"It's a Chiapan song about a loco butterfly that went after men,
poisoning them on the trail ... 'A touch of the wing, just a touch of
the wing,'" Manuel sang.
Outside Colima, children played ball in the yard of a Jesuit school; a
priest--robe flung open--drowsed on a swing. Workers trudged along one
side of the yard, toward town, bunches of green bananas suspended
between them. White oxen wandered by.
Raul's cowboys came up behind them, riding at a leisurely pace, some of
them singing, one playing a harmonica.
Raul and Manuel trotted down a long hill and began to climb. Suddenly,
Chico drew close to Manuel's mare. He reared, throwing himself on his
hind legs and hurled Raul to the road. The blow knocked the wind out
of him and pain wired his shoulder to the ground. He thought of his
bullet wound. For a few seconds he lay motionless but by the time
Manuel reached his side, he was able to stagger to his feet. Chico was
standing calmly under a tree.
"Are you hurt?" asked Manuel.
"No ... just stunned."
"That damn' Chico! You cabrón!" Manuel cried, rushing angrily toward
the horse, whip in hand. "God damn you!"
"Leave him alone," commanded Raul. "You can't teach him by beating
him. He's too old to change. No, Manuel!"
Manuel, helping Raul mount, thought of the Petacan beatings, the men,
even boys ... now all that had been stopped by Raul. Teach a horse.
Maybe not one as old as Chico. Teach people, maybe so! But it was too
late to change the haciendas. The butterfly was over Petaca.
16
A bullet crashed through a front window, as Angelina wrote a letter to
Estelle. She had been having trouble with her pen point and was
picking at it with her fingernail. At the thud of lead and crackle of
glass, she dropped her pen and stared about her as if she had never
seen the room before. A second bullet smashed another pane and
embedded itself in a wall. Snatching her brass desk bell, she clanged
it frantically. Her letter fluttered to the floor. Another bullet
shattered glass. Sliding from her chair she began to crawl toward the
wall where there were no windows. Servants screamed in the patio.
Single shots became a volley, then silence.
She remembered childhood stories of bandits, sordid crimes; all kinds
of fears crosshatched her brain; she hunched herself forward on hands
and knees, certain she was going mad. When she reached the wall she
stood, then sank, crumpled, doll-like, her legs of no use. She reached
for the cross on her gold neck chain, but found she had forgotten it.
Closing her eyes, she prayed.
A shot spanged prisms off the chandelier, and pieces of glass thumped
the wall near her. Opening her eyes, she picked up a fragment of glass
with shaky fingers; as she stared at it she saw Raul.
"Raul!" she screamed.
"Stay on the floor!" he shouted.
"Raul ... what's happening?"
Raul and Manuel paused a second in the patio doorway. Raul held his
Mauser. Manuel had a carbine. With a rush, bending low, Raul made for
the front windows, telling Manuel to get close to the door so he would
be protected by the wall. Raul fired out the broken window, then
squatted to reload. Manuel aimed and fired; he was slower, steadier,
searching for someone on top of the wall. Smoke choked the room.
"What's wrong?" Angelina cried. "Who is it?"
"We don't know who it is," Raul yelled. He crossed the room and knelt
beside his wife. "Stay here by the wall. I have men all around the
house. Somebody got on our wall and fired down on us, maybe several
men. We'll drive them off. Listen ... the shooting has stopped."
"There goes somebody--along the wall," Manuel shouted, and fired
through window glass, fragments flying about him.
Like a wraith, Fernando pushed through the patio entrance in his wheel
chair, shoving with one hand, groaning. Manuel saw him in the direct
line of fire from the wall and scuttled toward the chair, grabbed it
and rolled it near Angelina and Raul.
"Father!" said Raul. "You shouldn't be here."
"You want them to come in my room and kill me. Who is it? What is all
this? I, you ... why...." His white face and eyeglassless eyes
shocked Angelina and she knelt beside him. "You should have stayed in
your room," she said. "Who helped you?"
"Who's out there?" Fernando asked. "What's happening?"
"There are a lot of men. Pedro ... many men ... I don't know just who
they are."
"So Pedro has turned against me, the god-damn' bastard. I--"
A volley of shots tore into the house, and Raul and Manuel returned the
fire. Rifle bullets cracked above, sounding steadily.
"Our men are shooting from the roof," Raul said to Manuel.
The old man coughed and tried to see; he blinked and tugged at his
chair.
Raul, tormented by the firing, his father's presence, the destruction,
fired recklessly.
"Take it slow, Raul," Manuel said. "First thing you know, you'll be
taking chances."
Raul nodded.
Crawling to the far end of the room, he opened a French door and aimed
carefully at a man on the wall; as he shot, he noticed one of Petaca's
guards firing from the corner turret.
"Some of our men are in the turrets," he said.
Esteban soon appeared in the patio door.
"We're driving them away!" he shouted. "Our men are on the roof.
They're leaving Petaca ... we've got them on the run!" He pointed his
pistol at the walls.
"Good--we've got them on the run," said Raul to Manuel,
"Kill them!" cried Fernando.
"You must be quiet, ssh," said Angelina, shoving his chair nearer to
the wall and sitting beside it.
Other Petaca men took over the outside wall, firing. Raul, at one end
of the room and Manuel, at the other, watched and waited. The quiet
was strange. Holding on to the wheel chair, Angelina began to cry.
Raul, flattened against the wall, stared at her, hating her lack of
courage and control. Why wasn't she in Guadalajara?
Raul checked his supply of bullets and then wheeled his father to his
bedroom and with the help of Angelina and Chavela, got him into bed.
Fernando was silent, very weak.
Mounting the defense wall, Raul learned that twenty-five or thirty men
had attacked the hacienda; the appearance of some rurales--a handful of
them--had discouraged the attack. But Raul could not be sure the
report about the rurales was more than a rumor. Esteban insisted that
the firing from the roof had driven off the attackers. Two men had
been killed and Raul ordered them buried ... two men in white, one
young, one middle-aged. Several of Raul's people had been wounded and
Velasco dressed their wounds in the small patio.
Gabriel rode in later and seemed less astounded at the attack than
anyone. Limping about the patio, helping the wounded, he said Pedro
had not led this attack.
"What if he was with the men who attacked us! He didn't supply those
guns, we know that. Raul took his guns. The hacienda of Primavera has
been burned. I saw it in the Ciudad Guzman newspaper. Did Pedro do
that, too? He can't be everywhere."
"I saw him here," said Raul.
"It's a good thing you had guards posted," said Velasco.
"We'd have lost the place without them," said Raul, rolling a bandage.
"I'll have to hand out more guns. There are still some in the game
room."
"Keep men on the walls and in the turrets," said Gabriel.
Dr. Velasco's goatee quivered over a wounded youngster. "Can't you
hold still? Damn you!" he grumbled.
Instrument in hand, the thin wrist swiveling, he probed for a fragment.
"I feel it," he said.
The youngster moaned.
"Shut up," Velasco said, on edge. "Somebody light me a cigarette."
Back of all this mess, Raul saw his father. Full of bitterness, he
walked to the living room and examined the smashed windows, the pocked
walls, the damaged chandelier. He asked a scared maid to sweep up the
smashed glass. Together they knocked out damaged panes. That job
done, he sat down, but he had scarcely caught his breath when Gabriel
came in, looking beaten.
"Let's both have a brandy," said Raul. "I was thinking..."
"No, not now. I..."
"What is it?"
"Two of our people were shot, a few minutes ago."
"I heard no shooting. Where?"
