Part 8

With tense fingers, Raul emptied and filled his pipe; his eyes took in the smooth, familiar bowl and stem. Neither man spoke and the chatter of servants crossed the room; a child called: "Run, Lupe, run."

"You may as well get it into your head that I didn't send Pedro after you."

"You sent him after Farias."

"I wanted to involve those Jesuits. I hate those bastards. I wanted to work up a little trouble ... we've always had difficulties with the del Valle people." He sounded extremely tired; a flip of his fingers sent his cigarette somersaulting across the tiles.

Raul saw himself in his father's mirror; he shut his eyes and bit his pipe stem.... In Guadalajara, his father had said: "I sometimes see him...."

"You think in terms of morals," Fernando went on. "We don't live in a moral age. Do you believe Díaz is a moral president? Surely, at your age, Raul, you're not that blind! You're not moral yourself--if we come to that. I've never been moral but you, well, you seem to feel you're God himself!"

Raul wished he could forget the decayed face, the glaring eyes.

"I don't like what you've said."

Fernando chortled.

"You and your Lucienne don't like a lot of things, I gather. She hides in her flowers and you hide in her lap."

Raul jabbed his pipestem at Fernando. "You hired Pedro; he's been your private assassin; get rid of him."

Fernando's lips collapsed. His eyes slapped shut. House noises filled the room.

"Let me say this," said Raul, pipe in both hands, eyes on the smoke that trailed from its bowl. "Maybe I'm as corrupt as you say. But I happen to love Lucienne, if that makes any difference. I've been promiscuous.... We've all played with hacienda girls. But you have played with lives. You've let people starve for a whim. You've had them kicked and whipped and killed. You've stopped our school. You let Esperito fake entries in the account books. That's corruption."

"You should be able to name things," growled Fernando, his hands under the sheet, the sheet under his chin. "I'm sure you learned everything when you were in Europe, all the pros and cons."

"The record here at Petaca speaks for itself. I know how many men you've had killed."

"Many men have killed and not been held to account. Every general kills."

"That kind of reasoning makes nothing right."

"Do you know how dangerous these times are?" asked Fernando. "Do you?"

"I can only guess. Perhaps it will take only a spark."

"A spark to touch off a conflagration," said Don Fernando, one eyebrow going up.

"You mean a revolution?" asked Raul.

"That."

"I doubt if it will be revolution. It won't get that bad. If it gets that bad, we'll be put back a hundred years. A revolution will cost us that much."

"You sound prophetic," laughed Fernando.

"I'm going to help," Raul said.

"I don't want to lose Petaca, whatever happens," said Fernando, feeling the land to be his only friend.

Raul shoved his hands in his pockets and rose to leave. It took all his will power to look at his father briefly.

"I'll send Arrillo to shave you," he said. "I'm going to Colima. I hear the quake damage has been serious ... I want to see what I can do to help."

The room quiet, Fernando feared death: he wanted his son's new boots, trousers and shirt; he wanted to strap on a gun. Through his bloodshot eyes, as he gazed at the sunny patio, he saw himself at twenty-five or thirty, in new clothes, stalking off to Colima. His arm refused to stop shaking; he groaned; death would not let him alone. He tried to make out the serpentine fountain. Was that a woman dipping water? A girl dipping water? The dim figure reminded him of Caterina, and he heard her reading to him, as she had sat beside his bed. But he put Caterina out of his mind and groped for his copper bell and rang.

When Chavela came, he said: "Pedro's at the mill. I want him here.... Oh, Christ, stop looking like a scared calf! Pedro won't hurt you. Get out there and tell him I want him. And bring me another cigarette when you come back."

Fernando enjoyed the prospect of seeing his renegade; it amused him, too, that Pedro had gotten himself into trouble. Like an old cat, Fernando drowsed till Pedro appeared.

"What took you so long?" he began, instinctively aware that considerable time had elapsed since Chavela had left.

"I waited for Don Raul to leave."

"Afraid of him!"

Pedro did not care to reply; he was impervious to the old man's jibes.

One hand was stuck in his enormous leather belt, he was dressed in white, no guns, no cartridges. His boots were dusty. He had left his hat somewhere. A long timothy straw dangled from his mouth.

