
servants. When he had washed and changed, Angelina came in. She wore
a blue dress and white henequen slippers. It was such a change from
the mourning clothes that he started to comment, but checked himself.
She waited, in the middle of the room, holding a vase of bougainvillaea
in her hands.
"It's so good, your being back," she said agreeably.
"It's good to be back."
"Pedro?"
"He's still at large." He unfolded an ironed handkerchief and put it
into his pocket. "Luis and I got his guns.... It's up to Captain
Cerro and his rurales now."
"I'm sure they'll get him," she said, and set the flowers on her
dressing table where they doubled in the mirror. "I met Captain Cerro.
Has he gone back to Colima?" Arranging her flowers, she said: "I like
the captain and wanted him to stay.... Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
She walked across the room toward Raul. It was as if she had something
unusual to say. She was smiling. But suddenly the floor began to
shake, at first slightly, then with marked undulation. She reached out
for him and they held each other. Raul waited for the underearth
rumbling. She began to sob.
"Take me away. Yes ... yes ... I'll go to Guadalajara and live. Take
me away, Raul. Raul ... I have to go. I can't bear it here. All
these quakes, these killings." She paused and caught her breath.
"Will there be ashes and lava and smoke again?"
He kissed her forehead.
"You know it wasn't a bad quake," he said.
She held to him, as she had during her grinding pains before Vicente
had been born: those tortures had made a groveling animal of her. Oh,
to be in love again, to be treasured, to be kissed every morning and
every night.... "Raul, I feel another quake!"
Terrified, she broke away and went to the door leading to the stair and
stood under the door frame.
"I think there won't be another one," he said calmly.
"I want to be with you.... Let me sit at the dining table with you. I
can't bear it alone." The husky voice moved him as much as what she
said.
Taking her arm, he led her downstairs. She curled her feet under her
legs on a chair next to his. A new maid, a charming village girl,
served, walking lightly, humming, her stiff skirt swishing. Angelina
mentioned the quake to her and the maid said, with a shrug, "It was
nothing."
A tall kerosene lamp with a pewter base and blue shade lit the table.
All the windows stood open; the air, warm with _pastora_ clouds, did
not move. A dead moth lay beside Raul's plate; he pushed it about with
a spoon, too tired to think.
"Father set fire to his bed while you were gone," she said.
"What ... was he smoking?"
"Cigarette or matches ... anyhow, Chavela threw water on him."
His face brightened.
"She threw it all over him."
They laughed together, a little ashamed of their disrespect.
"How he must have spluttered," said Raul.
"Oh, he did, he really did! And while you were away, the optometrist
came to fit his glasses. They had a time. But he'll have new ones
tomorrow. The doctor thinks he'll be able to see fairly well."
"I hope so," Raul said, though Velasco had told him that glasses would
not remedy his father's eye condition or would be temporary, at best.
He enjoyed the dinner, his first meal since morning. The new maid
served steak, dry rice, sliced tomatoes and tortillas. She poured a
dark Spanish wine. For dessert he ate a _flan_, hot chocolate and _pan
dulce_. The bright face of the village girl went in and out of the
blue lamplight, as Angelina talked.
Quite abruptly, he said:
"I'll go with you on the train to Guadalajara. I can get away in a day
or two. I have to see about our mine shares. The bank's
correspondence with me is so much wasted paper. I have a hunch it's
time to sell because Roberto is selling some of his stock."
"I like hunches," she said, nibbling a mango. She thought of
Lucienne's mining interests in Guanajuato, and bit into her mango
harder than she wanted to.
In the morning, Gabriel received a letter that excited him and made him
feel better, and he sent a man for Raul. He was having breakfast when
Raul arrived. While Storni munched a roll and drank coffee, Raul
waited, troubled by his friend's yellow face and fingernails. For the
time being, he had no fever or chills, but when would they come again?
With a flourish, Gabriel put down his cup, rubbed his hands together,
and cleared his throat.
