"Yes. His father was born here too."
"Who'll play the harp for us now?"
"Cipriano."
"Cipriano's only a boy."
"He plays well."
"Do you know who taught him?"
"Alberto," said Manuel.
"How time passes," said Raul.
He and Manuel found cowboys struggling with a bull, outside the main
corral, the bull flat in the mud near a watering trough, three lariats
on him. While mounted cowboys kept the lariats tight, a veterinarian
stuck a hypodermic needle in the animal. The bull bellowed. At a
signal, the lariats went limp and the bull struggled to his feet and
made off.
The veterinarian, a small man wearing a five-gallon hat, explained the
bull's serious condition to Raul, emptying his hypodermic as he talked.
He had been trained in northern France and had ideas and methods of
treatment frowned upon by most _hacendados_. Raul welcomed his care,
for under his supervision Petaca cattle losses had decreased 20 per
cent.
In the dying light the volcano had a greenish mist over it and, with no
smoke coming out of the crater, expressed indolence: it said men will
dawdle in hammocks and rest on _petates_, that fruit will have time to
ripen, that birds will be able to build their nests wherever they want
to, that animals will find cool hideouts to escape the summer heat ...
nothing will change, only the clouds, the flying things, maybe a fish,
nothing more.
Raul understood the lie, and grinned back at the old king.
15
Roberto sat on the veranda at Petaca and sipped a _ron fuerte_, his
feet on the railing, a handkerchief in one hand. He felt happy though
tired, happy to be showing off his new dark green riding suit and tired
because he had already performed his stock of equestrian tricks. It
was almost mid-morning and growing hot and humid, a clear, cloudless
day.
"Federicka rides better every year," he said to Raul, sitting beside
him, drinking, eyes on Federicka as she jumped a barrier.
Baroness Radziwill executed precise jumps on her claybank, her split
skirt flapping gayly. For a stout woman she was a fine rider, and her
horse carried her weight well, taking each hurdle rhythmically.
Armand Guerrero, her friend, followed on a Cuban horse, sailing over
the whitewashed logs, all of them participating in an improvised arena,
sodded and graveled for their annual get-together.
"Armand's mare is heavy-footed," Raul said. "Maybe a bit too old."
Count de Selva sat down beside Raul, breathing through a corner of his
mouth, an unlighted cigar between his fingers. Dressed in duck, like
Raul, his clothes rather creased, he brushed dust off his knees and
groaned because of his asthma.
"There used to be quite a showing of us--quite a showing," he said. "I
can remember when as many as fifteen of us families turned out....
Say, that Benito does well enough. If he's as good a mayor as he is a
horseman, we'll get things done in Colima."
Benito Serrato had a lean black that carried him proudly, ribboned tail
switching. Benito, wearing black, tilted his derby as he rode, sitting
erect, quirt dangling from his wrist.
The circle in front of the house had become dusty, but a breeze carried
the dust away from the veranda, toward the lagoon.
"How many families are here today?" asked the count.
"Um, several ... four or five ... I hope others will come," said Raul.
Federicka Kolb wore red. Her cousin, Eloise Martini, rode a gray which
she had matched with a finely tailored outfit. The pair rode side by
side, laughing as their mounts cleared the hurdles gracefully.
Roberto jiggled the ice in his glass. "It's getting too muggy to
ride--or I'm getting too fat," he said, and patted his paunch.
"Nothing like beautiful women on beautiful horses to rest the eyes."
Raul had a horse, known locally as a good jumper, and he put the mare
over the hurdles, enjoying her leaps, thinking her so much steadier
than Chico. Her great yellow mane, tied with white ribbons, flared at
every jump.
Vicente tagged behind.
"How are you coming, boy?" Raul called, as his son curbed his range
pony.
"Some people have come to see you, Papa. See, Captain Cerro and his
horsemen ... a lot of rurales. I guess you'll have to speak to them."
Raul slipped from his saddle to shake hands with the arrivals. Cerro
had brought a number of his best men. Could they ride? Perhaps it
wasn't customary, but they would appreciate it very much. Dr. Velasco
and Dr. Hernández had also come. Then, to his astonishment and
delight, he saw Lucienne.
Bareheaded, she stood in the midst of them, proud, one glove removed.
She seemed on the verge of running off and couldn't find much to say
beyond civilities. When she got Raul alone she criticized herself for
coming, for riding a white horse, for wearing white. She felt her hair
falling about her neck and shoved it up underneath her beret.
"Lucienne, have a drink on the veranda with us," said Raul.
Roberto took her arm and hugged her.
"Lucienne ... something cool. Will you ride with us?"