"You went too far," Fernando exclaimed. "I don't want Raul killed.... you were to kill Manuel. Farias was to have been a blunder for the Jesuits. That didn't work out. You're clever but you're not clever enough. I'm not the murderer of my son. My business with my father taught me something. Now, I want you to leave Petaca. Get out!"

"What?" said Pedro, hand to the straw in his mouth.

"Raul has gone to Colima to talk with the rurales. They'll come here for you. They'll scour the hacienda. At least you're warned." Fernando grinned at the other's dilemma. "Get out. You're licked."

This was something Pedro had not foreseen. He removed the straw from between his teeth and smelled the end of it, frowning.

"You may need me," he mumbled, unable to think.

"Go to Mountain Rancheria. You have friends there. It'll be safe enough. Get out, before I decide to turn you over to the rurales." Fernando chuckled.

"All right. Mountain Rancheria. I'll go there ... all right."

"Come back here in an hour or so. I'll let you have some money."

"Give me enough for some guns. I need guns."

Pedro's face became eager; he tossed away the straw and moved close to Fernando's bed, his spurs rattling. Bending low, he smiled.

Fernando caught the rebel instinct in that grin. God, he thought, to be out of bed. "Guns," he said. "Why do you need guns? What will you do with guns?"

"Sell them, Don Fernando."

"Men are buying guns?"

"Yes. Now I can make money. Big money."

"Is General Matanzas in charge of the garrison?"

"He doesn't know people are buying guns.... He mustn't know."

"Guns," Fernando muttered. "Money for guns."

"There will be trouble," said Pedro.

"I gather that," croaked Fernando. He no longer feared death. He asked Pedro to have men place him in a chair and carry him to the _tienda_. Alone, at the desk, he opened his safe and counted 2,000 pesos for his overseer. Guns! With the bills before him he felt powerful again. The smell of the pesos told him insane things. The map of Petaca confirmed his illusion: 1,800,000 acres, corn land, wheat land, sugar cane, mountains, valleys ... his. Yet, as he stared at the map, he realized he could not distinguish one sector from another. Troubled, he began shuffling the bills; then he noticed the open account book. In spite of his shaky hands, he found the accounts Raul had canceled. Groaning, he slid forward, tried to grasp the desk, tried to rise and collapsed. Somehow, he held to the top of the desk. The guns in the gun rack became sticks. The door became a black hole. He felt his eyes ... they were still open. Slowly, he rested his head on his arms.

Presently, someone rapped and the door opened.

"Don Fernando?" called Pedro, coming inside and closing the door. He stepped to the desk and jogged Fernando's back and the old man looked up; instantly, Pedro realized he could not see.

"Don Fernando," he whispered.

Fernando could not reply. He lowered his head again.

Without hesitation, Pedro picked up the money and jammed it into his trouser pockets; then he stood still and listened carefully; he glanced through the open windows; an oriole sang; a horseman clattered by; then footsteps seemed to be coming toward the _tienda_.

One of Fernando's bearers rapped. Pedro let him in and together they carried Fernando to his room, Chavela hovering about squeaking and clucking. Angelina brought ammonia. Someone went off for Father Gabriel.

Calmly returning to the _tienda_, Pedro checked the safe. The old man had spun the dial. Hands in his pockets, walking stiff-legged, he went to an empty stable and sat on a feed-box. He had never had so much money. His hands trembled. It frightened him to count it ... his tongue hung out.

"... two hundred, three hundred, four-eighty, six hundred, seven hundred ... seven hundred and twelve pesos." He stopped counting, hurriedly stuffed the money inside his hat, and strapped the cord under his chin. His face was red. His jaw sagged. Guns ... guns. They'll be afraid of me at Mountain Rancheria. His tongue skated round his teeth. In the gloom of the stall, he smoked a cigarette and thought of his Yaqui home, the Sonora country, how far away it was. Of a sudden, it seemed close. With hundreds of pesos he could take the train.... Nobody would know him.

Again he counted the money, got up to fifteen hundred and fifteen pesos and stuffed the bills inside his hat, fingering his chin strap. Rising, with a great sigh, he got his horse and threw on his saddle.