Raul glimpsed a coat of arms on the letter.
"I had to make you wait a little but now I'll read it to you: 'Dear
Gabriel, I have not written you for a long time. Your letters have
gone unanswered because I am a careless, busy hulk, as you know. Far
busier these trying days than you might surmise. Still, busy as I am,
worried by political conditions, I have been thinking of you. You
won't be able to say I have no heart, when you lay down this letter.
"'I have not forgotten the part you have played in my thinking. I am
not always foolish. Years ago we used to discuss things that shape the
world. Those were memorable days.'"
Gabriel stopped to fix his glasses and wipe his nose, and ask, "Do you
know now?"
"Roberto."
"I'll read on," Gabriel said: "'You have wanted to brighten your chapel
for a long time. Since I, too, love Petaca I want to donate the
stained-glass windows. In fact, I have ordered them. Salvador got the
dimensions for me. The windows are being made in Mexico City; only a
small part of the leading has yet to be done. They will be coming to
you very soon.
"'In remembrance of meaningful days. Perhaps I am religious--who
knows? Cordially'...."
Gabriel could not speak Roberto's name; tears shone in his eyes. He
removed his glasses and blew his nose.
"Good for Roberto," said Raul.
"Ah, yes," said Gabriel.
"Get rid of that malaria so you'll be up and around soon. It wouldn't
do to have the windows arrive and you in bed. I'm sure they'll be
beautiful," said Raul, ready to leave. "All of us will enjoy them. I
wish I had given them."
"Ah, to be sure ... well, I can't say how grateful I am.... But I have
something else to tell you, before you go. The same man who brought
Roberto's letter brought another one. You know how it is: good news
and bad news, a pair of horses."
"What's the bad news?"
"The Colima hospital isn't getting along. They haven't money to hire
workers. They're facing a serious situation."
"How much money do they need to hire workers?"
"Several thousand pesos. Father Gamio tells me that they have to pay
more for workers and that ... they wonder if you could help. They
mention several thousand pesos, no exact amount."
"Shall I send five thousand--for the Medinas?"
"God bless you, Raul!"
"We need His blessing, Gabriel."
"With five thousand they can get some new equipment perhaps!"
Gabriel's outburst delighted Raul.
"I should look after the hospital better than I do. Father Gamio can't
do it all himself. I'm off to Guadalajara later today, Angelina and I.
She'll remain there. I'll be bringing Vicente back when I return. He
wants to ride and hunt ... there's another fiesta. You can expect us
in three or four days."
"If you see Roberto, tell him how grateful I am."
"I'll tell him. Is there anything you need?"
"Nothing, thank you, Don Raul. Maybe some newspapers?"
"I'll bring back papers and magazines. I'll leave my check for the
hospital in the _tienda_. Will you have someone pick it up off my
desk? Write an accompanying letter, a gracious one, for Petaca."
"I'll be glad to."
"Goodbye, Gabriel." He smiled affectionately. "Get well."
"I'll pray for you and Angelina," said Gabriel.
"Adiós."
"Que le vaya bien."
Shortly after lunch, Raul and Angelina drove toward Colima, the horses
pulling well. Gray clouds darkened the landscape; across the lagoon,
between its shore line and the volcano, a sandstorm blew. The great
peak seemed old, harmless, a dusty, withered thing.
Their carriage clattered over a _tzontli_ bridge; here, on one side, a
Medina had erected a plaque in 1761, mortaring it deep inside a niche
where it had weathered the years with scarcely a sign of wear.
"Hasta la eternidad," it began, and the phrase ran through Raul's mind
as the horses trotted, clopping over firm ground.
Angelina leaned against the faded plush on her side, lost in herself,
her folded parasol hard against her side, fingers motionless in the
handle strap sewn with gold threads.
Until eternity, he thought, gazing at her uneasily, recalling those
lines from their marriage ceremony.
