Part 3

"But your father?" Manuel asked, almost mechanically, fearing Don Fernando's domination; for a moment he felt his conflicting sense of duty, acquired through the years.

"I'll have it out with him," said Raul, working his horse closer to Manuel's, his knee rubbing the Arabian. "Things have gone much too far. He sent Farias to check the corn fences; you know how many boundary troubles have come of that; there's never any attempt to work out a sensible relationship with the del Valle people." His thin lips narrowed. "I want corn distributed to all sectors where there's a shortage. I want our people to know my father is not in control."

"He'll strike back," said Manuel.

"I've stood enough intolerance," Raul exclaimed.

Manuel was satisfied to jog along behind Raul, he wanted to weigh the abrupt change and consider possibilities; he was eager to accept and participate. Slit-eyed, he gazed about him. His nostrils expanded as he remembered Don Fernando had once whipped a young boy until blood streaked his back ... Tonio Enriques. Manuel rubbed his hand over the bullets in his cartridge belt and clucked to his horse.

For Raul, the return trip was melancholy and yet beautiful: Petaca appeared on the gradual slope above the lagoon. It was his job to administer the million and a half acres, to supervise crops, gardens, people ... little Carmen might race to him and cry, "Can we have another jug of milk for supper?" Gasper might come to the office and say, "Mama's sick, she's passing bile--" Dr. Velasco could live at the hacienda and receive annual wages, instead of having to make the long ride from town, at the beck and call of everyone. Should he be unwilling, Dr. Hernández would consent. Gabriel Storni would have his stained-glass windows for the chapel.... Some prayers would be answered. Debts would be canceled. Of course, it would take time.

As he rode between the rows of tall eucalyptus, he felt that time was his friend. Perhaps current political and economic tensions would ease. President Díaz was not his man ... his corrupt regime would last as long only as he could make it last. Reason told Raul that he himself could not alter, singlehanded, the feudalistic setup of the hacienda system. It was Petaca he wanted to change.

Breaking off twigs from a low eucalyptus branch, he crumpled the foliage in his fingers. As he went inside the house he smelled the aroma of the crushed leaves; as he stood in the doorway of his bedroom he sensed the oily pungency.

He found Angelina sitting in front of her circular mirror, brushing her hair. Gazing into the mirror, she smiled at Raul and went on brushing.

"You're back quickly," she said, covering her knees with her skirt.

"I was down along the lagoon," he said.

"I was playing with the children in the garden and messed up my hair."

He tossed his belt and revolver on their bed. Going up to her, he wanted to touch her, stroke her hair, but instead he thought of Lucienne and remembered her smile. Angry with himself, he said, loudly:

"I've told Salvador and Manuel that I'm taking over the hacienda. Sectors are in need of grain. People are hungry. I want Velasco to move here and help the sick. I want no more beatings. I can't wait any longer. It's my job now!"

Angelina stared at him in the glass, until his eyes found hers, and he sensed her disapproval at once. She did not speak. Her brush in her lap, she was thinking that he was a dumb fool, that from now on stability would be a thing of the past. Still looking at him, she reached for her comb, and her brush fell to the floor.

He stooped to pick it up and said, "I'd like to change things slowly."

"Your father will fight you," she said.

Her fingers rolled her hair into a competent bun. She slid a dark green band of velvet around the pile of black hair and got up and paused by the window. Their room was on the upper floor, facing both front and patio sides, a long, broad room with shuttered windows on each side, allowing cross ventilation, so desirable in the summer. He stood beside her and they watched a boy spin a wooden top in the sunlight by the serpent fountain. Someone was patting tortillas in the kitchen. The smell of stewing beef crossed the patio.

"I'm going to the corral and stables. I know the animals haven't been getting enough grain," he said.

"What about Pedro?" she asked. "Have you thought of him?"

"I'll dismiss him," Raul said.

"I wonder whether you can do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"He works for your father."

"Pedro's been a killer long enough. I'll get him out of here!"

"Remember, change things slowly," she warned, huskily.

"I'll do the right things," he protested. "Pedro will be the first man to go. I can't work with him here. I see no reason for delaying his dismissal. With all there is to do, I want no complications."