"Behind the corral."
"Who got shot?"
"Teresa and María Eugenia. They're dead."
"Two women--the scum ... to shoot women!" Raul exclaimed. The last
time he had seen María and Teresa they had been preparing food in the
kitchen.
"So somebody shot them," Raul said, barely opening his lips.
"It was no accident," said Gabriel.
"Deliberate."
"Yes."
"My Petaca is taking a beating."
Gabriel turned to go.
"What can I do?" asked Raul.
"Nothing now. I want to see their families. Perhaps..." But he did
not bother to finish; instead he read Raul's face, the pain, the
struggle for hope.
Shortly after Gabriel had gone, Salvador tramped in, boots clacking. A
ricochet bullet had hit him in the head and he had a bloody rag around
his skull. A bandolier x'd his chest; he carried a Winchester; his
trousers, ripped on the side, sagged over his stomach.
"I have two men at each turret now," he said. "They all have extra
bullets. We're ready." He grinned, obviously enjoying himself.
"That should be all right," said Raul. "I wish we could spare a few
men and go after Pedro."
"Where would we find him?"
"A couple of men might turn up information."
"Spies?"
"Why not? Let's also find out where the attackers went. We've lots of
friends; let's use them. We can't wait for the rurales."
"I'd like to get Pedro, you know that," said Salvador.
"See what you can learn. This may be revolution. We've got to know
how things stand." He smelled Salvador's sweat and liked it.
"I'll see what I can find out," said Salvador.
"If you can, contact the rurales; get some of them here."
"Hell, they ran off," he scoffed. Settling his belt over his shoulder,
he stalked away. His hat, dangling from a cord around his neck, banged
the doorframe as he went out.
When Raul went upstairs he found Angelina in bed, a tray of untouched
food on the side table; two maids were with her; one of them was
offering her a cup of tea.
"How's everything?" she asked quietly.
"We have men in the turrets and there are men at the gate," he said,
making an effort to be calm.
"Will they come back?"
"It's not at all likely."
"Tomorrow anything can happen," she murmured, refusing the tea. "I'm
worried about Vicente. What's happening in Colima?" Her nervousness
increased the huskiness of her voice. "All this mob, all these
killings."
"Vicente's probably all right. The revolutionists won't harm Colima."
"Then what? Is it truly revolution, Raul?"
He sat by the window, bent forward, trying to puzzle it out. He did
not answer her because he did not know the answer.
The servants left the room.
"Just as soon as I can, I'll go with you to Guadalajara, just as soon
as the railroad operates again. They'll be running cars soon. You'll
be all right there, with María. You mustn't stay here." He remembered
the newspaper account of street fighting, and asked himself where she
should go to be safe.
"Can I take Vicente with me?"
He wanted to encourage her as much as possible. "If you want to, take
him," he said.
"Surely the troubled times won't last long," she said, hoping.
She wanted to sob into her pillows: she peered at shadows created by
the evening lamp, curious forms on the ceiling: she separated the
forms: evil faces, women's faces, Estelle laughing at her, everyone
ridiculing her for being so weak. She buried herself in her pillows.
"Raul, Raul," she whispered. "Chavela told me what took place at
Refugio.... Take me away."
17
Morning sun polished one of the wooden dragons on Fernando's wardrobe.
"... I can remember Andrea. As blind as I am, I can see her. I wanted
to marry her, but you know all that folly. That was the year we got
almost no corn at all." Bitterness and rotten teeth and food left over
from breakfast clogged his speech and yet Angelina understood him and
listened because she felt sick and lonely.
"What a stupid man I was." He chuckled. "I sold her, sold my Andrea.
Slave ... I was her slave and I sold her. What if she loved somebody
else? I still wanted her. Can you remember a beautiful face?" He
stirred painfully on his bed. "I was nineteen--that was the year I
killed my father. Out of my head ... I sold her." His voice had
slowed, the gravity of those days pressing him. "God, that was a
dreadful year...."
"What ever became of Andrea?" Angelina asked, taking a piece of toast
from his tray. They were having breakfast together.
"She died in Manzanillo ... typhoid."
He felt the weight of Angelina's body on the bed and groped to touch
her.
"My eyes are worse today. Those glasses haven't helped much. I'll
have to have another pair made."
Angelina forgot to listen; Chavela came for the dishes, rattling things
and talking at the same time. "There's no beef to eat today," she
said. "Marcelino says there's been no slaughtering."
"We must have some eggs," said Angelina. "Chickens lay eggs even when
there's shooting. I suppose you could have someone kill a chicken or
two."
Chavela inspected her tray of soiled dishes blankly. "An omelette,"
she suggested.
"Better a hen," said Angelina.
"Chavela ... cigarette," said Fernando.
Chavela gazed questioningly at Angelina.
"Give him a cigarette, Chavela."
"Sí ... right away."
Chavela's bare feet retreated soundlessly, the dishes rattling. She
wondered if all of them were to be killed at Petaca, ignominiously,
falling about the fountain, bleeding on the cobbles, moaning. She
tripped on a crack, hurt her toe and swore furiously.
Angelina lost herself in reverie. She saw the rays of sun, the
bedroom, a picture on the wall; she saw Petaca as a fort and imagined
herself stealthily opening the gate, fleeing across fields to the
lagoon; she would cross it in a dugout ... on the other side it was
dark; she was alone, weeping. She felt her way through the bush and a
hand reached toward her, the fingers transparent, evolving into a dog's
paw ... finally, a dog trotted beside her.
"Mona, la Mona," she whispered.
"What did you say?" Fernando asked.
"Nothing," she said.
She walked to the door and went slowly toward the serpentine fountain
and leaned over it and stared at the fish that huddled under greenery.
Sloshing water with her hand, she gazed about her. The dog was there.
It followed her upstairs, to her door.
Breathlessly, she slammed the door.
Breathing fast, she opened her wardrobe and removed her fur; she
stroked it and kissed it and laid it on the bed. Lying beside it, she
said:
"We'll be going to Guadalajara soon. We'll be going there to stay.
We'll be at María's. I'll be all right there.... You'll see. What a
fine time we're going to have...."
Raul found her there, asleep. Sitting beside her, he gently woke her.
"It's time to eat," he said.
"What?" she asked.
"Lunch is ready."
"Oh ... I've slept all morning."
"Let me help you up."
"Everything's so quiet," she said.
"Everything's all right."
"I'm glad," she said.
"I've heard from General Matanzas. Troops are all around the country;
a number rode by Petaca this morning. They'll protect us, Angelina."
She sat at her dressing table, blinking. Taking her powder puff, she
began to powder her throat and neck, wanting to waken gradually.
Raul stood near her, thinking of other years, time by the window, time
in the garden, time to play games, to sit with a baby in his lap.
Nothing would recapture those days.
"Vicente is downstairs," he said, knowing how pleased she would be.
"He's downstairs! Darling, why didn't you tell me?" she cried happily,
holding her puff motionless. "How did he come?"
"He came with Octavio."
"Who's Octavio--a schoolmate?"
"Yes."
"They rode here on horseback?"
"Yes."
"They might have been shot," she murmured, thinking of those who had
died at Refugio.
They were facing one another in the mirror.
"They followed the back roads. They knew how to manage."
"Good for Vicente," she said.
"He wants to stay at Petaca," Raul said.
"You mean he won't go with me to Guadalajara? I need him."
"I think we can change his mind."
