Part 10

Raul dug for his pipe and filled it and Manuel rolled a cigarette and they lit from the same match. Again, something ignited in their eyes--they felt their close communion. Saddlebag under his head, Raul smoked, the smoke climbing and climbing, the _cocos de aceite_ completely windless.

A blue flycatcher lit on a mossy log, where it preened its wing and tail feathers lazily.

"Have you heard that the flycatcher is from Quetzalcoatl?" asked Raul.

"Yes, I've heard that," said Manuel.

"I wonder why the old gods died," Raul said.

"People say they died because no one cared any more. Why does anything die, Don Raul?" Manuel shook his head; he removed his hat and forked his fingers through his hair. Faced by his own question, he felt tired, old. The forest could answer that question. Bending over his cigarette, sheltering it, smelling it, he listened to the woods.

"We couldn't go on living, all of us," he said, exhaling after a long drag, the smoke flooding over his eyes. "Some of us must be lost, in jungles, in rivers, fall on the sides of mountains, take sick of fever, be buried in ruins and little roadside places."

"But the gods weren't buried," objected Raul.

"They were buried at Tenochtitlan, at Monte Albán, at temples in Yucatán."

The flycatcher went on preening its lovely feathers.

Manuel lowered his voice: "Perhaps the old gods may return. I've heard it said...."

12

"I guess it was quite a party," said Fernando.

"Yes, Father."

"Who was there?"

"General Matanzas, Serrato, Roberto ... the Count, Jesús Peza, the Radziwills, Federicka ... several asked about you."

"Don't be so damn' polite."

The old man screwed round among his pillows, his cot in the patio of the serpent fountain. Slouched among pillows and sheets, he resembled a beachcomber, a feudal derelict. Behind him hung one of Alberto's cages, an _azulejo_ fluttering inside. Columnar cypress sliced the sky.

Raul perched on a cane chair, his hat on the floor beside him. He had just returned from an inspection of the lagoon irrigation project, a job that would put fifteen hectares of land under cultivation.

"I saw your cancellations in the books," Fernando cried, the flames in his eyes starting. "I want those cancellations stopped." His voice sounded childish.

Raul did all he could to control himself: he fished out his pipe, nicked off scale, stared at it, silent.

"You can't alter our records," Fernando exclaimed.

"I'm not keeping our people in servitude," Raul declared.

"Will you free them?" Fernando cried, lips wide. "They'll kill you!"

"We've had them killed. Perhaps it's their turn."

"You talk like a madman!"

"Hasn't it been insane to think we can destroy and destroy and go on destroying?"

"We must eat," said Fernando foolishly. He wanted to see clearly: the damn' scum floated about at any time, blocking, filtering; he rubbed his eyes.

"I'm going about the job of changing things as slowly as possible. The lagoon project is coming along. I've had the dam repaired in Sector 17. Petaca is being improved. Our people have a right to a better way...." He thought he could not go on defending himself, repressing his feelings. "You say we must eat. God knows we've never gone hungry, we Medinas!"

"Listen," Fernando said. "I've disposed of my mining shares in Pachuca Incorporated. The money is banked in my name now."

Raul had counted on the dividends for further improvements. He had counted on them as a financial buffer as well. His lips went white.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"You talk of improvements. I'll cut your income. I can control Petaca." Fernando's sheet billowed and sank back.

"You can't!" Raul exclaimed.

"Raul--you can't better Petaca on one hand and undermine it on the other. Your radical ideas will ruin us."

"So we must hold our own by destroying others."

"It's a system like any other."

"That's no excuse."

"What will you do? Divide our land? The Indians owned it once. Will you give it back?" His voice crackled.

"That can be answered later," Raul said.

"When? Tomorrow? Next month? How long will you wait?"

Raul replaced his pipe in his pocket and forced himself to reply: "I haven't decided how to act."

"You'd give our land away!"

"No, Father. I won't give up Petaca."

Fernando forced a quaking hand from under the sheet and wedged a pillow behind his back. Except for a general diffusion of yellowish light, he could see nothing.

"I'm almost blind," he mumbled. "When is that optical fool coming from Colima to fit my glasses? Blind ... you know what it is to be going blind? Give me a drink."

As the old man drank, he thought of Pedro; he trembled; his fear of death returned, and he did not want Raul dead.

"Don't go, Raul. Sit down, wait."

Raul held the empty glass and remained standing.

"Did General Matanzas speak to you ... of a new president?" he asked, with difficulty. He had difficulty in swallowing.

"No. He was drunk."

"Who is to take over Mexico ... does anyone say?"

