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Alberto Saenz, the Christ-faced musician, balanced empty birdcages ontop of his head, as he trudged along the shore of the lagoon. Soon hewould reach Petaca and could rest. A string of smoke hung out of thevolcano, but the air was clear. No doubt the worst was over. Scoopingwater from the lagoon, he drank from his palms, and the sedgy flavorpleased him. Rising, he stroked his beard and resumed his walk, alongthe pebbly shore. Herons let him come close, wading no deeper, beakingtheir 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 roofand arches. Stonecutters pecked with hammers and chisels, fast, lightstrokes; a mason sloshed mortar in a box, adding sand to his mixture.All were bare-headed, barefooted and all wore white. Alberto worewhite--his trousers slashed on the outside, above the ankles, hisbuttonless shirt open on his white-haired chest. Head against averanda arch, he dreamed of other visits, Raul's kindly mother, therunaway carriage from La Calera, the fiesta of the Virgin of Petacawhen they had burned four _castillos_.
Before taking his cages to Raul, he prayed in the chapel. Kneeling, helet the whiteness of the room take him: he had been a lover of Maryever since he could remember: without a doubt She had saved his motherduring the black plague. Strains of music he had played through theyears came to him, as he knelt. Stepping toward the altar, he touchedthe glass dome covering the Virgin: her rubies, emeralds and diamondsnever changed. Some night, as the dawn arrived and birds began theirday, 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 forRaul.
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 thesteps.
Raul overheard, came outside, and accepted the cages. Together theyhung them in the patio. Alberto had ideas as to what kinds of birdsshould be put inside. Raul understood how much the old man prized hisgift. He led him into the kitchen for something to eat. His beardedface, through the closing door, brought to mind the man decorating thehill cross and his own resolve to assume the hacienda responsibilities.
On the veranda, Raul talked with the stonecutters. In a short time thehouse would be repaired. This afternoon, he had to ride to the pond inSector 17; the quake had cracked the dam and released most of thewater. A group of workers was already there, but the job had to bepushed before the dry season.
Oxcarts creaked across the court, each loaded with stone for theveranda. One cart was new, made by Salvador, and pulled by his_garbanza_-colored oxen. Salvador drove his cart and young Estebanrode another, his goad over his shoulder, spear-like, his team blackand white. Pigeons fluttered about the carts, as if they hoped forgrain.
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, pleasedwith the progress.
"Ah, before you go ... I'd like to say that Isidro found sixty pesos inthe stable. They must be yours. I have the bills." He dug into hisback 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 thebandana, 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," saidSalvador, 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, inher white dressing gown, a cat in her lap. She was embroidering apillowcase.
"I had a letter from Maria," she said, without glancing up.
"Yes," he said, hoping she would not read it, since her sister'sletters were garrulous and about people he scarcely knew.
"I got it this morning. Father Gabriel just came back from Colima, andbrought 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 showingunder 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 hatesthe sex act. What is it that fills her with fear? I used to try sohard 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 hadbroken loose and was swimming to the surface. The smile smiles and theeyes hide something.
We've lived too many years together to disentangle our emotions. Theboot hurts, at the heel ... it used to fit fine. I don't want to wearmy new ones.
Maria wants her to come to Guadalajara, but she doesn't need an excuseto go to Guadalajara, or anywhere. Fifteen years ago she wouldn't haveleft me for anything in the world--or I her.
Blinking at his right boot, he began to yank it on....
"Maria 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 remodelingher 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 shehit 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 ourfood. Look how she prepared the chayotes last week! Did you evertaste 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 neededme. 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 agreat effort, he made himself continue, his fingers working uncertainly.
"Give her up, Raul. Get her out of our lives. You owe it to me andVicente."
Somehow he managed the last button and thought: I've got to thinkclearly. He crossed the room to her and placed his hand on hershoulder.