She called Vicente from the door and he came leaping upstairs, his hair
badly combed, his tropic clothes in a mess. He kissed his mother
dutifully, then turned to his father and said:
"Tell me about the shooting, the fight here." His energy flashed into
his gestures. "It must have been exciting. And to think that you
drove the soldiers away!" He beamed proudly.
"They weren't soldiers," said Raul.
"They were rabble," said Angelina.
"I'll tell you all about it later," Raul promised.
"I'm so glad you and Octavio got through safely," said Angelina.
"It was easy, Mother," said Vicente.
"Did anybody bother you?"
"No, Mother. And now everybody in Colima knows that Petaca beat off
the--the others. We're safe here."
"You and Octavio get washed for lunch," said Raul. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Sure we're hungry."
Octavio was an older boy, with pained saddle-leather face and
down-twisted mouth. "Is it going to be a revolution?" he asked, at
lunch.
"I don't know," said Raul.
"People in Colima say no," said Octavio certainly.
Raul served macaroni and chicken to the boys, helping them bountifully.
"The men who attacked Petaca weren't soldiers, were they?" asked
Octavio.
"Just peons with guns," said Angelina, wishing she could forget.
"But, but ... then it is revolution. They're sore at us," said
Octavio, rolling his eyes.
"In Colima they say the rurales will finish off the peons quickly,"
said Vicente.
"Federal troops are moving to Colima from the new garrison at Ciudad
Guzman," said Octavio. "General Matanzas issued a paper or something.
It's on the door of the..."
The rest of his words were garbled by macaroni, but Raul understood
them. He felt his appetite die; these boys were trying to talk like
men; chaos was a man's business not a boy's. He poked at his food and
said:
"Vicente, I'm sending you to Guadalajara with your mother. She needs
you there, for an escort. You and she and some of our servants will go
together. I can't get away now that things are so bad at Petaca.
You'll be helpful in Guadalajara, and you can continue your schooling
there."
No one spoke.
Unable to eat, Raul wondered what kind of solution Guadalajara would
prove to be: no further bad news had appeared in the papers that he had
seen. He wondered what might have occurred in other cities: Tepic,
Celaya, Guanajuato? Was Lucienne involved in this same nightmare? He
had sent men to Palma Sola and Colima, but she had not returned. Nor
was there any letter.
After the others had finished, Raul went into the garden and smoked.
Ducks paddled and fed in the pool, their white bottoms twitching.
Overhead, buzzards patrolled. Men guarded the wall. The volcano, in
the cloudy atmosphere, wore a pall of gray and straws of light sucked
at the farthest slope.
He did not see Angelina, watching him from the doorway.
Worried about Lucienne, he walked toward the stone Christ and then
retraced his steps to the pool. His stout face had lost flesh; his
tobacco eyebrows seemed less twisted; his mouth had grown sterner and
he wore a look of pain and sullen anger.
A frog jumped into the pool, swam a short distance and then, without
submerging, faced Raul. A bubble formed as it slowly submerged, as if
drawn from below.
God, thought Raul, we think we can help men, determine their tomorrows,
and yet we don't know ten things about a frog.
It was a comfort to be alone, close to nature.... Also alone, Gabriel
knelt in the chapel, praying for his people, particularly for Angelina.
The confessional had told him her hallucination ... María, Teresa ...
Raul ... Vicente ... Octavio ... his children.
As he knelt, he recalled what it was to be a child, in Italy. He shook
his head to jar away his reveries but they continued. He was carrying
a basket through an olive grove and it was a large basket for a boy of
twelve. The clock in the Amalfi tower boomed ten, ten grave notes, and
his mother crossed herself and said something....
Outside, a rifle shot cracked--very close.
Tugging his robe about him, Gabriel prayed for those who had been
harmed by the revolutionists. Surely it was God's destiny to free
mankind. He prayed for guidance, for patience. An act of kindness
might save a nation.
An old man entered the chapel and shut the door behind him, fumbling
with the latch. Slowly, he staggered toward the altar, a serape over
his left shoulder.
In the candlelight, where vigil cups burned, Gabriel took in his
bristling beard and tousled hair.
Miguel Calvo, the sheepherder, Gabriel told himself.
Miguel knelt laboriously, his lips moving soundlessly. He motioned to
Gabriel, and then fell.
"What's wrong, Miguel?" said Gabriel, going to him.
"Someone..." Miguel's face wrinkled with pain; his jaw clamped.
"Are you sick, Miguel?"
Gabriel tried to make the man comfortable by pushing his serape under
him. His hand found the bullet wound. Blood sopped Miguel's neck and
shoulder.
"You've been shot," said Gabriel.
"Sí," said Miguel. "Don't leave ... the chapel...."
"I want to get Dr. Velasco."
"No."
"Here--I'll stop the blood with my undershirt."
In a few seconds he had yanked off his undershirt. With a jerk, he
tore it and began to bind Miguel's head.
"You'll be all right. God will help you."
"Can you stop the blood?"
"Yes. Hold that piece of cloth. How did it happen?"
"As I walked past ... the chapel."
Gabriel worked swiftly.
"Lie still, Miguel. Hold it. I'll tie this around your head."
"All right."
"I want it tight."
"It's tight."
"Now, I'll get Dr. Velasco."
"No," groaned Miguel.
Gabriel struggled into his robe and stood. "I'll open the side window,
by the altar; I can climb out."
"No," said the old peasant, wanting to protect his priest.
Gabriel had no fear. He hated fear. Opening the window, he climbed
out and crossed the cobbled courtyard, trying to minimize his limp.
Another man was crossing the court, crates of chickens on his tump
line. A dog began to bark near the chapel, his yaps becoming more and
more frantic.
As Gabriel mounted the veranda steps, a shot rang out; he felt
something gnaw his leg and put out his arms to break his fall,
wondering why the dog had bitten him. Sprawled on the steps, he yanked
up his robe and examined his leg--a bullet, right above the ankle ...
what a shame!
Servants helped him into the house where he asked for Manuel or Raul.
Then, gathering his wits, he told the servants about Miguel Calvo, and
his head wound.
"... it may be serious. Get Dr. Velasco."
He gripped his leg, where the pain dug sharply, widening.
"Get somebody to find that sharpshooter," he said.
He sat on a sofa and began to dress his own wound, Chavela whimpering
over a bowl of water, soap and rag. On the mantel, the Swiss clock
chimed and he glanced at it, feeling hungry.
"Don't be a ninny, Chavela. And get me some tortillas."
"I will, Padre, I will," said Chavela, glad to escape to the kitchen.
"Bring some beans, too," said Gabriel, sighing. His glasses had become
smudged and he wiped the old lenses on his robe, blew on them, wiped
them again.
The pain became excruciating as he waited and he rocked from side to
side. He had not felt such pain since his barranca mule had crashed on
the rocks with him and broken his ankle not long after he had come to
Mexico.
"Where did they shoot you?" asked Raul hurrying in.
It took several seconds for Father Gabriel to answer.
"My leg ... nothing."
"Let me see."
"No. I bandaged it."
"Is Velasco coming?" Raul asked. He saw tears of pain behind Gabriel's
glasses.
"He has gone to Miguel."
"Who?"
"Miguel Calvo."
"Where's Miguel?"
"In the chapel."
"Hurt?"
"Hit in the head."
Chavela set down tortillas, beans and a glass of milk.
"Oh ... I can eat now," said Gabriel.
Gun shots cracked.
"Someone shot me as I crossed the court and shot Calvo in front of the
chapel.... I sent someone to find that fellow." Storni's words ran
together.