"Nobody knows."

"What utter fools," he growled. "A ship without a helmsman.... And here at Petaca I must fight you." Then he said, sadly: "This is a time of rumors about revolt, about partition of land.... I don't like a time of rumors." He cleared his throat.

For the first time during their conversation, Raul considered his father carefully; he saw that he had lost weight; the gnarled face had shrunken; both hands trembled now. No one had troubled to wash his hands. No one had combed his hair.

Raul went for Chavela and brought her back with comb and brush and pan of warm water and cake of soap. As she held the basin, he washed his father's hands, remembering some old legend of men deriving power and adding to their own longevity by such an act. Chavela dried Fernando's hands and washed his face as he lay with eyes closed, silent. He fell asleep, while she combed and brushed his hair. Raul got his hat and climbed the stair to his room. At another time he would question Fernando about Pedro's gun smuggling.

In his bedroom, he smelled Angelina's perfume and, as he changed from boots to shoes, he went over their disaffection, wanting, no matter how absurd, how contradictory, a touchstone that might bring about harmony.

Downstairs, Gabriel rested, seated in a big armchair, drowned in a book, his robe pulled up from his legs, his sandals kicked off. Light from the veranda drilled holes through his spectacles as he read.

"When did you come in?" asked Raul, poking about.

"I've been at the bookcase quite a while. Last week I got lost in Josse's _Historia_ and now I'm trying Locke's essay on _Understanding_."

"I'm the one who needs understanding."

"Not as much as I need it," said Gabriel. "What is it we need at Petaca?" he wanted to know.

"Friendship."

"Can that be it, Raul?"

"You taught me that, Gabriel. You've looked after the cuts and bruises and listened to the bitter stories. You've found ways of expressing friendship in the little things, a new altar cloth, medicine for Motilinia, a straw horse for a boy's birthday."

Quiet, Gabriel thumbed the leather book; for years he had encouraged one after another; it pleased him that Raul should speak out. What he had accomplished he could not say.

One force had worked consistently against him and that was Don Fernando.... As enemies, they had stormed over every sector of the hacienda. Already Raul had re-opened the school and secured a teacher, an able young man from Manzanillo, handy with guitar and songs. Secretly, Gabriel was a little jealous of Raul's successes. But he knew the inner man, the inner conflicts, and probed no more.

Both read in the shuttered, still living room. The bookcase occupied a corner, the top of it strewn with bric-a-brac: silver cup, barometer, Dresden doll, porcelain animals, the deed box.

Raul took down the _Journal of Las Casas_ and after reading a while at random he said, "I never find much time for reading any more."

"In Italy, I read a book a fortnight ... that was my goal."

"Perhaps life was easier in Italy."

"It's a matter of habit," said Gabriel.

"I'm sure you're right. I get more out of my smoking than I do out of my reading."

"When I first came, I read till late every night," Gabriel said.

"I remember how late your light used to burn."

"Well, my eyes aren't up to that kind of reading any more," said Gabriel, regretfully, and fingered the bow of his glasses.

In a loud voice, Salvador called Raul from the doorway of the veranda.

"Tomás is hurt," he said, as if reporting the weather.

"Which Tomás?" asked Raul, laying down his book. Petaca had two, little and big, both stable workers.

"Little Tomás."

"What happened?" asked Raul, rising.

"His leg."

"Yes."

"A horse kicked him. I think the leg is broken."

"I'll go with you," said Gabriel.

The man lay on the ground in a stall, almost buried in gray straw and gray light. An enormous dusty cobweb drooped above him.

"Are you badly hurt?" asked Raul.

"Yes ... patrón."

"Where?"

"My leg, patrón."

"Where--down low, or high up?"

"Low."

"Umm, I wouldn't want you kicked in the groin. Help me lay him flat, Gabriel."

Storni knelt in the dirt and together they made Little Tomás more comfortable. They removed his sandals and explored the injured leg; the break was obvious.

"Let's take him to my place," said Gabriel.

"Where do you want him?" asked Salvador, and bending over he gathered Tomás as if he were a child.

Tomás began to whimper.

"No, no ... take me to my hut," Tomás begged. "Patrón ... por favor."

"It's closer," said Raul. "Take him to his own place."

It made no difference to Salvador; he said something cheery and swaggered out of the stall and across the stable yard to the row of huts built recently. Tomás and a friend shared a hut. Salvador laid him on a straw mat, just as he would set down pottery. The man-length space had no furnishings, but Tomás' macaw wabbled in and climbed onto his arm and, when Raul scared off the parrot, it squatted in a corner and clicked its beak peevishly.