Sugar-cane fields lay on both sides. The road twisted and grew rough,
and the driver slowed his horses. A tall knob of a man, he sang in a
deep bass, improvising expertly.
Raul hoped the train would be more or less on time because he hated
arriving in Guadalajara late, when the air was chill and cabmen were
sleepy and crusty. He anticipated a satisfactory adjustment of the
mining business. He would invite Uncle Roberto to dinner: Angelina,
María ... the four of them enjoying the lobster at the Copa de Leche.
It would be fun returning to Petaca with Vicente; the boy was putting
on weight, growing too. Nowadays his talk was all about horses: "Tell
me about Esmeralda, has she foaled? Is Canelito in pasture? How's
Chico? I've read that the heaviest work horses are in France, is that
true, Papa?"
While she held tightly to her parasol, Angelina thought of Estelle.
She planned an afternoon with her at the hairdresser's: their hair,
their nails. They would obtain good seats for the Degollado Theater
season: plays, musicals, vaudeville. Because Caterina had not been
dead a year, they'd have to steal away. Her head began to ache. She
objected to the swaying, the country roads, horrible country roads.
Soon, Estelle's face would be lifted to hers, laughter, laughter,
laughter....
And it was rather as they both had hoped. The train was on time and
the mining deal went well and the four of them enjoyed lobster at the
restaurant.... Gray skies, rain sloshing the houses, carriages and
streets ... rain ... but the rain didn't matter to Angelina. She met
Estelle at her home, on López Cotilla, a tiled house under lofty
eucalyptus.
Estelle covered her with kisses. They exchanged little gifts, and had
supper in a Directoire dining room adorned with gold candles, the rain
scuffing across red and green glassed windows. To Angelina, Estelle
had the beauty of something original.... It was as if hair had been
invented for her, or hands, or laughter, for her own particular use.
Estelle's pile of yellow hair, so disarranged, so beautifully curled,
her pink dress, so sheer, sewn with dozens of nacre buttons, her
dishabille, they were as Angelina saw her in the bedroom mirror. And
when she went to bed with Angelina she took all that glory and
absurdity.... Laughter, laughter....
14
Raul and Lucienne camped in a canyon at twelve thousand feet, close to
the timber line, where a fire munched pine logs and emitted wisps of
smoke. Directly above them a lava cliff bulged and towered, an ominous
flat slab, that had been chiseled off centuries ago. Time and erosion
had broken chunks that now cluttered the ground. Lucienne had climbed
among the lava blocks, noticing the various kinds of plant life pushing
their way through. For her, this rock bowl had a spirit of its own.
Two men had accompanied them on the ride up the volcano and, at supper,
all had shared venison, rice and tortillas. Raul had shot a buck and
it hung nearby from a tree. It was a starry, chill night, without
wind. Raul and Lucienne bedded down under several serapes--the men
slept lower down in the canyon. Only the sound of the fire and the
stamp of horses broke the silence.
After a while, Raul asked:
"Are you asleep?"
"I'm cold. Can you put more wood on the fire?"
"Of course I can. Right away."
"Put on several logs."
"How's that?"
"That's lovely. Now hug me. I'll soon get warm. The sparks are
flying 'way up the cliff."
"Are you too tired to sleep?" he asked.
"It's not that.... I'm not used to all these strenuous things," she
laughed, her mouth against his neck.
"I love you, my dear," he said.
"Darling, it's wonderful anywhere with you."
"Do you want to ride higher tomorrow?"
"This is high enough, Raul."
"How brilliant the stars ... at this altitude."
"There are clouds again. It could rain."
"It looks only threatening."
"A wet trail won't help," she said sleepily.
"We've got sure-footed horses," he said.
"I climbed near here with my father, during the dry season. We saw the
ocean from the rim ... such a clear day," she said.
"We used to cut wood below here. There's a first-rate stand of pine a
few thousand feet down."
The fire sputtered and jets of steam puffed. She felt the warmth
penetrating her serape, and was grateful.