"Pedro has friends. Talk with Gabriel. Maybe he'll be helpful. Your father will know of your decision by tonight, because someone will tell him. Manuel and Salvador will talk, and the news will travel fast." Angelina's voice had taken on a harsh quality. She stared at the sky, dreading responsibilities. "There are so many of us here at the hacienda," she said.

The boy went on spinning his top by the fountain.

From the corrals came the noise of a horse being shod: the crack of hammer against nail sounded as if it had all the time in the world behind it.

Raul decided to talk with Gabriel. Perhaps Gabriel, who had the hacienda problems at heart, could judge things reasonably.

Angelina had gone back to her dressing table and was scenting her hair. A peacock screamed in the garden and from somewhere along the lagoon another answered, putting in amorous cackles, ironical and derisive cries.

When Raul went out, she leaned far back in her chair and stretched and yawned. It had been nice in the garden, nicer still playing the organ for Caterina in the chapel, the chapel cool, Caterina singing, humming, tapping the organ keys ... que chula ... her face serious, why so serious, as if she were old? She would be able to play pretty well soon. She'll play for me and I'll sit and gaze through the ex-eye window ... cielito voices.... When St. Catherine played, the roses fell about her ... Philadelphia organ ... in gold letters on the front ... a long way to Philadelphia, a long way to happiness sometimes.

Tears came but she squeezed them back with her knuckles.

Tears ... why tears? We buried our love long ago. Go to Guadalajara, see Carlos and Rico, see Estelle....

3

Gabriel Storni's small room was in a one-story stone building across the court from the main house. There had been a school there, next door to Gabriel's room, until Don Fernando had discontinued it after he and the teacher had quarreled. As Raul walked across the forecourt, pigeons lit on the roof, then fluttered off nervously and swarmed through the air above the chapel spire. Raul heard the wings, but did not see them as he walked along. Horsemen clopped over cobbles, yet he did not turn his head. Rapping on Storni's door he waited, fingers nicking at the sun ridged wood, wood that was more slab than door. Rusty hinges hung the slab and they squealed as Gabriel opened the door.

"Come in, come in," he said affably.

The robe was Franciscan, the face Italian. Gabriel, at fifty-seven, had lustrous brown eyes, a bald head, a compassionate mouth, thick neck, large ears, a reddish wen under one eye. His front teeth had been capped with gold. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. He walked with a limp. But his defects were forgotten when he smiled.

The smile welcomed Raul.

"So nice to see you."

Momentarily the dark room, after brilliant sun, bothered Raul and he bumped into one of the familiar leather chairs. He only half saw the Spanish desk with papers in every pigeonhole, its reed-bottom chair, the shelves of books, and the plain wall cross carved from a scrap of high altitude cedar. Raul touched Gabriel's silver and bone rosary, where it lay on a corner of the desk.

"I'd like to talk with you."

"Sit down. Let me take these papers off the chair."

They faced each other on leather chairs, the door slightly open; again horsemen crossed the court, the hoof beats making the cobbles sound like empty clay bowls.

"One of these days you'll have your stained-glass windows," said Raul.

"Ah," said Gabriel, amused at such an unprompted declaration. "Right now, I think we ought to have a school teacher. We must reopen our school."

"I'm going to see to it," said Raul.

"What made your father change his mind?" asked Gabriel eagerly.

"I've decided to make these changes, now."

Gabriel began to laugh softly, one hand on his knee. His glasses shook and seemed about to fall.

"My dear boy, what's happened? Hadn't you better explain?"

"I've decided to take over Petaca. I should have done it long ago."

Gabriel blinked at Raul as if seeing him through smudged lenses. He trusted Raul, but he cleared his throat and knotted together the edge of his robe.

"We're in for trouble," Gabriel said, drawing his feet underneath his chair and bending forward thoughtfully. "This will really upset the hacienda."

"I don't want trouble; that's why I came to you."

Gabriel sighed. He was willing to assume responsibility, but he could not see where he could help. He had looked forward to the young man's administration of the estate at the death of his father. Removing his glasses, he pinched his nose, and then put the glasses on again.

"There's Pedro Chávez," he said. "You'll have to deal with him."

"Angelina reminded me," Raul said.

"Did you have to be reminded?" asked Gabriel. "Who else knows your decision besides Angelina?"

"Salvador and Manuel."