"I'll go for Velasco," said Gabriel. "I'll get him here as soon as I can, Tomás."

Raul had Salvador bring water; there in the hut some of Tomás' fear vanished; he managed a twisted grin; his face, streaked with straw and sweat, had the eagerness and pathos of a student. Salvador's corn cob fingers removed straw from his hair; sitting beside Salvador, Raul lit a cigarette and then a second one for Tomás.

"What horse kicked you?" he asked.

Salvador picked up more straws.

"Yours ... Don Raul."

"Chico! That damn' horse! What the hell was Chico doing in that stall, Tomás?"

"I was leading him ... to be shod ... he kicked me ... I fell into that stall ... I fell."

"Ah," said Raul, smoking, disappointed in Chico.

Later, outside the stable, he watched men curing a batch of iguana hides; they had the pelts submerged in a chemical solution and kneaded them with wooden mauls. Other men padded saddles with milkweed and sewed and polished leather. Under a thatched _ramada_ they had a dozen saddles on saw-horses; he noticed one of his own, a reddish McClellan, from Texas. The air smelled of leather, strong saddle soap and polish. Sun streaked the stable wall. Raul strolled among his men, chatting, whistling, smoking.

A teenager, in torn shorts, gutted a snake. Above him, head high from the ground, in a carved niche, stood the figure of St. Christopher. A Medina had placed it there generations ago, a pink stone carving done by a local artisan. A snakeskin dangled from St. Christopher's arm and another swung from the saint's sandal. The snake collector looked worried as Raul inspected his workshop.

"Why do you want so many skins?" Raul asked. "Are you trying to get rid of all our snakes?"

"No ... to make belts."

"You cure them for belts?"

"I can make other things." The youngster could scarcely work his tongue; he thought Raul would accuse him of selling his products; he leaned over so far his straight hair touched his bloody knife.

"What can you make?"

"A pouch ... maybe a hatband."

"Make me a tobacco pouch. I'd like a small one, about this big."

"Yes, sir." (Faintly)

"Make me a good one."

"Yes, sir."

He believed in the man's kindness.

The snake boy and Little Tomás and his father faded from Raul's mind as he walked toward the burial plot in the grove. Juggling a smooth white stone, he walked past the rear of the mill; above--he did not stop to look--gulls cried. Usually gulls did not fly this far inland. A dog barked ... it might have been Mona chasing after a girl's ball.

The graves had been redecorated with shells; the jungle had been pushed back; lianas had been cut; vines had been ripped down; trees had been trimmed. For the first time in years he read his mother's name on her marker. Her marker consisted of a red _cantera_ globe; he sat on it and listened to the gabble of parrots and still, high up, somewhere, the cry of gulls.

In a few weeks Caterina's bronze figure would be cast and, if the artist remained faithful to his sketches, it would be a graceful girl bearing a bouquet of roses in her arms, her dress swirling over bare feet. Soon it would acquire a patina and become part of the jungle. Perhaps it would tell others what a beautiful child she had been. Perhaps ... then he remembered his murdered grandfather and looked at the marker Roberto had set up, a dignified shaft of fluted marble. Time had cracked the stone and quakes had knocked it out of line ... nothing defied the years.

Nothing had helped his father forget his crime.... He, too, was buried here, the best of him, the kindness that a man normally had.

He returned slowly to the house and sat on the long veranda. Men had gathered in the court; one had a guitar and his voice had the old pleading tone. Rocking on an old hide rocker, Raul listened to the singer as the sky filled with stars. The big dipper hung above the court. Someone lit a bonfire. Suddenly, Raul realized that Manuel had been sitting near him for some time.

13

June 19, 1911

"Dear Estelle,

"As you said, it must be destiny that brings me back. Something rules me. As I rode out of Guadalajara, I felt a harshness clawing at my brain. Poor thing, she can't tell the shape of her mind or why it cries so, or what it wants. Of course it wants you, but there is this something else, dark, darker than I dare admit.

"So when I got back to help with the fiesta, I wanted to see if I could straighten myself out a little. I fixed all the clothes for the Virgin, and dressed. I thought: this is the last time. But Trini came in and we got to laughing.

"Fiestas are such bores, and this one was no exception. They praised Farias for getting in the best corn crop ever. There were Indian dances--the viejitos were best.... Doblado killed his bulls as badly as ever ... fireworks ... and all the time I kept thinking of Lucienne, because she came and met Raul secretly. So people told me. I wanted to get sick.