Her hand found his face. His hand found her breast.
"It's nice to wake up like this."
"Alfredo used to climb mountains. You know Alfredo Villaseñor? What
happened to Alfredo? He was a likable fellow. Your father wanted you
to marry him."
"He went to Europe ... and I don't know what became of him."
"Did you like him?"
"Very much ... for a while."
He had a faded picture of Villaseñor, mountaineer, Spanish,
freckle-faced, well dressed, demanding.
"I'm the sort who runs away to the mountains, takes his own woman, a
sorry Catholic, Lucienne. I've been thinking of my lapses. I profess
one thing and do another."
His seriousness woke her a little and she said, emphatically, "There's
such a thing as tolerance--the scripture teaches that."
"Not license."
"Love sanctifies things."
"Then will the Church accept us?"
"Accept me?" she said, making it a pointed question. "I won't accept
the Church. Hush, hush, Raul, it's time to sleep. Think where we are,
up here, at the top of things...."
"Are you warm?" he asked.
"Very warm. Let me sleep on your arm."
"Tomorrow we have a long ride," he said.
In a matter of seconds, she fell asleep, breathing gently, her arms
around him. He turned thoughts over in his head while listening to a
wolf howl, high on the cliff above. How ridiculous to ask: Will the
Church accept us? As if Angelina no longer had anything to do with my
life. Yet, as he lay there, staring at the gathering clouds, he felt
she had less and less to do with his life. Guadalajara would claim
her, the parties, friends, theater--Estelle Milan.
It was drizzling when they awoke. They had breakfast around the
campfire, the horses tethered nearby, ready for departure. As they
began the slow descent, the drizzle changed to rain, chilly, at times
falling fast. To reach the regular trail, they filed through a forest
of scrub oak. Shale made the going tricky, but the rocky area did not
last long. Once on the main trail, they quickened their pace and
then--like a great swab--mist puffed over them and swallowed trees and
boulders. Because of the mist, Raul had trouble with Chico. Somewhere
below nine thousand feet they crossed a number of small cornfields,
mist along their edges.
"I wouldn't want to live up this high," said Raul.
Dressed in white tropicals, Raul's men shivered. Raul felt cold and a
little shabby in old blue denim. Lucienne was comfortable in corduroy:
tan jacket, dark green riding skirt, darker beret, raincoat. Italian
boots, laced with yellow laces, reached almost to her knees. She loved
the mist, and sang as they plugged along, corkscrewing through pine.
Unpacking her plant press, she stopped for a rare fern.
In a flash of sun, the mist broke and below them lay a rancho, a ragged
L-shaped patch of lava rock huts with yellow straw wigs, a chapel and
municipal building.
"Are we going down there?" Lucienne asked.
"I want to speak to the jefe."
"It looks wild."
"Haven't you been there?"
"No, I've never been there."
"The jefe wears _tigre_ skins."
"You're joking."
Raul's men laughed at her.
A rough but short route got them to Palma Sola in the late afternoon,
sun at their heels. Before freshening up, Lucienne and Raul went to
see some monster turtles lying in beached dugouts. Each one had
barnacles on its wounded shell: how their red eyes begged for freedom!
A fisherman, coiling hand line, put his foot on the gunwale, pointed at
one and said, "It came from far off," as if he had a magical probe that
reached undersea and understood all mysteries.
"Turtles stare in such a sad way," Lucienne said, as they went into the
house. She spun her beret onto a chair.
"They know they have to die," said Raul.
"I like plants because they can't look at me, can't accuse, can't
plead. They never fill me with a sense of guilt and sorrow."
At a window, facing the beached dugouts, she clasped him tightly,
tasting the flavor of transience: she saw her parents' death, saw
herself in Europe, thought of other lovers, other friends. Almost
tearfully, she kissed him and said, "Let's get dressed for supper."
"You must be tired."
"Not too tired."