Angered, she drew away, and said: "I wouldn't have come if something
terrible hadn't happened yesterday. You know"--she paused to
swallow--"they broke into the hacienda Refugio and killed the priest
and killed Francisco Goya and his sons."
"Who?" asked Roberto.
"Armed men--I don't know."
"Who told you this?" said Raul.
"Jesús Peza. He told me. He was there, doctoring someone. He got
away," said Lucienne. "He's back in Colima."
"My God!" exclaimed Roberto.
"How far is Refugio from here?" Raul asked. "What's the shortest way,
Velasco?"
"Forty miles or more," said Velasco.
"Maybe fifty," said de Selva.
"What can we do to help?" asked Gabriel.
"I'm sending men immediately," said Raul. "Gabriel, look after
Lucienne. I'll be back shortly."
"Hello, Lucienne, what seems to be wrong?" asked the Baroness, curious
that she had come to Petaca, aware of some kind of excitement.
Lucienne explained briefly and sat down with Gabriel on the veranda,
out of the sun. Removing her glove, she said: "I'd like a drink.
Would someone get me a drink?"
Others had crowded round her and she had to repeat in detail the
Refugio tragedy.
Father Gabriel put a drink in her hands.
"There, my dear."
"Thank you.... No, I didn't ride here alone.... No, Francisco wasn't
disliked at the hacienda ... but of course...."
"Who knows what was behind the killings?" said the Baroness, in a harsh
voice.
"We're all in grave danger," said de Selva.
"You can rely on us to help," said Cerro, behind Lucienne. "I'll
inform General Matanzas."
"Yes, yes, do that," the Baroness said.
"Díaz has gone ... that's the reason for this situation," said Roberto,
his calm words peculiarly distracting.
"If he hadn't left us ... if he had chosen a successor, there would be
no rebellion," said Armand Guerrero.
"No, no ... it's revolution," said de Selva.
"We must protect ourselves," said someone.
"How do you fight hate?" asked Lucienne.
"With hate," said de Selva. "I've been telling you. It's coming.
It's here now. The new priest at Refugio is dead. Francisco Goya and
his sons are dead. What more do you need to hear?"
Federicka Kolb and her cousin overheard de Selva, and Federicka began
to sob, for she had known the Goyas for years.
"Why ... why?" she asked.
"The men who killed them cried _Down with the haciendas!_" said
Lucienne.
Raul returned and said: "I have sent men to Refugio. I'll go there
later myself."
Felipe Meson, an _hacendado_, in his fifties, sturdy, gray-headed,
sunburned, with the face of a crippled hawk, gestured toward Raul.
"You're making a mistake at Petaca," he exclaimed. "You can't pacify
the peons. You can't trust them. They'll kill you now."
"I haven't tried to pacify them," Raul explained. "I've tried to help
them."
Everyone was crowded on the veranda, with servants going about, serving
drinks and putting ice in glasses.
"How can one man help at such a time as this?" asked the Countess.
"I simply want to look after my people when they're sick, see to it
they have enough to eat, stop floggings and killings. Could Matanzas
know about Refugio?" Raul asked Captain Cerro.
"I'll see, when I ride back. We'll be leaving shortly," said Cerro.
"You'd better supply us with escorts," said de Selva.
Lucienne finished her drink, stood up, and arranged her hair and beret;
pulling on a glove, she said: "Raul, you must take care of Petaca.
It's walled and you can post guards."
Raul did not reply: a question began in his brain: What about Palma
Sola, wholly unprotected? What about de Selva's place, the Radziwill
hacienda, the Meson house?
Shortly, luncheon was served in the garden, and they tried to talk of
other things. Nothing seemed to go right, however; some of the food
was missing, some of the drinks. The servants were confused and
whispered among themselves. De Selva talked of fleeing to Mexico City,
where he owned a house. "You should have had a town house, Raul." The
Baroness mistrusted almost everyone at her hacienda, yet could not make
up her mind to desert her property. Roberto and Dr. Velasco drank
together. Lucienne, Gabriel and Raul ate at a small table under a
chinaberry tree.
One by one, the families drove away, Raul seeing them off. The Count,
coughing badly, leaned from his carriage window and told Raul how to
defend Petaca. Roberto rode off on a magnificent black he had borrowed
from a Colima friend.
Already mounted, Lucienne called goodbye: "I'll be with some of Captain
Cerro's men. Be careful when you go to Refugio."
"I'll be careful. Will you stay in Colima until I can send men to help
at Palma Sola?"
"Yes--Federicka has asked me to stay with her."
"Right. Stay with her. I'll see you there."