"Raul and I had a bad quarrel, at supper, only yesterday. He said: I want you to live in Guadalajara permanently.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Can't you stand me any more?' And he turned white. I thought he would choke. I just stared at the candle flames prettily. I wonder how you would handle him? He said: 'You came back to fix the Virgin's wardrobe. It's something you always liked to do. You can come back to Petaca, any time. I'm not banishing you.'

"'So I can come back sometimes--how nice! And do you want to keep Vicente forever?' I cried.

"'We can share him, as you like. We can work that out later.'

"'Why later? Later! Haven't we waited too long?'

"'Too long for what?'

"'For me."

"It went on and on. He says it's for my own good. But now I'm sick, and I can't go away...."

Abruptly, she got up from her desk. Barefoot, in a loose gray robe, she walked to the veranda windows, already hating what she felt she might see: men on horseback, women and children, people walking and talking. She had been writing very rapidly, and rubbed her hand as she gazed out. She thought she heard Don Fernando call, and went toward his room, dream-walking, one hand over her breast, the other lifting her skirt a little.

The old man was raving at Chavela, who seemed frozen to one spot, a dishtowel over her arm.

"We must wipe out such crooks as Enriquez and Ricardo Magon! What messes they made in Chihuahua and Coahuila! There's more than meets the eye in their actions."

He squirmed under his bedclothes, the sheet sliding over his head so that only one eye stared out.

"Listen to me: under Porfirio Díaz we have known prosperity ... our centennial celebration told the world ... there must be no political tricks."

When Angelina appeared, Chavela nodded and went out, shaking her head.

"I'm here," said Angelina. "Chavela had to go."

"Angelina, come sit by me. Fix my bed.... We must find another Díaz. We can, you know." He talked a while longer, as she arranged his bed.

She sat beside him, her hands limp in her lap. She remembered a dream she had had during the night. Caterina had been frisking in the patio with Mona. Mona had just been washed and combed and her gray-gold hair stood up beautifully. Caterina wore a scarlet dress. She tossed Mona a ball, but as Mona ran toward her she became a dog of glass bones and glass hair.

Angelina trembled. She whispered to Fernando:

"It was a glass dog ... Mona's a glass dog."

He didn't hear her.

Afraid, she climbed the tile stair to her room and locked the door. She moved stiffly to the window, and looked down to the patio fountain and cypress below. She thought she saw Raul lying beside the fountain. Men began to whip his naked back. Drawing the curtains, she threw herself on her bed and began to talk to herself.

"I mustn't blame him for Caterina's death. I must stop thinking about her. About Raul. I must just let things drift along. Nothing has changed, not too much.... I must think that nothing much has changed. It has to be that way. Close the shutters."

With a great effort, she got up and took her embroidery and began to stitch.

Just before supper, Raul found her asleep across the bed, her fur over her shoulders. He had a hard time waking her and when she woke she griped childishly:

"Go away," she said, "let me sleep. I need rest, please let me sleep. I won't eat any supper. I don't want any ... just let me sleep."

He helped her to bed and then went outside. The moon was low, the stars faded, the volcano glassy. Coyotes barked behind the grove. He felt stupid about Angelina. Could the doctors help her?

He longed to paddle across the lagoon. Why not find Manuel? He knocked at his door and Manuel flung on his shirt and joined him gladly. They spent most of the night on the water, paddling and talking together in Indian and Spanish, about his mother, the beauty of darkness, ghosts, the good old days.

They returned near dawn, had something to eat in the kitchen, and said good night. Raul tried to slip into bed carefully and not disturb Angelina, but she straightened and said:

"Where have you been?"

"Canoeing."

"I wish you wouldn't go on such escapades. You're not a boy."

He did not reply, but adjusted his pillow and tried to settle onto the mattress.

"I want to go to Colima tomorrow," she said, her head turned away. "I must leave Petaca, if only for a day. I want to see Vicente, too. Don't you want to see him? The church has been repaired, Raul, and we must attend Mass, on the first of the month. A ceremony in honor of the reconstruction. The hospital isn't fixed. Why are they so slow?" Her husky voice, softened by her sleepiness, lulled Raul.

When she woke, men were loading stone onto an oxcart in front of the house, burros were trotting over cobbles, boys were spinning tops.

Glancing at Raul, sprawled on the bed, she tiptoed to the bathroom. Her maid had already filled the tub, and she sank into the cool water.

"Ah," she sighed. "Clavo said, 'It is the flesh ... with lightning in each bone' ... cool water ... morning...." Her face looked younger. There was no fear there.

I must dress and get away to Colima, have a nieve with some friends.

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.