When the Owl Cries Part 56

I am sorry to be so blunt, Raul, but what can I do? I must tell you the truth, however painful to me and you.

"Maria is ill. That is why Angelina stayed with us awhile, though now she is at Holy Cross Hospital.

"You have to know, too, that Guadalajara has suffered. The San Francisco church has been burned. The bishop's residence has been sacked. There's garbage on the street corners, stacked high. There's no water in our homes, there's no sewage disposal.

"Angelina has felt all of this tragedy. Unfortunately, she saw men hanging from lampposts in the plaza.

"I have taken her to several doctors. They all say she is unbalanced.

She's gentle and kind. But she sees a dog, a dog that doesn't exist.

It's her illness. She's trapped in fear. I hesitate to tell you this, but she doesn't care to eat.

"Vicente is doing all right; he doesn't know the truth yet. He's with us. His school has closed. He doesn't get about much. It's too dangerous.

"Come when you can, Raul. She asks for you. This has been my first chance to get a letter to you. I hope you understand I have tried to communicate, in various ways. Yours, Roberto."

He filled his brandy gla.s.s again, and reread the letter. Sweat had broken out on his forehead; it trickled over the backs of his hands, ran down under his arms. A man stopped to question him but Raul ordered him away, not so much as glancing at him.

He felt Angelina's eyes focused on him accusingly; their luminosity made him get up and leave the patio. Down by the pool, he found the silence he wanted. On a bench he stared at the leaf-dotted water, fighting his sense of nightmare.

Such a letter--at such a time.

Yet he read it once more and began to think of leaving, riding horseback, catching a freight to Guadalajara. Some said freight trains went through, once in a while.

He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and walked away. He must find Manuel. In his simple, small room, on his bed, leaning against the wall, Raul was able to think straight. To Manuel he explained his decision to give up Petaca. A lamp burned below the old Chiapan hanging ... some old clothes dangled from the wooden peg. The room was quiet. Lamplight brought out Manuel's kind features, his weariness....

How he had aged!

"I want us to eat together and then I'll ride to Colima tonight. I must go to her. You will be in charge here. Save what you can, Manuel."

Raul was glad Manuel did not talk: he wanted the silence, the silence of his room, their silence. He remembered to ask about Manuel's head injury. Then there was the silence again.

"You'll be all right in Guadalajara. You'll be able to reach her,"

Manuel said, that old bond coming to the fore. "I'll be waiting for you here, or in Colima. I can't eat now, my friend. Go with G.o.d, Raul." And he stood up, knowing how hard it was for him to go.

"Goodbye, Manuel."

For Raul, it was easier to get to Guadalajara than he had supposed. By the next day he found a freight that carried him and others as well--a slow ride, but not hazardous. They had bad water or no water. Some of the people were ill. At the many stops they got fruit, _tacos_ and tortillas. Those who had money paid; those who had no money begged.

Raul made a little corner for himself in an old red boxcar, the splintered floor full of holes. He sat among rich and poor. Since the train seldom moved fast, the heat poured on them and they looked forward to the night. And they arrived in Guadalajara in the small hours of the night, their second day out of Colima.

Guadalajara was filthier and more degraded than Roberto had painted it.

Poor Vicente, thought Raul. Poor Angelina. Stinking garbage cluttered nearly every street corner. There were no street lamps. Wild dogs ran about. Barbed wire had been flung over benches and around trees in the plaza. Machine gunners had sandbagged the roofs of the munic.i.p.al buildings ... buzzards were everywhere. All the way to Roberto's house, along Vallarta, the main street, barricades of cobbles had been erected, topped by wrought-iron benches and smashed grilles and balconies. It was amazing to Raul that the hack driver was able to get through to Roberto's home.

"Not much of a homecoming," said Roberto, "but we're still here."

Vicente danced with joy and yet was troubled by his father's haggard face.

"Papa, isn't it awful the way they've torn up the city?" he said, backing away a little.

"It is. Now for the bathroom. I hope there's water. I want to get cleaned up."

"Is Petaca all right?"

"We're still there," he said, and glanced at Roberto.

When he had washed and rested, Raul left the house with Vicente, for the Holy Cross Hospital on Calle Moliere. Hollow eyed and thinner, Vicente did not have much to say as they trudged along. Raul talked horses but Vicente seemed to have forgotten his pa.s.sion for them. He said he was sorry his school had closed and wondered what his friends were doing in Colima? Was it so bad in Colima?

The sun was streaming into the garden patio of the charming pillared home that had been converted into a hospital by the Sisters of Charity long ago. One of the Sisters asked them to wait in the patio and Raul and Vicente sat on a bench, facing a bed of roses. They said nothing until Angelina came.

She shook hands with Raul, but disregarded Vicente. She was quiet-spoken and aloof. Vicente went gladly into the Mother Superior's office when she beckoned to him. His mother frightened him.

Angelina wore a yellow dress Raul could not remember seeing; when she sat beside him, he saw how much weight she had lost; her face was older, threaded with tiny lines; her eyes could not focus on him but glided away, across the garden, to the tiled roof, then, to her hands.

"Do you like me in black?" she asked. "I think I look my best in black." Her voice called up a hundred sensations in him. "Estelle has come to see me ... she comes often," she whispered. "It's not very easy, but we slip away to the theater, to hear Clavo read his poems....

We go to a play." Her eyes lifted to the roof line. "How are things with you?"

"Fine, Angelina."

"That's nice. Shall we walk around the patio? It's such a nice place."

Raul took her arm and she did not object.

White and yellow roses were in flower; a pet raven sat on a bench and clicked its bill as they pa.s.sed; Raul tried to summon wisdom; he wanted to speak of Petaca, but Petaca represented every kind of painful failure and transition. He did not dare mention his father's death.

Wanting to say something, he said, "Father Gabriel's well."

"Yes?" she said. "Is he?"

"He sent his love."

She smiled, and glanced away.

He wanted to explain that Gabriel's leg was all right.

"How is Garcia?" she asked.

"Garcia?" he fumbled, trying hard to place him. "He's fine," he said.

He must say something cheerful. Again he tried to place Garcia.

She sat down abruptly on a bench and said, "I'm never going back."

"No," he said, sitting down too.

"I like it here. Everyone's kind to me."

He was speechless--he felt his heart had turned to ice. When had she been so frail?

"Here I see no killings. It's quiet. I can rest. The Sisters are nice to me."

One hand shaking, she reached out and seemed to pat something. Then, with a sharp cry, she got up, swayed, and fled into the hospital, her yellow skirt fluttering.