As he rode uphill, he watched volcano smoke elbow across the lagoon, a calm gray surface. Petaca lay below. Oxcarts crowded the courtyard as men returned from an irrigation job along the lagoon. Sitting his gray, a spirited stallion, he knew the renegade's fear: the Clarín had planned to pay him off, could trap him if he wanted to. Well, Don Fernando might never recover. To hell with Petaca and the old man! He had money enough to make out. Roweling his horse, Pedro climbed the slope toward Mountain Rancheria. He would buy and sell guns there ... somebody would want his services.

10

Alberto Saenz, the Christ-faced musician, balanced empty birdcages on top of his head, as he trudged along the shore of the lagoon. Soon he would reach Petaca and could rest. A string of smoke hung out of the volcano, but the air was clear. No doubt the worst was over. Scooping water from the lagoon, he drank from his palms, and the sedgy flavor pleased him. Rising, he stroked his beard and resumed his walk, along the pebbly shore. Herons let him come close, wading no deeper, beaking their feed calmly: what harm could a fellow do with cages on his head?

At Petaca, he sat for a while on the veranda, watching, drowsing. Workers were busy at the far end, where the quake had demolished roof and arches. Stonecutters pecked with hammers and chisels, fast, light strokes; a mason sloshed mortar in a box, adding sand to his mixture. All were bare-headed, barefooted and all wore white. Alberto wore white--his trousers slashed on the outside, above the ankles, his buttonless shirt open on his white-haired chest. Head against a veranda arch, he dreamed of other visits, Raul's kindly mother, the runaway carriage from La Calera, the fiesta of the Virgin of Petaca when they had burned four _castillos_.

Before taking his cages to Raul, he prayed in the chapel. Kneeling, he let the whiteness of the room take him: he had been a lover of Mary ever since he could remember: without a doubt She had saved his mother during the black plague. Strains of music he had played through the years came to him, as he knelt. Stepping toward the altar, he touched the glass dome covering the Virgin: her rubies, emeralds and diamonds never changed. Some night, as the dawn arrived and birds began their day, She would speak and Jesus would gently remove him from this life. Friends would wash him and borrow the hacienda grave box.

Back on the veranda, he picked up his cages, knocked, and asked for Raul.

A new servant from Ameca said harshly:

"You wait on the veranda. No, go round to the kitchen. Get along, wait in the kitchen."

"I'll wait right here," said Alberto, and turned away, to sit on the steps.

Raul overheard, came outside, and accepted the cages. Together they hung them in the patio. Alberto had ideas as to what kinds of birds should be put inside. Raul understood how much the old man prized his gift. He led him into the kitchen for something to eat. His bearded face, through the closing door, brought to mind the man decorating the hill cross and his own resolve to assume the hacienda responsibilities.

On the veranda, Raul talked with the stonecutters. In a short time the house would be repaired. This afternoon, he had to ride to the pond in Sector 17; the quake had cracked the dam and released most of the water. A group of workers was already there, but the job had to be pushed before the dry season.

Oxcarts creaked across the court, each loaded with stone for the veranda. One cart was new, made by Salvador, and pulled by his _garbanza_-colored oxen. Salvador drove his cart and young Esteban rode another, his goad over his shoulder, spear-like, his team black and white. Pigeons fluttered about the carts, as if they hoped for grain.

Salvador greeted Raul with a friendly grin.

"It's hot this morning."

"It's hot to haul stone," Raul said.

"These loads will give us enough to finish the veranda."

"Who supervised the cutting?"

"Alejandro."

"He's doing a good job," said Raul, and started into the house, pleased with the progress.

"Ah, before you go ... I'd like to say that Isidro found sixty pesos in the stable. They must be yours. I have the bills." He dug into his back pocket and drew out his red bandanna, the pesos knotted inside.

"As far as I know, I haven't lost any money," said Raul.

Salvador held out the cash to Raul, and mopped his face with the bandana, puffing loudly.

"I'll see. I'm pretty sure it's not my money," Raul said.

"Keep it in the tienda, till you know. None of us lost it," said Salvador, and laughed his silent, rocking laugh, his eyes dancing. "Where would we get so much money?"

"Salvador, where did you say Isidro found it?"

"In a stall, by a feedbox."

"Queer," said Raul and took the money and went inside the house.

In the bedroom, Angelina sat beside the patio window, barefooted, in her white dressing gown, a cat in her lap. She was embroidering a pillowcase.

"I had a letter from María," she said, without glancing up.

"Yes," he said, hoping she would not read it, since her sister's letters were garrulous and about people he scarcely knew.