"Well, in a short time everyone will know."

"Father doesn't know. Shall I tell him today?"

"We'll tell him later. I see no reason to go to him now."

"I think I should tell him today. He should hear it from me.

"What precipitated your decision? I thought you would wait until..." He did not bother to finish the sentence; he was trying to consider problems dispassionately.

"It's the shortage of corn. Father has refused to supply grain. Many are ill, but you know the situation better than I do. I won't wait any longer. Farias was sent to check the corn and fences along the del Valle line. I don't want any shootings and I don't want any trouble."

Gabriel chuckled. "You don't want trouble," he said. "Now you'll have your hands full."

"Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Come--what about Pedro Chávez?"

"I'll order him to leave the hacienda." Raul slapped the side of his boot with the palm of his hand. "I've had more than enough of Pedro."

"I'm with you," cried Gabriel. "Let's get him out of here as soon as possible."

Raul grabbed the priest's arm, and squeezed it. Gabriel's eyes glittered, and he stood up and said: "I remember the talks we've had in this room. I'll help you see that our people are treated right at Petaca. The Americans fought for their liberty.... Their war brought freedom! God will bless your decision, Raul. We'll work together."

"I'll talk to my father," said Raul, rising.

"Perhaps we should wait till Dr. Velasco comes," said Gabriel.

"I'd rather not."

"The shock may be too much for Don Fernando. I'd wait." Gabriel hesitated.

"You're wrong. Father will fight. He won't give in to me, in spite of his stroke. Let's talk to him before Velasco comes. Come with me."

"I suppose we may as well," sighed Gabriel.

Together they crossed the cobbles, a mangy yellow dog trailing them, sniffing the priest's robes. Entering by the veranda, they went directly into Don Fernando's bedroom. He was asleep. Gabriel bent over him, made the sign of the cross, and counted his pulse, the old man's skin cold to his fingers.

"It's steady," he whispered to Raul.

Fernando opened his eyes.

"Is it time for Mass?" he jibed thickly. He disliked Father Gabriel. To his way of thinking, his kind of mental superiority was out of place on an hacienda. It had been Gabriel who had influenced Raul to study abroad. Priests were for women and children. He had been a fool to put money into Raul's education. Education destroyed a man's strength.... Lids barely open, he glared at his son and the priest's bald head.

"How are you feeling?" Gabriel asked, avoiding his stare.

"Thirsty," said Fernando.

Raul poured water from the table bottle and gave the glass to his father.

"More water, Father?"

"No."

"You look rested," said Gabriel.

"I'm hungry."

"I'll speak to Chavela," said Gabriel, and started to leave the room.

"I came to tell you I have taken charge of the hacienda. People are hungry and sick. They can't wait any longer." Raul realized that Gabriel had halted abruptly, to listen. He had spoken distinctly but not loudly. He was not disturbed. He felt ashamed of himself for not declaring himself long ago.

His father's eyes flashed with wild anger; his mouth twitched; his jaw dropped; his decayed teeth showed. He raised one hand but it shook, and he shoved it underneath his sheet and tried to sit up. His Adam's apple rose and fell; he gulped and rolled on his pillow. He tried to get one leg out of bed but could not. Patches scabbed his sight; he shook his head but saw his father riding a white range horse. With great difficulty, Fernando made out that Gabriel had returned to his bedside.

"Get out," Fernando managed. "Get out!" he shrilled.

"It's time Raul managed Petaca," said Gabriel kindly. "You must see it his way. You need to rest." He was alarmed by the man's tortured face.

"I am dismissing Pedro Chávez," said Raul. "There will be no more killings on my hacienda."

Fernando's eyes were bloodshot; they flicked from left to right; tears oozed at the corners.

"God damn you!" he said hoarsely. He puckered his lips to spit, wanting to catch them both.

"It's time our sick were cared for, Don Fernando," said Gabriel.

"Shut up," said the old man.

They waited a few moments longer by his bed. A burro screeched and hollered in a field. A cloud passed over the sun. The old man coughed and faced the ceiling, one hand clenched; the other, beneath the sheet, trembled.

Raul tapped Gabriel's arm and they went out.

In the patio, Raul said, "It's done now."

"He took it hard," said Gabriel.

"When it came time to tell him, I couldn't spare him," said Raul.