"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 yourstinking boots. What can you know about delicacy? Keep your vonHumboldt. I'll keep my friend. Once you would have accompanied me toGuadalajara, 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 herrobe, went naked to the wardrobe and unboxed her fox fur, areddish-gold pelt. With it on, she appraised her body: quite, quitepretty, she told herself. Parading in front of her mirror, she swayedfrom side to side, dancing the length of the room and then back againto face the mirror. Quite, quite pretty. All of a sudden, her ecstasyfaded and she tossed her fur on the bed and flopped beside it. Hungerpervaded her. Closing her lids, f
lat on her back, she saw theDegollado Theater in Guadalajara, saw Maria and Estelle, Estelle inpale green moire, her blond hair glistening....
On the stage, the dancers performed jotas; the flamenco, dressed inblack, 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, noCaterina, no woman her age or kind. Children, yes, but anonymous. Noplays, no musicals, no burlesques. In the convent of Ursula, on CalleLopez Cotilla, she had had a girl friend (it seemed yesterday and notyears ago) who had slept with her. They had lain together, withoutclothes, night after night. Nobody had ever found out. Where was she?Where was Renee? What had happened to her? Would anyone inGuadalajara ever have news of her?
Dear Maria, 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 pineappleand oranges ... we'll have dulces ... we'll have nieves ... only a fewchildren will miss me here and maybe the chapel organ. Yes, yes, Iheard 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. Estellesays I am.
Sighing, she rose and sat at her dressing table and began plucking herbrows. Each hair, as she pulled it, made her wince. She rubbedherself with cream, dressed and descended to the living room,pretending, as she walked, that this home was the home of a Guadalajarafamily and that she was a guest.
It irked her to find Caterina's smiling photo, in its velvet-goldframe, on the desk. Momentarily bewildered, she dusted it and laid itface down. Taking stationery out of the drawer, she wrote Maria,writing fast, in a nervous spidery scrawl.
"Dear Maria,
"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 mustphone Isabel and arrange fittings for me; I have to have so manydresses 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, therain lashed, hitting the lagoon side of the house. She was glad Raulhad had men fix the living room roof; he was riding in the rain, sherealized. She did not care. Probably Manuel was holding an umbrellaover him. Raul had learned to look after himself long ago, he and hisNegro. Putting down her pen, she went to the veranda windows, herelegant black swishing. But she was barefooted. More peasant thanmany peasants, she liked the tongue of tiles licking her soles, thehairiness of oriental rugs, the feel of the mountain lion before thefireplace.
Her old-fashioned dress was low cut, with sleeves three-quarter; in theV of her throat, above her boy breasts, dangled a diamond cross of hermother's. She had braided her hair into a coronet, glossy, perfumed,perfect.
Returning to her desk, hearing the rain, feeling the nakedness of herfeet, the nakedness of herself under the dress, she swayed on herchair. As thunder rumbled, she recalled fragments of a poem by FelipeClavo, a passionate outcry: he had expressed what it was to be manacledby tropical isolation where "white butterflies made love to protrudinglianas." Clavo's lines had the sway of a hammock.
Clavo had said: "Love between women is superior to love between men andwomen--it asks so little." At the Degollado, Clavo had read his poetrybut she could not remember him or what he had read; she had been tooyoung.
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 hervoice softer than usual. "I guess you don't mind the rain. I guessnone of us mind the rain when our day comes. No thunder reaches us...."
Taking her pen, she completed her letter to Maria and then wroteEstelle Milan. A streak of lightning blazed. In Guadalajara, when itrained, a carriage whisked them to the theater; they laughed as theybumped over cobbles; after the theater, they had supper at the Copa deLeche: Cota, Lorenzo, Cordero, Gouz, Aguirre, Milan. In spite of thestorm, she had rejoined her friends: a shiver ran through her becausethey were so real, so close.
Chavela lit candles on the desk, on the mantelpiece and in wallbrackets.
"It's gotten dark so fast," she complained. "What a rain! Do you wantme 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 strongcoffee and hot milk, pouring the milk from a diminutive Turkish pot ofbrass. As she drank, she heard Gabriel coming in. She liked Storniand rose to welcome him.
Slipping off his poncho, spreading it over the back of a chair, hekissed her hand and brought a chair close to the desk. Because of thedamp, he limped heavily. His robe smelled of dried straw; noticing thesmell, 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 naivelycaptivated 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," hesaid.
She hid her feet under her skirt and played with the diamond cross ather throat.