Raul, armed with a .38, stepped to the front windows. They won't get
any more of us, Raul thought. I've got more men on the walls. Someone
sneaked in, over the wall. He won't last long.
Shoulder against wall, Raul watched: he moved the length of the room,
stationed himself near the front door, then slipped outside and hid
behind the arches. He began to work his way the length of the veranda.
Sure, they wanted corn of their own, beef of their own, pulque, eggs,
whisky, land--they wanted what any man deserved. They could have part
of Petaca, but not all. Salvador rushed up the veranda steps toward
Raul, his rifle on its sling. He waved, thumped himself on the chest
and roared: "I got him. He's dead."
"Who's dead?"
"Ignacio Raza. The fellow on the wall, the one who did the shooting."
"How did he get inside?" asked Raul, going toward Salvador, clicking
the safety.
"I don't know," said Salvador.
They went into the living room to be with Gabriel.
Manuel had come in and was bending over him.
"How are you feeling, Father?" he asked. "Velasco's in the chapel,
taking care of Calvo. He'll be here soon."
"Show me where you got hit," said Salvador, clattering his spurs and
squatting in front of Gabriel.
"I'd rather wait for Velasco," said Gabriel, perspiration on his
glasses.
"Sure," said Salvador, agreeably.
"So you killed that man.... Another man has gone.... That's not the
way it should be.... We aren't thinking wisely."
Salvador was amused, and said: "I know.... It's easy to kill a man....
But he shouldn't have come over the wall."
It was not till late that night that Miguel and Gabriel were settled
comfortably. The old sheepherder had not been seriously injured.
Faint from loss of blood, he had asked to be left in the chapel till
next day. They set up a cot for Gabriel in the dining room, close to
the kitchen in case he needed someone. Raul sat down to read to him.
They had agreed on _Don Quixote_. He found the place where he had left
off weeks ago and his eyes slid over familiar paragraphs. Had
Cervantes written _Don Quixote_ in prison? Then he should at least be
able to read aloud under stress ... smoke curled from his pipe ...
Gabriel slept.... A night bird called repetitive notes.
In a day or two, soldiers might improve local conditions. He must get
Angelina to Guadalajara somehow ... tomorrow ... next day. She had
grown violently hysterical when she learned that Gabriel and Calvo had
been shot.
He dimmed the light and laid his book on the buffet and saw his old
pipe, a favorite. Manuel had given it to him when Caterina was a baby.
Manuel had carved P/C on the bowl, Petaca's cattle brand. He had been
clever at carving, but he didn't do any handcraft any more.... His
face had lost its smile.... So many, many things had vanished, or
changed. Raul paused in the living room by his desk where his revolver
gleamed.
In the bedroom, his father coughed his dry cough.
Gravely concerned for Lucienne, he lit his pipe and stepped to the
fireplace. Perhaps the clock needed winding: yes, he wound it
carefully, as if for the last time.
Someone was coming up the steps.
"Don Raul?"
"Manuel."
"I went to see Calvo."
"How is he?"
"He's all right."
"We must get Angelina's things packed tomorrow."
"I'm ready to help you."
"Thank you for getting Vicente back to Colima safely. That's an
accomplishment these days."
"Let's make the rounds together," said Manuel.
"It's no world for Angelina," Raul said. "We must get her to
Guadalajara."
"Have you heard from Palma Sola?"
"Not a word."
"Esteban has gone there again."
"I don't like the silence," Raul exclaimed.
"Shall I ride to Colima?"
"Wait till tomorrow. After breakfast we must work at the packing.
Have the carriage in front of the house. Let's do everything to get
Angelina off. Organize her guards, six or eight men. If we can get to
Colima tomorrow, I'll see about Lucienne."
It seemed to Raul, as he helped load the carriage in the morning, that
he might fall asleep as he worked. He had slept little. Even the rain
did not revive him, a warm, pleasant rain, slanting in long, insistent
lines. He had passed most of the night on the sofa in the living room.
The clock had said: Tighten that strap; put that valise on top; go see
about Angelina.
Someone spoke.
"Yes," said Raul, strapping a valise.
"I just came from Palma Sola."
"Yes," said Raul, looking at a rain-streaked, mustached face, with a
scar over one eye.
"Doña Lucienne is all right and the hacienda has not been bothered.
Federicka and some of her people are with Doña Lucienne."
The rain was a benediction after that: such a great weight had been
lifted. He went into the house with a lighter step.
"We're ready now, Angelina," he called presently.
Tears trickled down Fernando's face as Angelina said goodbye; he could
not see her; it was goodbye to a voice, to a memory.... After she had
gone--he listened carefully to her footsteps, the banging of carriage
doors, clatter of horses--he struggled to sit up: If I can sit up, I
can still help Petaca. Petaca needs me, with people leaving, Raul
away, Manuel ... I must help out.
In his gray world, he puttered with his nervous hands and tugged at his
sheet but he could not sit up. Calling weakly to Chavela, he begged a
cigarette; she had to put it in his mouth, take it out, put it back;
she was still afraid of him, afraid of his closeness to death now. She
shuffled uneasily by his bed, sat down, got up.
Raul and Angelina tried to make themselves comfortable, with a valise
between them. The luggage on top rolled and thumped. Angelina
clutched her mother's jewel case in her lap, a box covered with pink
leather.
"Raul, I don't see how I can make it. The rain has made the road so
much rougher."
"It is worse on such a bad day. But the train's running again."
"Won't all my luggage get soaked?"
"The tarpaulin's new," he said. "Try to rest against the cushions."
"There's no room. Will I ever get there?"
"I'll take off my poncho. That will make more room."
Rain drummed all the way and the road became a mire in places. They
had to pull off to bypass a wagon and the carriage sank to the hubs.
Manuel put his cowboy escort to work, but it was a difficult job, with
one of the whippletrees splintered. Angelina sat on a valise under her
umbrella, a shawl around her, hating the rain and mud.
Colima's streets and houses were a glad sight, but at the railway
station they learned from the telegraph operator that the rails had
been ripped up by rebels, somewhere miles along the line.
"It will be days before a train can get through," he explained, wanting
to be sympathetic.
Raul slipped some money into his hands.
"Keep me informed," he said. "I'll be in touch with you."
He took Angelina to Federicka's, but she could not shake her pessimism;
she felt defeated, fated to die at Petaca; she complained of a sick
stomach; her head ached. When Federicka urged her to remain in Colima
she consented, sullen, ready to go to bed, unwilling to say goodbye to
Raul. She shut herself in her room, telling herself: I'll stay here
till the train runs.
Raul learned every inch of Colima's time-gnawed station before the
train ran again: the scaled walls, the stink of urine, the fruit peels
on the floor, peasants sleeping among cockroaches.... Vicente
sometimes waited with him, disgusted, a boy in school clothes. Raul
was usually hatless, in tight gray trousers and a snow-white pocketed
jacket-shirt.
Vicente chewed sugar cane. "It's going to be bad in Guadalajara," he
said.
"It may be bad here."
"I don't like the Colegio Francés."
"But you can't stay at Petaca, as it is."
They spoke angrily:
"Mama's getting sicker."
"She'll be better in Guadalajara."
"But she needs you!"
"No, she doesn't need me. You can help."
"But I don't want to go," Vicente exclaimed.
"You're going anyway, to help Mama."
"You help Mama.... You go!"
Buzzards perched on the galvanized iron roof, and Vicente threw rotten
oranges at them. When the telegraph operator came out of his room, he
said that the train might come tomorrow. "No use waiting any longer.
There's no chance today."
Raul gave him cigars.
