Part 14

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.