"I'm leaving for Guadalajara ... Maria's house is done. Gabriel, it'llbe so good to get away. I'll have Vicente come when school is out inColima."
"I know how you feel," Gabriel adjusted his glasses. "I'd like to getaway 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 certainaccounts. He wants to do away with the indebtedness on the tienda deraya books. A matter of hacienda funds."
"Raul goes too far," she said, putting her cup down hard.
He began to defend Raul's actions and she tried to listen politely,filling his cup, giving him sugar, handing him a napkin. She felt thatthe sound of the rain was all that kept her in the room--without iteverything would disappear.
"Oh, Caterina's photo has fallen over," he said, and set it up.
"I laid it down."
"Why did you do that, Angelina?"
"To help me forget her."
"Forget her ... we mustn't forget her."
"Don't you understand that I miss her ... I miss her all the time ... Idon't need her photograph. Can't you see that things can be so bitter... can't you accept how I feel?" She spoke without rebuke, as thoughto herself.
They lapsed into silence; the rain beat across the veranda, across thetiles; somewhere a shutter thudded; somewhere children babbled.
"We should have saved her," said Gabriel, stirring his coffee.
"How could we have saved her?"
"The Indians know many ways of curing dysentery."
"Then why don't they cure their own little ones? We see them die everyyear. Gabriel, the haciendas are littered with their graves."
She remembered playing with Concepcion, Miguelito, Trinita, Pepe--dearfaces, Petaca's dead children! Her love for them choked her.
Forget Petaca! Forget Raul!
But did one forget someone once loved? Could there never be accord?Gabriel had recommended patience. The dung beetle was patient: she hadseen it shoving a ball, worming it from side to side, attacking itfrenziedly. She was no dung beetle. Revolving the delicate cup on itssaucer, guiding it around inside the rim, her toes digging at the rungsof her chair, she smelled her own flesh, waited. It seemed to her shehad waited more than half her life, waited for someone to love, waitedfor marriage, waited for sexual adjustment, waited for childbirth, forher babies to walk and talk. Even death had to be waited for. Herown. Her friends. Don Fernando's.
She heard her father-in-law say:
"Let's not bring that toy to the breakfast table....
"This is no pla
ce for women ... get out....
"Well wait for your wife to go to bed....
"Take the noisy children away...."
Dressed in one of his charro outfits or in badly pressed whites, whipor quirt in hand, he epitomized Petaca. Blood-shot eyes, batteredmouth, scrawny neck--soon death would take them away. And she knew howhe feared death; she had heard him mumble to himself. It had perplexedher that Caterina had been fond of him but she let them alone, hopingthe innocence of one would offset the vices of the other. Well, it hadbeen a brief affection. She wondered how she condescended to treat himhumanely, almost with affection sometimes.
Pouring herself more coffee she tried to shake her mood and said thefirst thing that came to mind:
"What have you been thinking about?"
"I? Oh, I was thinking of Italy. What were you thinking about?"
"Don Fernando. Caterina. Life and death."
"I was thinking of home. Very foolish of me. I guess I'm ... well,sentimental." He patted his bald spot.
"You've been homesick as long as I can remember," she said.
"Come, come now," he said. "I haven't been that bad, have I?"
Chavela went about opening windows and candle flames wavered from thecool, damp but refreshing air. The clack-a-clack of hundreds ofblackbirds resounded from their roosting place in the Indian laurels atthe lagoon end of the garden.
Gabriel lit a kerosene lamp and placed it on the piano and excusedhimself.
"Good-night, Angelina ... I must visit Viosco ... he's sick ... thanksfor the coffee...."
She hunched on a sofa, her feet under a velvet cushion, eyes on theirresolute candles. Shall I confess to Gabriel that I like to walknaked in my fur? Shall I tell him about the girl at the convent?Shall I tell him why Raul married me? Confess. Must we all confess,confess how lonely we are?
Later, in the chapel, she prayed for Vicente and herself. The placewas dimly lit but the darkness and her _rebozo_ could not shut out thePetacans, the lame, the sick, the hungry: they whimpered for clothes,medicine, alms: they fought for food, stole, got drunk, killed. Theyhad never crowded about her before and their ghostly presence drove herto her room.