"Such hate," said Gabriel,

"He tried to spit on us. Did you see his lips?" asked Raul, resenting the scene, feeling he would never be able to forget it.

"Ssst, Raul. It's bad enough."

"It won't be bad for our people."

"I know ... I know," said Gabriel.

"Tomorrow our people will have grain."

"Tomorrow, yes ... tomorrow," said Gabriel. He brushed flies from his bald spot and scanned the sky, his gold rims twinkling. "It has gotten cloudy. It may rain. The corn needs rain. I must go, Raul. I must talk to others."

Walking away, he felt for the small bronze cross he wore on a neck chain. The cross was buried in the hairs of his throat. He prayed as he walked, fingers enclosing the metal. He prayed for the hacienda people; he asked help for the old man; wisdom for Raul; let good come of this transition, no additional anguish.

In his room, the door closed, a candle lit, he knelt on the bare tiles before the mountain crucifix: as he knelt, a lovely bone figurine appeared on the barren wood: the figure had hung in his mother's house in Padua, very old, very yellow, very fragile. A women knelt beside him, in this illusion, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. It was cloudy and sultry and the Italian light filmed the room; the woman was speaking.

Strange he could not recall her face, only the form, wrapped in blue cloth. The sound of her voice was also lost.

"Mother," he said aloud; then he pushed aside his longing for Italy and his home and family and began to pray:

"Jesus, help us. We are many here. Bless us with a special mercy. Take us to your sacred heart; we are your children ... the haciendas are headed for troubled times. Help us to be decent to one another."

4

Sitting in his living room, Raul tried to rationalize his own actions. It still seemed illogical he had waited so long before assuming authority. Slouched in a red plush chair, he regarded his son, writing at the desk, doing an assignment given him by his school. Vicente would return to his school in Colima on Monday. A brass candlestick, holding five candles, burned beside the boy; the back of his blond head was toward Raul. Raul listened to the scratch of pencil on paper. Now and then Vicente sighed. He was ten, attractive, sweet-mannered, bright, and kind. He said he wanted to become a priest--"like Father Gabriel." Raul hoped he would change his mind and administer Petaca someday. How quiet Vicente had become since Raul had taken over the hacienda! It was as if he understood the gravity of the changes; the responsibilities. Yesterday at breakfast, Chavela had spouted, as she served: "Is it true? What will happen? Is that why Don Fernando won't eat? You know he won't eat anything at all. Why, he won't talk to me!"

Vicente had dug impulsively at his sliced pineapple. "You leave things to Papa," he had said.

Raul went over his decision, blaming the delay on his character. He saw the old Christ face and knew Alberto had sprung the latch, though other things had contributed their influence. He had been too slow, like so many Mexicans--willing to see men suffer. Afraid to stop their suffering. Afraid to be myself, he thought. When have I been myself? At school, abroad? No, I was a foreigner there, reticent, shy. This is home--Petaca--with its evasions, its ignorance. That's it. Perhaps I'm ignorant, ignorant of life's meaning and my own purpose!

A week or more before in Colima, the fat, ignorant _licenciado_ Don Pascual had had something to say: "Mark my words, Raul, we're in for trouble. Far off, lost as we are in Colima, men are angry. When men grow angry, they're like bees, and when they swarm anything can happen. Mark my words!"

The Don Pascuals can be right. I must watch my step. I must reform old ways slowly. And he remembered that he had done nothing slowly as yet. Could he learn to work slowly? He brushed his hands restlessly over the arms of his chair.

True, Fernando had refused to eat. He had not summoned Pedro. He talked to no one.

Vicente had gone to him and given him water. He had lingered around his bed and talked; discouraged and embarrassed by his grandfather's silence, he had wandered out of the room.

"Why is he like that, Papa?"

"He'll be all right in a day or two," Raul had assured him.

Caterina came into the living room, took a book from the corner bookcase, and strode out, unaware of her father and brother. She was slender, dark, olive skinned. She liked to parade about with her wavy hair loose over her shoulders. She loved scarlet dresses and had one on. Only thirteen, she was a rare sight on an hacienda. Raul wondered if she had chosen a book to read to her grandfather. She was fond of him--blind to his cruelties, oblivious of his ugliness. She found in him something no one else could find.