"Vicente--let's go back to your school. I'll come alone tomorrow."
Angelina had stored her luggage at the hotel, ready for departure,
since a train could come at any hour. When it finally arrived, late at
night, Raul was on hand. He took both her hands in his, loving her for
all she had been to him.
"A good trip, Angelina," he said, as train smoke blew about them.
"Good luck, Raul," she said in her lovely voice, her fingers stealing
away from him, to the brooch on her blouse.
"You'll be safe," he said.
"Watch out for yourself at Petaca."
"You too, in Guadalajara. Look after Vicente. The Colegio will be
good for him."
"Yes."
She wanted to kiss him but the world inside her talked of many things;
she wanted to mention Caterina, wishing she could purge herself of
anguish; she wanted to speak of Fernando; she felt she could not
breathe. Raul stood out plainly enough--his white shirt flapping--yet
he was many Rauls.
She took Vicente's hand.
"Goodbye, Papa."
"Goodbye, son."
18
Sofía, Lucienne's maid, brought Raul a letter, arriving early at
Petaca, her face, hair and hands wet with mist. She gave it to him in
the living room.
"Dearest Raul," the letter began, "We are all right here at Palma Sola.
Don't worry about us. I had no luck in Guanajuato. The manager is
honest but afraid. I will tell you more about it when we meet.
"I have heard that things have been bad with you at Petaca and I am
sorry, darling. Sorry for you, Angelina, and all concerned. I know
how much the hacienda means to you. Everything done to Petaca is
something done to you.
"The Kolbs are here with me, as you know, and none of my servants has
deserted me. Payno and Otello say we won't have any trouble. I hope
they're right.
"My love for Palma Sola knows no bounds these precarious days. I'm so
glad to be back. I go about gathering flowers for my vases, setting
out new plants, sorting seeds, fixing glass broken by the quakes.
"Darling, write to me, by Sofía. She is a palmera woman and knows
every trail and I trust her. I love you."
Raul read, sitting on a chair, while Sofía stood behind staring at her
feet. She was a lanky woman, with loosely combed hair.
"Go to the kitchen and eat. Wait for me there," he said, folding the
letter. "Have anything you want." He drew a sheet of stationery out
of the desk drawer, and sat down and wet his pen in the inkwell.
He felt troubled and could not concentrate for he had just left
Gabriel: he and Velasco had cupped pus from his wound, dousing it with
peroxide and iodine.
"Feel it burning?" he had asked.
"It's burning."
"Good," Velasco had said. "That means live tissue. Your leg will get
all right."
Only a few days ago, Gabriel had spoken in chapel of the revolution,
warning everyone of its insanities. He had pleaded for sanity....
On that very day Captain Cerro had been hanged by a mob on a tree less
than two miles away.
Raul bit the top of his penholder and began to write. Before he had
written five lines, he crumpled the sheet and strode to the kitchen,
where Sofía was eating.
"I'm going to Palma Sola now," he said. "I'm sending men to look after
Lucienne and her place. I'll have my horse saddled. Rest a while
here. You needn't hurry."
With Captain Cerro dead, trouble could break out anywhere. He would
choose good men for Palma Sola.
Sanity--there was not much sanity. Yet he felt saner as he rode Chico
toward Palma Sola through the mist.
Sanity ... was it sanity, taking men from Petaca to guard Palma Sola?
he wondered.
But it was something like sanity, seeing Lucienne sitting by her front
window, at her piano. The green ocean was calm, swirling its pale
color out to the horizon.
Smiling, joyous, she waited for him to dismount and come inside. She
was alone.
His spurs clicked, as he came in.
"Darling," she said.
"Lucienne, I..." He kissed her lovingly.
"So sweet of you to come."
"I couldn't write. I tried. I had to come."
"Sit down. Why, you're soaking wet! Was it raining?"
"The palmera, the mist," he said.
"Come and change."
"Not yet."
He put his cheek against hers, his arms about her. Her arms went
around him for an instant. Then they heard the sounds of horses
arriving and people talking.
"Those are my men outside. I brought help, in case there's any need."
"What shall I do with your men, darling? How shall I feed them?"
"They've brought food. I'll send any further provisions they need.
You'll keep them here, as long as you stay."
"How are things at Petaca?"
"So-so."
"That's not much of an answer."
"Gabriel has a badly infected leg, caused by a bullet wound."
"I heard that someone shot him. How much worse can it get?"
"We'll have to talk about those things," he said, "but not now. I'll
see about my men, where they are to stay, what they can do to help."
"Then some brandy and dry clothes."
"Fine."
Over their brandy, he talked about protecting Palma Sola; he felt that
the presence of his men would be sufficient; in all likelihood, there
would be no trouble.
"This way I can take you to Colima and feel that everything is all
right."
"I wish I could feel that way, Raul. All my things are here, the
Humboldt things." She gestured toward the furnishings.
"Where are Federicka and her family and friends?"
"Down on the beach. They'll be back later."
The brandy nipped the edges of her tongue. She thought: Brandy, just
the two of us, for a few moments. She was disturbed by new lines in
his face, his restless gaze. She took his hand and led him to the
dining table, so beautiful in the midst of dark green plants.
"Some more brandy," she suggested.
He nodded toward a newspaper, spread on the table.
"Is it recent?"
"It's from Colima ... a couple of days old."
"Any news from General Matanzas?"
"No. But there's plenty from outside places. In Morelos, several
haciendas have been burned. In Guanajuato, owners have been driven
away."
"Here at Palma Sola these tragedies seem remote," he said.
"I hope we can keep it that way."
"How's your father?"
"He can't get out of bed any more. He can't sit up, even in bed.
He'll die soon, Lucienne."
"I hope I'll be missed when I'm gone," she said. "Me and my trees and
my flowers. Do you think I'll ever be able to send my lovely jacaranda
seedlings to Guadalajara? The governor wanted them. Ah, these are
hard times, for even such simple things as trees."
Raul thought: How fine she is, how much a woman! And he put his mouth
on hers; they were friends and lovers; in the warmth and strength of
their embrace they found hope.
He decided to remain at Palma Sola a while, maybe no more than three
days. He wanted to forget. Together they would see pelicans lurch
into the sea, frigate birds ride the wind, herons take the sun.
Together they would walk on the beach or go out to sea, in a dugout,
trolling.
In the morning, lying close to her open window facing the ocean, he
traced the copper coloring of her throat, his fingers moving lightly.
Her long hair tangled his arms. His mouth sought her breast.
The ocean breeze tossed the curtains and moved her hair. He drew her,
half asleep, underneath him. It had been a long time since they had
loved each other in the early morning; laughter bubbled out of her,
slowly, slowly. Palma Sola, single tree, phallic, alive. She groaned
and laughed against his neck. His body grew tense with joy.
There was nothing to get them up till late. In the afternoon,
Federicka and her family went to Colima. The weather was perfect, a
little of spring, a little of summer.
The next day, Lucienne said, "Tomorrow we'll go to Colima," and then
postponed then: departure. So, for several days they rode horseback,
fished, lolled on the beach, and took walks together. The newspapers
carried distressing news and when they read them together they were
perplexed and saddened. They knew time was ebbing away.
"Of course I must go," said Raul, after another paper had arrived. "I
must get back to Petaca.... We must go. I'll leave you in Colima."
"We've been lucky," she said.
"I think so."
"I'll tell Otello to scrape the rust from the carriage."
"Let's go on horseback," he said.
"No, in the victoria. I have too much luggage. Anyhow, I'm sick of
Chico. You should get rid of him. Let him drag along behind us."