"I got it this morning. Father Gabriel just came back from Colima, and brought it to me." She attempted to sound sprightly.

"How is she?" Raul asked, getting his boots for the ride to the pond.

The cat jumped down and Angelina turned toward Raul, her legs showing under the robe. A boy's legs, he thought, annoyed. A girl's body, with boy's legs. She's never grown up. She loves children but hates the sex act. What is it that fills her with fear? I used to try so hard to please her ... and she tried to please me.

He struggled with his left boot.

What are the bubbles of fear behind her eyes? As if the pigment had broken loose and was swimming to the surface. The smile smiles and the eyes hide something.

We've lived too many years together to disentangle our emotions. The boot hurts, at the heel ... it used to fit fine. I don't want to wear my new ones.

María wants her to come to Guadalajara, but she doesn't need an excuse to go to Guadalajara, or anywhere. Fifteen years ago she wouldn't have left me for anything in the world--or I her.

Blinking at his right boot, he began to yank it on....

"María wants me to come to Guadalajara soon. She's worried about me, after the quakes."

"I think you should visit her," he said. "Has she finished remodeling her house?"

"The remodeling's done.... I need some mourning clothes," she said.

"Have them made in Guadalajara."

"But you know how long that takes? That takes forever." The way she hit the last word piqued him, but he said nothing.

"I'll be glad to get away from that new cook. She puts oil in all our food. Look how she prepared the chayotes last week! Did you ever taste the like!"

She turned back to her embroidery, but thought:

He's putting on boots to go somewhere, he's always going somewhere. Maybe I did say I wouldn't leave. Maybe I did say that Caterina needed me. He never speaks of her ... he doesn't miss her.

Suddenly, she asked: "Why didn't you come here when you were wounded?"

"I was closer to Palma Sola."

"I think you're always closer," she said.

Astonished, he stopped dressing, stopped buttoning his shirt. With a great effort, he made himself continue, his fingers working uncertainly.

"Give her up, Raul. Get her out of our lives. You owe it to me and Vicente."

Somehow he managed the last button and thought: I've got to think clearly. He crossed the room to her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Would it help us now, Angelina? There's Estelle, you know...."

She lowered her eyes.

"Estelle," she said, wanting to keep the word to herself.

He felt her tremble.

Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, I'll see Estelle. You and your stinking boots. What can you know about delicacy? Keep your von Humboldt. I'll keep my friend. Once you would have accompanied me to Guadalajara, but now you send me with a servant.

Silent, he went out, pitying her small face, pitying himself, Caterina, Vicente--everyone.

When he had clumped out, she closed the door, locked it, removed her robe, went naked to the wardrobe and unboxed her fox fur, a reddish-gold pelt. With it on, she appraised her body: quite, quite pretty, she told herself. Parading in front of her mirror, she swayed from side to side, dancing the length of the room and then back again to face the mirror. Quite, quite pretty. All of a sudden, her ecstasy faded and she tossed her fur on the bed and flopped beside it. Hunger pervaded her. Closing her lids, flat on her back, she saw the Degollado Theater in Guadalajara, saw María and Estelle, Estelle in pale green moire, her blond hair glistening....

On the stage, the dancers performed jotas; the flamenco, dressed in black, a red sash bleeding round his waist, put her into a trance. Estelle whispered to her ... then....

So many barren days went into life at Petaca. No Vicente to love, no Caterina, no woman her age or kind. Children, yes, but anonymous. No plays, no musicals, no burlesques. In the convent of Ursula, on Calle López Cotilla, she had had a girl friend (it seemed yesterday and not years ago) who had slept with her. They had lain together, without clothes, night after night. Nobody had ever found out. Where was she? Where was Renée? What had happened to her? Would anyone in Guadalajara ever have news of her?

Dear María, I'll come ... I wasn't going to come but now I'll come ... I'll stay with you, then stay with Estelle. I'll have fresh pineapple and oranges ... we'll have dulces ... we'll have nieves ... only a few children will miss me here and maybe the chapel organ. Yes, yes, I heard the organ say, one night, as the candle burnt low, she's nice, she's really quite nice. Am I quite nice? I'm quite pretty. Estelle says I am.

