When the Owl Cries Part 39

"Are you warm?" he asked.

"Very warm. Let me sleep on your arm."

"Tomorrow we have a long ride," he said.

In a matter of seconds, she fell asleep, breathing gently, her arms around him. He turned thoughts over in his head while listening to a wolf howl, high on the cliff above. How ridiculous to ask: Will the Church accept us? As if Angelina no longer had anything to do with my life. Yet, as he lay there, staring at the gathering clouds, he felt she had less and less to do with his life. Guadalajara would claim her, the parties, friends, theater--Estelle Milan.

It was drizzling when they awoke. They had breakfast around the campfire, the horses tethered nearby, ready for departure. As they began the slow descent, the drizzle changed to rain, chilly, at times falling fast. To reach the regular trail, they filed through a forest of scrub oak. Shale made the going tricky, but the rocky area did not last long. Once on the main trail, they quickened their pace and then--like a great swab--mist puffed over them and swallowed trees and boulders. Because of the mist, Raul had trouble with Chico. Somewhere below nine thousand feet they crossed a number of small cornfields, mist along their edges.

"I wouldn't want to live up this high," said Raul.

Dressed in white tropicals, Raul's men s.h.i.+vered. Raul felt cold and a little shabby in old blue denim. Lucienne was comfortable in corduroy: tan jacket, dark green riding skirt, darker beret, raincoat. Italian boots, laced with yellow laces, reached almost to her knees. She loved the mist, and sang as they plugged along, corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g through pine.

Unpacking her plant press, she stopped for a rare fern.

In a flash of sun, the mist broke and below them lay a rancho, a ragged L-shaped patch of lava rock huts with yellow straw wigs, a chapel and munic.i.p.al building.

"Are we going down there?" Lucienne asked.

"I want to speak to the jefe."

"It looks wild."

"Haven't you been there?"

"No, I've never been there."

"The jefe wears _tigre_ skins."

"You're joking."

Raul's men laughed at her.

A rough but short route got them to Palma Sola in the late afternoon, sun at their heels. Before freshening up, Lucienne and Raul went to see some monster turtles lying in beached dugouts. Each one had barnacles on its wounded sh.e.l.l: how their red eyes begged for freedom!

A fisherman, coiling hand line, put his foot on the gunwale, pointed at one and said, "It came from far off," as if he had a magical probe that reached undersea and understood all mysteries.

"Turtles stare in such a sad way," Lucienne said, as they went into the house. She spun her beret onto a chair.

"They know they have to die," said Raul.

"I like plants because they can't look at me, can't accuse, can't plead. They never fill me with a sense of guilt and sorrow."

At a window, facing the beached dugouts, she clasped him tightly, tasting the flavor of transience: she saw her parents' death, saw herself in Europe, thought of other lovers, other friends. Almost tearfully, she kissed him and said, "Let's get dressed for supper."

"You must be tired."

"Not too tired."

At supper he said, "I'm afraid I have to leave tomorrow."

"Can't you stay on a day or two?"

"Can't we meet in Colima soon?" he asked.

"Of course we can."

"But it's never like here--or in the mountains."

"It's such a closed feeling, people, too many people. Maybe we can meet before I go to Guanajuato. When I wrote you about the mine it didn't seem so serious. The manager thinks the mine is giving out."

"So serious ... I hope not."

"Without that income, what shall I do?"

Breaking open a crisp roll, he studied her and considered the problem.

He had descended the mine's moldy ladders. He had checked the ore, had had it a.s.sayed, had estimated the output. Few mines had less to offer, for both gold and silver ran low. The copper percentage might pay, but no copper smelter existed in Guanajuato.

"I hope I can help. I'll send Senor Rul around to check for you.

Maybe it's a case of mismanagement."

"I trust my man.... He can't produce ore if there isn't any ore."

"Let's not let it worry us, Lucienne."

"I hear that the peons are quitting, are in revolt," she said, when they were alone in the dining room. "My people whisper. I pick up remarks."

"What do you hear? Is it about Palma Sola?"

"Other haciendas ... threats, anger, disobedience. It's as you've said: they're turning against us. I'm afraid."

"There won't be trouble here," he said. "Father has so many enemies, we'll have trouble at Petaca, if it comes anywhere. Three-quarters of our land was Indian property years ago."

"So was mine," she said.

"If the peasants revolt, we must give in or fight. We have no choice."

"Not a pleasant prospect," she said.

"It hasn't been pleasant, sweating it out in the mines, sweating it out in the sugar-cane fields, up at dawn, down at dark, always in debt...."

He reached for his pipe but did not fill it.

"I don't defend myself against father's accusation of political idealism, weakness, call it whatever you want. I'm groping. But I can see how the people suffer ... in almost every hacienda. Diaz wasn't right for us!"

"I hear of your changes at Petaca. People are amazed at what you've accomplished."

"I like to help. I feed my people. If they're sick they get care. I let them go to Colima to buy things. I've canceled debts in the tienda de raya books. I talk over problems. Many places could do that ...

but we have so much to live down at Petaca. I'm glad there never were beatings and killings here."

When he returned to Petaca he found a letter from Angelina, gay and trivial. It heartened him until he reached the final paragraph: "I think Mona is really my dog, not Lucienne's. I think she won't always stay at Palma Sola but will come to me, changing so prettily, her gla.s.s bones s.h.i.+ning...."