"He's a good horse."
"What was he like as a colt?"
"No better."
"I thought so."
"He'll get better."
They were in the old-fashioned room, Raul in seersucker trousers and
plaid shirt, Lucienne in gay clothes, a turtleshell comb over one ear,
sandals laced high up her ankles.
"I suppose you love Chico in a way. I wish we could keep all the
things we love," she said, with quiet passion.
"I wish we could too," he said.
"I hope we're lucky, you and I," she said.
"Yes ... lucky, with you, Lucienne. It hasn't been that way with
Angelina. She's had her secrets. They are destroying her.... I'm not
sure there can be any adjustment. She goes to her room and locks her
door. She walks about, talks to herself, comes downstairs with a
strangeness about her. I--I think she's out of her mind. Strange ...
how she writes. She acts as if I didn't exist, as if I were half
alive...."
She was surprised by his candor, by his revelations, by his concern.
"Will the change to Guadalajara help?"
"I doubt it. I really don't know. She may go mad."
"Darling, hush, I think you're needlessly alarmed."
"No. And I can't talk about it any more ... not now.... But,
Lucienne, I need you."
"You have me, Raul."
"Not by my side."
"Maybe it's better that way."
"Better?" he asked.
"For all of us. Angelina, Vicente."
He realized she was straining a point for his sake; her face, her
hands, told him she was nervous. They had been seated together. He
cupped his chin in his hand.
"You're wonderful," he said. "I love you because you stay the same,
taking the good and the bad as it comes."
"I wish I were really like that," she said.
"You've been like that all these years."
They loaded the rusty victoria and headed for Colima, riders trailing
behind, with Chico yanking angrily. A cave-shaped cloud held a
fragment of a rainbow in its arms; then, in the opposite direction, to
the north, the volcano rose above a forest of palms, a peculiar light
on its upper slopes, a vaporish yellow. For Raul, the light was
startling. It was as if he were seeing the volcano from his garden,
the evening the yellow scum had covered the lagoon. He thought of
mentioning the coincidence to Lucienne, but decided not to speak of it.
Later in the evening, in Colima, he would look at the peak again.
In Colima, they visited friends. Obviously, trouble was everywhere.
People tried to be cheerful, particularly those who could not see the
_hacendados'_ plight. At Federicka's they had drinks behind the cool
bamboo slats, and someone played an accordion. Together, they went to
the cathedral. The ugly silence of death pervaded the place. Raul
wanted peace but not an ominous peace. At Federicka's, late at night,
when others had gone to sleep, he went up on the roof-top to study the
volcano.
His pipe lit, he watched. Presently, he saw another red bowl of fire
... that dangerous aerial red, a wisp of smoke above it.
God, he thought, not another eruption! He longed to be able to strike
back at the subterranean power; he wanted to dominate it, extinguish
it. How dreadful to wait and wait.
An owl cried dismally.
19
The great quake struck Petaca just before dawn.
Don Fernando felt the shocks at once for he had been lying awake for
several hours. He shouted for Chavela but she did not hear him.
Angry, he spouted to himself:
"I've got to get out of here. Where are my glasses? Bed's going to
break. Damn that Chavela, not coming, never coming when I need her.
Who does she think she is? Bring me a cigarette! Where are my
glasses? Got to light a candle."
He shouted at the quake now:
"Get me out of bed. All right ... I'll get up. Stop you--sure I'll
stop you. I'll stop your rocking. You stone devil of the Indians!"
His quavering hands worked at his sheets. Shoving himself against his
pillows, he began to sit up. Groaning and puffing, he reached for his
matches but knocked them on the floor.
Finding it possible to swing his feet over the side of the bed, he sat
up. Moonlight whitened the tiles near the big window and he detected
the light. On the edge of his bed, his arms bearing part of his
weight, he gained confidence.
"My wheel chair's nearby.... I'll get out of this place. Raul, Raul,"
he called, forgetting that Raul was upstairs. "Raul, there's a big
quake--the floor...."
He heard shouting and rifle fire but could not, except for an instant,
separate the sounds. The blurred noises, growing in intensity,
disturbed him and he lifted his head and cried: "What's that? Who's
making that noise?"
He tried to rise but crumpled onto the floor. His mind blurred....
Someday ride to Colima, jacket with silver buttons ... ride to Colima
... drink beer. The snake coiled over the fallen log, and the
mayordomo shouted: Watch out, I'm going to shoot it! I pulled my .45
and shot him.... There he was ... there my father was, on his white
horse, outside the tienda door....
His father and the snake writhed in the old man's brain and the quake
returned and red flared through the window. Fernando crawled toward
the light. He was trying to find his bed now. The red blurred and
faded and he turned and began to crawl in the other direction. A man
in a dark blue suit, a neat blue suit, tapped him on the arm and said:
"You must stop taking money from the store without my permission."
Papa spoke calmly but he was on a white horse, just outside the tienda
door.... I swiveled my chair at the desk and shot him, as he rode away.
The quake grew more severe and large blocks of masonry loosened in the
inside wall, on the patio side, and fell on Fernando. He died at once.
Outside, men went on shouting and shooting.... They had set fire to
the mill and the flames soared high.
Raul had jumped out of bed and grabbed his trousers and shirt.
Carrying his shoes, he rushed down a tottering stairs--through the pale
dawn--into the patio, where water sloshed out of the fountain, across
the cobbles. Servants were screaming and shouting. Toward the mill,
flames gushed up; the wall of Fernando's room crumbled: as Raul stood
by the fountain, he saw blocks bulge, lean forward, crash to the floor,
dust rising, as fine as flour from a smashed flour barrel.
The door to his father's room was ripped from its hinges and thrown to
the ground. Rushing into the dusty room, Raul opened the outer window.
Then he found his father. Death, in the midst of this disaster, seemed
natural to Raul--yet not the gaping mouth and angry eyes. Their anger
and derision drove him out of the room, into the patio.
"Are you hurt?" asked Sandoval, rushing up to him, a crowbar in his
hand, his hat around his neck on a cord, his shirt ripped.
"My father's dead ... buried under that wall," said Raul, buttoning his
shirt, wiping a smudge from his face.
"Somebody set fire to the mill; it's all in flames. I just came from
there.... There's shooting."
"Do what you can at the mill--I'll find you later," said Raul. "I'm
going for Manuel, I'll see about Father Gabriel.... Find Velasco. Get
Esteban. Let's fight 'em off at the mill. Let's fight for this place!"
In the living room a fine old set of ivory dominoes had been hurled to
the floor, the box splintering into many pieces. He saw them, as he
lit a table lamp and put on his shoes. For a moment, he knelt to pick
them up and then remembered his father. Suppose Manuel or Gabriel or
someone else had been pinned down?
"Gabriel!" Raul shouted outside the hacienda, aware of the whitening
sky. "Gabriel!"
"Raul?"
"Where are you?"
"At the chapel."
Gabriel had taken an injured girl just inside the chapel door, and was
working over her by a vigil lamp.
"Can you find Velasco for me?"
"I haven't seen him!" Shall I tell him about my father, Raul thought?
No, that can wait. I'll go for help.
"I'll see if I can find Velasco. I'm looking for Manuel."
Flames from the mill transfixed him as he went out the chapel door; the
light seemed to spout above Petaca, threatening every wall, the
forecourt, the chapel. Gabriel, in the doorway beside the girl, tried
to give her water.
Was the earth shaking again? Raul thought. Was everything to be lost?