"All right, Raul."
Lucienne's horse backed away, swung around, and she waved.
Raul sent Vicente back to his Colima school in the rurales' care.
He did not get to go to Refugio, for that night Angelina returned on
the train--her carriage rolled up to the house, accompanied by a guard
of rurales. Greeting her calmly, Raul discovered that she was also
calm, calm in an indrawn way, as if pain sucked at her, chilled her
from deep within. Something dead shadowed her face. Something dead
underlined her voice. She said she was ill, but this was more than the
fatigue of travel. No one had told her about Refugio; that was easy to
determine. She clung to his arm and asked him to have a snack with
her, and yet she could eat very little. She sipped some brandy, her
gaze on window, candles, door, servants, nothing for long.
He planned to tell her about Refugio in the morning, hoping she might
sleep an undisturbed sleep. He would break the news as undramatically
as possible.... Had something tragic happened to her in Guadalajara?
Certainly something had precipitated this long train trip--to the place
she hated most.
It was not until Sunday that he learned the reason for her return. She
did not confide in him. He found a partly finished letter on her desk;
seeing it addressed to María, he read it, hoping for a clue to her
state of mind.
Dated Sunday morning, it began:
"Dear María,
"I have come back to Petaca for a while because I have quarreled with
Estelle, a bitter, bitter quarrel and all because she says I see a dog
following me about. But I didn't, I don't see a dog. Why does she say
that, María? I beg you to go and speak to her, for me. She has
another friend right now, but surely she will listen to me. I want to
make up with Estelle...."
Without reading any further, Raul knew what was happening to her. An
icy sensation closed over his brain, a fear for her sanity, a fear he
had never experienced before ... a fear tied in with a dog with bones
of glass. What could he say to her? What could he do to help her?
Gabriel? Velasco? María? Perhaps María could care for her in
Guadalajara. He would confide in María. He must get her away from
Petaca, as soon as possible. But how? With trains running irregularly.
That Sunday was the longest day in his life. He could not eat. He
went about shrouded in anguish. He tried to resolve problems of
defense for the house. He tried to talk normally with Manuel, Gabriel,
Salvador, Velasco, and Angelina. He tried to hide in his room, tried
to hide in the garden. He tried to reinterpret Angelina's letter
differently, calling his deduction an error.
That night, after Raul had gone to sleep, Angelina stole downstairs and
entered the chapel. Fear gripped her, the same fear that had overtaken
her in Guadalajara, at Estelle's, the same night fear. Now, as she
hesitated in the chapel, she saw Mona beside her, transparent.
Calling Mona, she went toward the altar: she knew that thieves were
stealing the Virgin's jewels. Someone must protect her. Lighting a
taper, she hurried to the front of the chapel. The Virgin was intact
under her watermelon dome of glass. Her tiny olivewood face smiled
serenely, and Angelina felt happy. In the wavering light, the diamonds
and rubies sparkled, and Angelina knelt in prayer.
She thanked God for the Virgin's safety and then burst out:
"Oh, Virgin, help me! I have had a terrible quarrel with Estelle. We
were so dear to each other. I want so to have at least one friend,
someone to love me ... and--and take Mona away from me. Take her away!"
She thought she heard a sharp sound. She gathered her nightgown about
her and stood up. Carrying the taper, she rushed toward the door,
where she listened, her ear against the wood.
Perhaps Raul had missed her?
Frightened, she thought of going to Vicente's room, seeing his face,
touching him. No, he was at school in Colima. She remembered the
phantom dog, expecting to see it, and sobbed.
Stealing back into the house, she heard Don Fernando coughing. It
sounded as though he were in pain, and so she lit a night lamp and took
him a glass of water and held it patiently.
"Thanks. My throat ... gets dry. What time is it?"
"It's night ... sometime in the night."
"Go back to bed," he told her.
"But I can't sleep," she said softly.
He tried to see her, but without his glasses he saw only a white blur.
"I've been awake a long time," he said. "A long time."
"Are you in pain?"
"No. But I keep seeing things," he said.
"What kind of things?" she said.
"People ... faces mostly. People I've known."
"Oh," she said.
"Do you remember Lola Navarro?" he asked.
"No," she said. The darkness of the room, pierced at either end by the
window and the door, seemed to tremble as a breeze came through.
"You were just married when Lola lived here with me," he said.
"I remember," she said, half-remembering. It felt good to be able to
speak, to say anything at all.
"Do you remember how well she rode?" He paused, the dark room
bothering him. "I miss Caterina..." he said, and his coughing started
again and she held the glass, making an effort to steady her hand.