Sighing, she rose and sat at her dressing table and began plucking her brows. Each hair, as she pulled it, made her wince. She rubbed herself with cream, dressed and descended to the living room, pretending, as she walked, that this home was the home of a Guadalajara family and that she was a guest.

It irked her to find Caterina's smiling photo, in its velvet-gold frame, on the desk. Momentarily bewildered, she dusted it and laid it face down. Taking stationery out of the drawer, she wrote María, writing fast, in a nervous spidery scrawl.

"Dear María,

"I am glad I can come to you. Raul says I can join you in a few days. I'll try to be real discreet so you can keep me a long time. You must phone Isabel and arrange fittings for me; I have to have so many dresses in black.

"I'm glad the remodeling is done. I know it is pretty...."

A tropical cloud had gathered as she dressed and now, as she wrote, the rain lashed, hitting the lagoon side of the house. She was glad Raul had had men fix the living room roof; he was riding in the rain, she realized. She did not care. Probably Manuel was holding an umbrella over him. Raul had learned to look after himself long ago, he and his Negro. Putting down her pen, she went to the veranda windows, her elegant black swishing. But she was barefooted. More peasant than many peasants, she liked the tongue of tiles licking her soles, the hairiness of oriental rugs, the feel of the mountain lion before the fireplace.

Her old-fashioned dress was low cut, with sleeves three-quarter; in the V of her throat, above her boy breasts, dangled a diamond cross of her mother's. She had braided her hair into a coronet, glossy, perfumed, perfect.

Returning to her desk, hearing the rain, feeling the nakedness of her feet, the nakedness of herself under the dress, she swayed on her chair. As thunder rumbled, she recalled fragments of a poem by Felipe Clavo, a passionate outcry: he had expressed what it was to be manacled by tropical isolation where "white butterflies made love to protruding lianas." Clavo's lines had the sway of a hammock.

Clavo had said: "Love between women is superior to love between men and women--it asks so little." At the Degollado, Clavo had read his poetry but she could not remember him or what he had read; she had been too young.

The woman's poet, some called him.

That didn't matter.

Only loneliness, only love mattered.

"Caterina, do you mind the storm?" she asked, the huskiness of her voice softer than usual. "I guess you don't mind the rain. I guess none of us mind the rain when our day comes. No thunder reaches us...."

Taking her pen, she completed her letter to María and then wrote Estelle Milan. A streak of lightning blazed. In Guadalajara, when it rained, a carriage whisked them to the theater; they laughed as they bumped over cobbles; after the theater, they had supper at the Copa de Leche: Cota, Lorenzo, Cordero, Gouz, Aguirre, Milan. In spite of the storm, she had rejoined her friends: a shiver ran through her because they were so real, so close.

Chavela lit candles on the desk, on the mantelpiece and in wall brackets.

"It's gotten dark so fast," she complained. "What a rain! Do you want me to light the kerosene lamp?"

"Later," Angelina said. "Bring me my cup of coffee."

"I'll bring it right away."

Angelina poured at the desk, mixing her particular concoction of strong coffee and hot milk, pouring the milk from a diminutive Turkish pot of brass. As she drank, she heard Gabriel coming in. She liked Storni and rose to welcome him.

Slipping off his poncho, spreading it over the back of a chair, he kissed her hand and brought a chair close to the desk. Because of the damp, he limped heavily. His robe smelled of dried straw; noticing the smell, she held up her handkerchief and said:

"The coffee's just right. I'll ring for a cup."

"Hot coffee--on an evening like this! Where's Raul?" He was naïvely captivated by her perfume and her old-fashioned dress.

"Raul's gone to see about a dam that cracked in the quake."

"We'll need all the water we can save, before our dry season ends," he said.

She hid her feet under her skirt and played with the diamond cross at her throat.

"I'm leaving for Guadalajara ... María's house is done. Gabriel, it'll be so good to get away. I'll have Vicente come when school is out in Colima."

"I know how you feel," Gabriel adjusted his glasses. "I'd like to get away myself, if there weren't so much to do here at Petaca."

"Why has Don Fernando taken another bad turn?" she asked.

"Money," he said.

"Whose money?"

"Hacienda money," said Gabriel. "You see, Raul canceled certain accounts. He wants to do away with the indebtedness on the tienda de raya books. A matter of hacienda funds."

"Raul goes too far," she said, putting her cup down hard.