Flames blazed over the dining room now; rifle shots came from the same
direction. Petaca....
Petaca, 1619, Indian land, Medina land.... He began to run toward the
back of the house, toward the _tienda de raya_, thinking he would get a
rifle from the gun case and then find Manuel.
He ran inside, wrenched a carbine from the case and loaded his pockets
with ammunition.
Petaca--the name sounded in his blood--they were burning Petaca, the
mill, the dining room, then....
"Raul!"
It was Luis, waving a Winchester.
"Luis, get them out of the dining room. Come on, Luis!"
But the raiders were gone; there were only flames in the dining room.
Kerosene had been sloshed over the furniture and drapes and the
conflagration roared, driving them outside.
Raul dashed for Manuel's room, his own armed men passing him, headed
for the walls and turrets.
"Save the house, the living room ... use dirt and sand ... beat out the
fire!" he shouted, and wondered whether anyone heard him or cared.
Among the frightened horses, in the stable, he leaned over Manuel. A
terrified horse had kicked him and knocked him unconscious. Raul
brought water and rubbed a cold wet cloth over his face, arms, and
chest.
"Manuel ... Manuel ... let's get out of here! Manuel ... are you badly
hurt?"
"Raul..."
"Now, now can you sit up?"
"Raul--I was running toward the mill.... It's on fire," said Manuel,
groaning, feeling his arms and chest, peering at Raul with eyes dulled
by pain.
"Let's get out of the stable," said Raul.
Manuel struggled to his feet.
"Can you make it?"
"I'll make it. Where?"
"To the house ... they doused it with kerosene."
With other men they returned to the house and began to fight the fire
in the dining room with sand and dirt, hauling and shoveling it from
the second patio.
Manuel had armed himself at the _tienda_, as they passed. In spite of
the pain from his head injury, he helped haul sand. Raul and Salvador
worked close to the dining-room door, throwing sand from buckets.
While they battled the blaze, men broke in the _tienda_ door and dumped
kerosene over the desk and walls.
There, outside the _tienda_, they trapped Pedro.
Raul raised his rifle: the sight cleared the bandolier, raised to the
shoulder, dropped lower: was this a man?
The trigger moved.
"Pedro, that's Pedro!" yelled Manuel.
The men were hurling burning wood away from the front of the _tienda_
and a flaming board fell across Pedro's body.
"Take the board off that man!" someone shouted.
"It's Pedro. He's dead," said Manuel.
"Pedro's dead!" shouted Salvador.
"Pedro's dead!" others shouted.
Rifle fire began all along the walls and soon men came and informed
Raul that they had beaten off the attackers; presently, others reported
that the dining-room fire had been extinguished ... ashen faces,
wounded men ... Raul, his clothes ripped and filthy, stared at them.
They went up to a water pail and splashed and drank, saying little.
"Shall we take a look at the mill?" Raul asked Manuel.
"Yes ... yes."
Raul stood by the smoldering ashes a long time before he said: "The
bastards, to burn it! They might better have stolen the corn and
wheat. They could have eaten that. This way everybody loses!"
A gentle mist was falling and he and Manuel stood under a jacaranda,
the body of a scorched rat near their feet. The wind shook the damp
leaves and pigeons flew low, avoiding the mill. The chapel bell
tolled, telling the story.
"Well, we've seen the mill," said Raul.
"What a fire!" said Manuel. "Look how the beams burned."
Raul noticed the charred beams in the ruin.
"The quake knocked down the mill," he said. "The fire got going, then
the quake pulled down the beams." He nodded toward the volcano, now
drowned in mist.
Raul pulled Manuel's sleeve.
"We have things to do, Manuel. I want to go back to the house. I must
bury my father."
"What ... he's dead!"
"The quake killed him. Help me take his body away, Manuel. It won't
be easy."
And he welcomed the rain, for now the mist had changed to rain; he
welcomed the cool of it, walking back to the house: he liked the fresh
smell.
The chapel bell had stopped tolling but now someone dragged at its rope
again and the sound seemed to bring great gouts of rain and Raul and
Manuel hurried toward the kitchen. They sat down at a table near the
tiled stove and gulped coffee. Manuel touched the side of his head and
the side of his neck, barely brushing the skin. Raul wanted to ask him
how he felt but he couldn't put the words together.
A bearlike man, dirty and rain-soaked, came in, asking for food. No
one had seen him before. He spoke out, both hands on a crooked staff,
his voice quavering and wild:
"I've just come across Petaca. The peons are leaving. I've seen 'em
... many of them. They're just walking away."
Raul gouged a line across the rough table with his thumbnail: the line
divided Petaca: so much for the workers, so much for himself. He
wouldn't relinquish more.
He damned the blundering peasants: without proper clothing or food they
were forsaking Petaca for more insecurity, hunger and beatings. They
were deserting their families.
The bearlike fellow droned on about the peasants. Then, suddenly he
stopped, put down his staff, and spat:
"Have you heard about General Matanzas?"
"No, I haven't," said Raul.
"He's sided with the revolutionists!"
My God, today ... tomorrow ... so we change to save our skins, thought
Raul. He asked his maid for cigarette paper and tobacco and rolled a
cigarette as he finished his coffee.
"We came back to the house to bury my father," he reminded Manuel.
"We're burying the past too," he added.
It took hours to dig Don Fernando free, even with the help of Luis and
Gabriel. In the late afternoon they carried his body to the grove and
Gabriel knelt by his shallow grave and prayed. The sky was clear, the
sun hot; the wind whipped Gabriel's robe. His spectacles in his hand,
he prayed for decency, a better world, kinder men. Parrots snickered
and whispered in the grove while Esteban covered the old man.
Raul had anticipated his father's death too long to be moved. He felt
relieved, but it was an unbalanced sense of relief, for he could not
forget Pedro's death or the burning house and the ravaged mill. Did it
mean anything that both these men had died on the same day? Sitting
close to Caterina's grave, he thought of the prayers that lay buried
everywhere in the world. I believe in God ... why? Because ...
because some people are kind and faithful. Lucienne. Manuel. Farias.
Caterina. Vicente.... Birds from the nearest palms drifted past him,
their wings sighing.
The men left the cemetery.
A little smoke rose from the volcano as Raul and Gabriel returned to
the house. Gabriel made a remark about the swift changes.
"Life has become treacherous too," said Raul sadly. "I wanted changes
to be slow, remember? You said: Don't take the law in your hands. I
have killed today. Pedro. Did you know?"
"I didn't know," said Gabriel, and crossed himself. "Our old world has
gone. God help you, my son." It hurt him that Raul had killed; he had
promised Pedro to the law but more than that he had promised Raul a
clear conscience.
"I'm giving up Petaca," said Raul.
They paused in front of the old house, where further earthquake damage
was obvious: part of the reconstructed veranda had fallen; Fernando's
room gaped; the living-room roof had caved in at one end and smoke
seeped out, blowing low over the house and garden.
"I'm giving it up. I won't risk more lives. We can't go on defending
the house indefinitely. We'll save what we can, before all is lost."
He remembered the broken box of dominoes. Hands in his pockets, he
faced Gabriel, savage disappointment on his face.
Gabriel had removed his glasses and was wiping his eyes. He wished he
need not reply.
"Of course ... yes," he said, wanting proper words, feeling Raul's
gaze. "Yes ... Raul ... you must."
What would Raul do? Live in Colima perhaps? Perhaps Guadalajara? In
spite of his weariness, in spite of his sadness, a ray of hope
returned: could it be Italy, before he died?