If he continued his starvation, he would soon die.... Fernando Medina, El Clarín, starving himself! It didn't make sense. Perhaps Caterina would induce him to eat. She could coax better than anyone.

Raul was tempted to follow her, but instead he got up and paced the room, walking noiselessly. In front of the fireplace he lit his pipe, flaring the head of the match with his thumb-nail. Vicente smiled at him and he grinned back.

"How are you doing, boy?"

"Almost done."

"Good for you. Is it hard?"

"Hard enough."

Raul drew reflectively, enjoying the sweet warmth of the Cuban tobacco. He kicked idly at the pelt of the mountain lion beside the hearth. Dust and ashes puffed from the old, dried hair. On the mantelpiece, a great beam of unpeeled cedar, between a pair of crystal candle holders, lay the lion's tail, torn off by Vicente and Caterina during some game.

Walking the length of the room, Raul tried to concentrate. There was only concern: where to begin? Who needed help? How much corn and wheat were to be allotted? Yesterday, he and Velasco and Hernández had worked with the sick. He had put men to building huts behind the stables; the stable hands must have places of their own and not continue sleeping with the cattle. He had men clean the well that watered the stock. Carts had gone to Colima for lumber. Tomorrow he wanted repairs to begin on the granary roof. He wanted to speak to Gabriel about reconditioning the schoolroom, he wanted to see Salvador about the oxcarts.

Where to begin ... the thought haunted. It seemed to him a million beginnings could add up to nothing. Most of all, he wanted to reassure his people. Life at Petaca would have to even out over a long stretch of time to reassure the peasants.

Fussing with his pipe, he crossed the patio to look at his father. Fernando lay asleep, hand over the edge of his bed. A book lay open beside him, almost ready to slip to the floor. Perhaps Caterina had read to him. Raul smiled, as he took in an empty soup bowl under the bedside table lamp ... bread crumbs peppered the floor.

Going to the veranda, to the intricate grilled gate that closed the front of the house at night, he saw a bonfire across the cobbled court, near the far wall. Flames bloodied the wall and the turret on top. Men huddled close and seemed to be heating tortillas or making _tacos_ over embers scraped from the blaze. Someone began to pluck a guitar, and Raul caught the glint of wood and strings. A man sang: "Es de los que bailan grande obligación darle a su pareja ..."

When had his people known freedom. Had it been under the last Indian emperor, Cuauhtemoc? Had it been under Moctezuma? Had it been at Chichén Itzá or Palenque? Surely, in some bygone age, his people had been freer and suffered less. Men still worshiped the old gods. A while ago, at the base of the volcano, at a place called Ojo Blanco, he had discovered an altar encrusted with blood. Turkey blood, said Manuel, since feathers had gotten stuck in the black crust. Deep inside a granite niche, a stone figure had grinned apishly.

"Toltec?" he asked Manuel.

"I don't know, Don Raul."

Higher up the volcano, on the seaward side, his men had reported other altars, through the years. On his own climbs, Raul had come across other idols, one a bloated thing of obsidian, the glass unpocked by time. Had these men known happier days?

The moon shone brightly, and it was chilly. He wanted to stroll along the lagoon and yet felt he should not walk alone, not for the time being. As a boy, he had played along the lagoon, speared frogs, sailed boats, waded and swum. As a boy ... What about Vicente? Would anyone molest him? Of course not. Then his own risk was an exaggeration.

He got a jacket, went through the garden, and opened a rose-trellised gate that led to the shore. First one frog and then another plopped into the water. A night bird startled him by whirring off from sedges near his feet. He stood still, his heart pounding. At once, he called himself a coward, but as he began to follow the shore, he realized someone was trailing him. He stopped, his hand on the trunk of a primavera tree and waited for the man to approach.

"Coming ... coming," came Manuel's voice. Raul broke into a chuckle.

"Why are you following me? Haven't you anything better to do?"

"You need company."

"I suppose I do. A night bird scared me. I'm an old woman."

"It's no time for an old woman to be about alone," laughed Manuel.

"I'm not going far."

"I brought this," said Manuel, tapping his revolver.

"For the frogs," said Raul.

"Not tonight," Manuel said.

Raul walked on, across clumps of grass that had wiry tops.