When the Owl Cries Part 21

"What happened to the camellias, the northern ones?" he asked, after a long silence.

"They seem to be doing all right.... Will you be good to yourself, Raul? I'm worried about your shoulder. I won't know how you're getting along. Get well!"

The worker banged at the broken spring.

"With all these troubled times, Petaca gets farther and farther away from me. I think about you in so many ways," she said. "Your quarrels with your father. Pedro. Your Caterina. Ah, darling...."

"Do you really think I'll succeed in helping Petaca? All my efforts can amount to very little in the end."

"That's all any of us can hope for," she said, "a little progress."

"I wish I had your help."

"But I'm no hacendada. I have my servants, my flowers, my trees." She eyed her garden, its paths, its shade patterns, its sun. "n.o.body is treated badly here.... I've just four regular men now. Gonzalez and Ortiz will have to be replaced. My women come and go. I guess I live too near Colima to keep them long. When my old Guanajuato mine stops paying me dividends, then I'll have to become an hacendada.... Just now, I live in peace ... just enough ... you know, my dear."

Someone called Lucienne, and she went into the house.

Raul appreciated Palma Sola. Nowhere in Europe had he discovered such a spot and he doubted whether one existed, such a tropic garden where ocean sucked at discontent. Here palmera, garden and ocean talked together--like old friends. As pain returned, he forced himself to listen to the fronds; their brus.h.i.+ng fingers made the sound of falling water.

But there was more to Palma Sola than serenity: there was heat, when the only possible relief was a dip; there were storms; there were cloud banks and scattered fogs; there were phosph.o.r.escent waves that swallowed the horizon.

The pain moved in again and Raul thought of Pedro. He wanted him out of the way. Perhaps the Yaqui had murdered somebody. At the earliest opportunity, he would spend a day in Colima, b.u.t.ter some palms and put the rurales wise: the gray-uniformed men would tip their caps and Pedro would be a marked man.

A marked man, for a dozen crimes ... the criminal instinct, nothing else. Protected by my father. How can there be law and justice when a single person can dictate? Yet I will be dictating when I summon the rurales ... the law protects me against the lawless ... and the church has a law against divorce. So I am dictated to, in turn.... Well, I must get up and walk around, toughen myself for that long ride tomorrow.

He got away early, before the sun broke through the low mist. He leaned out of the victoria and called goodbye.

"I hope that spring doesn't come apart," she said.

"Simon's a good driver," Raul said. "We have at least one good spring.

We'll make out fine."

"I love you...."

"Goodbye."

"'Bye, Chulo.... Write me...."

It was a superb morning, the sun barely topping the palmera, mist blurring the ocean, haze concealing the volcano. Silver tr.i.m.m.i.n.g on the guard's saddle sparkled. Creaking and b.u.mping, sagging on its weak spring, the victoria rolled out of the sand, one of the horses whinnying. Sand gave way to hard ground and Simon cracked his whip.

"Vamos!" he shouted to his team.

Parrots, scarcely larger than hummingbirds, flicked out of the trees and seemed about to strike the carriage. The victoria traveled slowly, swaying from side to side like an old fat man. Little by little, the gray trunks of the palmera hid the beach and house.

Raul tried to make himself comfortable by pus.h.i.+ng his good shoulder into the cus.h.i.+on. I'll get used to it. Simon knows what he's doing.

There will be good stretches of road. d.a.m.n these annoyances.

Before long, they pa.s.sed a family riding on burros, then several oxcarts loaded with firewood. At noon, they saw Indian women, spinning flax as they trudged along, their bare feet stubbing through deep sand.

Later in the afternoon, they met a hill Indian, in buckskin, bow and quiver over his shoulder ... he dog-trotted past, saluting no one.

At dusk, they drove through a herd of belled goats. Their shepherds had black and white serapes over their shoulders. By a campfire alongside the road, Raul noticed a youngster with two honey bears on a rope--cubs the size of house cats.

I'll buy one for Vicente, he thought, and leaned out of the window and called the youngster. The carriage slumped into a pothole, and a spring seemed to snap. Simon bellowed angrily at his horses and the campers howled with laughter. Raul asked the boy how much he wanted for one of his bears.

"You may have them both, patron."

Raul recognized that hacienda courtesy.

"I want one for my son."

"They're both yours," insisted the boy, rising, drowning disappointment behind a wooden grin. His small body might have been put together out of muscled vines.

"For one bear," said Raul, and handed him some pesos.

The boy reached out, his pets tugging him; he b.u.mped against the wheel of the victoria. Raul felt the cool snout of the cub; quickly, he drew the animal inside, where it sniffed and pawed excitedly at the closed window.

Simon whipped up his horses.

Cuddling the furry ball under his good arm, rolling on through the night, Raul leaned back in his seat, pleased he had something for Vicente. Then he remembered that Vicente would be in Colima, at school. A flash thought said: Earthquake, and he wondered what had happened to Vicente and his school?

He hoped Angelina would greet him happily at Petaca. Why not one more illusion? Life had so many disillusions in it before the end. He told himself he must confess to Gabriel: or had his confessions, through the years, been altogether too revealing? The victoria swayed and he groaned and hugged the bear.

At Petaca, he brushed dust and hair from his freshly laundered suit and, holding the bear under one arm, mounted the lantern-lighted veranda steps. A number of servants greeted him. Instead of returning their greetings, he stared at the earthquake damage: the east wing of the veranda had crumbled into a heap of rubble; the cross of Palenque on the roof line had fallen; a section of the garden wall had toppled; stones, adobe, bougainvillaea and honeysuckle lay on the ground.

Inside the living room, a hole gaped at the east end.

Chavela approached him--as he inspected the damage--her big hands bulging behind her ap.r.o.n.

"Don Raul, I ... Madre de Dios, que paso! Were you badly hurt?"

"I'm better."

"You were shot ... they shot you, patron."

"Yes ... but where's Angelina? The house has been badly damaged."

"She's upstairs, in bed. She's..."

"Is she ill? Was she hurt? Why wasn't word sent to me!"

"She feels weak, after the quakes, the volcano smoke. We had it bad here."

"Take the honey bear, Chavela. Keep it for Vicente."

She unwrapped her damp hands and grasped the bear, frowning; she hated all pets, feeling that they stole food from the mouths of children.

Her arms smothered the bear, and it clawed futilely.

Without saying more, Raul ascended the stairs, glad Angelina had not met the victoria, knowing how painful the sight of it would have been to her....