Velasco appeared on the veranda and waved something. Raul turned
toward the steps.
"Someone's hurt," he said.
"I'll come," said Gabriel, putting on his glasses.
Raul said, going up the steps:
"I'll look after you, Gabriel. Perhaps I can hold my land ... I'll
fight for the property ... I'll do what I can for you."
He repeated his words to himself. They seemed impossibly clumsy; the
whole situation was impossible.
Velasco had a letter for Raul. Roberto had gotten word through from
Guadalajara. Before Raul opened it and read it, he told Velasco what
he had decided, and the doctor nodded approval before returning to the
injured, digging with a finger at his goatee.
Yes, the letter from Guadalajara, creased, greasy, lacking a stamp.
Who brought it? How did it get here? News from Roberto. He found
brandy in the living room and sat down to read but smoke, blowing in
from the dining room, sent him to the patio and the fountain. He took
the brandy, and sat on the edge of the fountain, smoothed out the
letter, hesitant, wanting to reconsider his decision, wanting to pause.
That was it. Pause. Hold back. Draw a clean breath.
People kept crossing and recrossing the patio. They stopped before him
and questioned him, oblivious of the letter fluttering in his hands.
As long as he sat and talked, they felt strengthened. How can I
abandon them, all of them, my friends, my servants ... they'll be lost
without me! Lost? They want land, houses of their own, freedom.
The smell of his own burning house made him cough.
He turned to the letter again and read:
"Dear Raul,
"I hear that things have been going badly at your hacienda, at most of
the haciendas in the Colima area. I am very sorry. When I left you,
after the equestrian party, I had hoped for better things. Here we
have serious problems, too. But our most serious problem is Angelina.
You must come here at once. Angelina is ill, is completely deranged.
I am sorry to be so blunt, Raul, but what can I do? I must tell you
the truth, however painful to me and you.
"María is ill. That is why Angelina stayed with us awhile, though now
she is at Holy Cross Hospital.
"You have to know, too, that Guadalajara has suffered. The San
Francisco church has been burned. The bishop's residence has been
sacked. There's garbage on the street corners, stacked high. There's
no water in our homes, there's no sewage disposal.
"Angelina has felt all of this tragedy. Unfortunately, she saw men
hanging from lampposts in the plaza.
"I have taken her to several doctors. They all say she is unbalanced.
She's gentle and kind. But she sees a dog, a dog that doesn't exist.
It's her illness. She's trapped in fear. I hesitate to tell you this,
but she doesn't care to eat.
"Vicente is doing all right; he doesn't know the truth yet. He's with
us. His school has closed. He doesn't get about much. It's too
dangerous.
"Come when you can, Raul. She asks for you. This has been my first
chance to get a letter to you. I hope you understand I have tried to
communicate, in various ways. Yours, Roberto."
He filled his brandy glass again, and reread the letter. Sweat had
broken out on his forehead; it trickled over the backs of his hands,
ran down under his arms. A man stopped to question him but Raul
ordered him away, not so much as glancing at him.
He felt Angelina's eyes focused on him accusingly; their luminosity
made him get up and leave the patio. Down by the pool, he found the
silence he wanted. On a bench he stared at the leaf-dotted water,
fighting his sense of nightmare.
Such a letter--at such a time.
Yet he read it once more and began to think of leaving, riding
horseback, catching a freight to Guadalajara. Some said freight trains
went through, once in a while.
He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and walked away. He must
find Manuel. In his simple, small room, on his bed, leaning against
the wall, Raul was able to think straight. To Manuel he explained his
decision to give up Petaca. A lamp burned below the old Chiapan
hanging ... some old clothes dangled from the wooden peg. The room was
quiet. Lamplight brought out Manuel's kind features, his weariness....
How he had aged!
"I want us to eat together and then I'll ride to Colima tonight. I
must go to her. You will be in charge here. Save what you can,
Manuel."
Raul was glad Manuel did not talk: he wanted the silence, the silence
of his room, their silence. He remembered to ask about Manuel's head
injury. Then there was the silence again.
"You'll be all right in Guadalajara. You'll be able to reach her,"
Manuel said, that old bond coming to the fore. "I'll be waiting for
you here, or in Colima. I can't eat now, my friend. Go with God,
Raul." And he stood up, knowing how hard it was for him to go.
"Goodbye, Manuel."
For Raul, it was easier to get to Guadalajara than he had supposed. By
the next day he found a freight that carried him and others as well--a
slow ride, but not hazardous. They had bad water or no water. Some of
the people were ill. At the many stops they got fruit, _tacos_ and
tortillas. Those who had money paid; those who had no money begged.
Raul made a little corner for himself in an old red boxcar, the
splintered floor full of holes. He sat among rich and poor. Since the
train seldom moved fast, the heat poured on them and they looked
forward to the night. And they arrived in Guadalajara in the small
hours of the night, their second day out of Colima.
Guadalajara was filthier and more degraded than Roberto had painted it.
Poor Vicente, thought Raul. Poor Angelina. Stinking garbage cluttered
nearly every street corner. There were no street lamps. Wild dogs ran
about. Barbed wire had been flung over benches and around trees in the
plaza. Machine gunners had sandbagged the roofs of the municipal
buildings ... buzzards were everywhere. All the way to Roberto's
house, along Vallarta, the main street, barricades of cobbles had been
erected, topped by wrought-iron benches and smashed grilles and
balconies. It was amazing to Raul that the hack driver was able to get
through to Roberto's home.
"Not much of a homecoming," said Roberto, "but we're still here."
Vicente danced with joy and yet was troubled by his father's haggard
face.
"Papa, isn't it awful the way they've torn up the city?" he said,
backing away a little.
"It is. Now for the bathroom. I hope there's water. I want to get
cleaned up."
"Is Petaca all right?"
"We're still there," he said, and glanced at Roberto.
When he had washed and rested, Raul left the house with Vicente, for
the Holy Cross Hospital on Calle Molière. Hollow eyed and thinner,
Vicente did not have much to say as they trudged along. Raul talked
horses but Vicente seemed to have forgotten his passion for them. He
said he was sorry his school had closed and wondered what his friends
were doing in Colima? Was it so bad in Colima?
The sun was streaming into the garden patio of the charming pillared
home that had been converted into a hospital by the Sisters of Charity
long ago. One of the Sisters asked them to wait in the patio and Raul
and Vicente sat on a bench, facing a bed of roses. They said nothing
until Angelina came.
She shook hands with Raul, but disregarded Vicente. She was
quiet-spoken and aloof. Vicente went gladly into the Mother Superior's
office when she beckoned to him. His mother frightened him.
Angelina wore a yellow dress Raul could not remember seeing; when she
sat beside him, he saw how much weight she had lost; her face was
older, threaded with tiny lines; her eyes could not focus on him but
glided away, across the garden, to the tiled roof, then, to her hands.
"Do you like me in black?" she asked. "I think I look my best in
black." Her voice called up a hundred sensations in him. "Estelle has
come to see me ... she comes often," she whispered. "It's not very
easy, but we slip away to the theater, to hear Clavo read his poems....
We go to a play." Her eyes lifted to the roof line. "How are things
with you?"
"Fine, Angelina."
"That's nice. Shall we walk around the patio? It's such a nice place."
Raul took her arm and she did not object.
White and yellow roses were in flower; a pet raven sat on a bench and
clicked its bill as they passed; Raul tried to summon wisdom; he wanted
to speak of Petaca, but Petaca represented every kind of painful
failure and transition. He did not dare mention his father's death.