Raul had stayed in a peasant hut during the rain, a thatched room wherewoven fronds, carefully herringboned, shut out most of the downpour. Apig slept in a corner. Raul sat on a wooden chest; the owner and hiswife squatted on a mat. Above the pig, in a sisal hammock, swung achild. Another hammock was looped over a peg, its pouch resembling agray moth's case. The deluge shut out nearly all light. Through theopen doorway mist drubbed. Nobody tried to talk. Raul dozed. Whenthe rain stopped, he thanked the pair, accepted a chunk of sugar canefor Chico, and got on his horse and rode off.
Chico trotted briskly, whiffing the rain-washed air as they followed atrail through pastureland where knots of Herefords grazed. Belly highto the horse, a stone wall paralleled the trail, iguanas here and there.
At a bend, Chico whirled sidewise, and pain from his bullet wound shotthrough Raul. He thought he might topple, but somehow managed to keephis saddle, as the horse pirouetted. Shouting, commanding, he dug hisspurs. The horse screamed. Then, Raul saw the snake, a good-sizedrattler.
Dragging violently at the bit, he checked Chico underneath some orangetrees and dismounted, thoroughly disgusted.
"You fool. Haven't you ever seen a rattler before? You ought to learna thing or two. You crazy fool--you're no colt!"
The snake slithered away through the grass.
At the dam, the foreman told Raul that they had less than a week'swork, though the cracks in the dam appeared formidable. Raul suckedhis pipe, nodded his head, simply agreeing. The place oozed gnats andflies. Sandpipers paraded the shallows.
Remaining on his horse, Raul chatted with the workers, all of them inbreechclouts or shorts. A number wore conical hats of a nearbymountaineer clan. The southerners had bodies like chocolate. Somespoke no Spanish. Through the years, Raul had acquired an Indianvocabulary of sorts and he tried to josh the men but none of his jokesgot across. He slapped at gnats, and left as soon as he could.
On his way home, he felt a sense of freedom. The breadth of the landaffected him. Uncle Roberto had said: "It does something to a man tolive on a place you can't ride across in days." Though Raul had beenborn at Petaca, he realized there were parts he had never seen, hillcountry, mountain fields, lava terrain, streams. A subforeman insistedthat a lake existed in Sector 25. Recently someone told of Indianscamping in 31, thatched huts in a valley of willows.
As dusk brought the swallows and bats, Raul remembered Petacan outingsin all kinds of weather, high volcano climbs with lightning flashingfrom rock to rock, river explorations, treks across pasture lands,trails to milpas, trails through steamy canyons choked with red-barkedtrees. They had herded cattle, roped yearlings, branded, dehorned;they had driven herds of sheep and goat; they had chased wild horses.Gathered around campfires, they had eaten from chuck wagons. Yearspast, they had packed burro trains into the Mountain Rancheria area insearch of gold and silver. They had hunted deer in the uplands,_tigres_ in the marsh grass of the coastal land, iguanas where thepalmera whined, alligator and ibis in the lagoons, wolf and bear midwayup the great peak, eagles at the summit.
At first, he had tried to share these things with Angelina but she hadnot cared for the rough life and so he had gone with his men, storingup the hours, making his own calendar, riding most often with Manuel,including Lucienne when he dared.
High up, in the darkening sky, a hawk drifted.
Surely, the Medinas were monarchs of a kind.
Lights burned at Petaca, in the windows and in the kerosene lamps atopthe wooden posts in the courtyard. Raul saw rurales, some mounted,some afoot, their uniforms unmistakable. He had heard that they hadbeen encountered in the remote sections of the hacienda but this wasthe first time he had seen them and he was glad to have an indicationof their interest in apprehending Pedro. His trip to Colima had beensuccessful.
He did not doubt that his father knew where Pedro had gone. (Wouldthis new stroke end his life?) Some said guns were being smuggled,bought and sold. At other haciendas, men had been placed on guardduty. Count de Selva, it was rumored, had clamped men in irons fordemanding the right to buy matches in Colima.
A peculiar fear washed over him, as he rode into Petaca. It seemed tobe hooked up in his mind with the birthday party Lucienne was planningnext week at Palma Sola. A foolish fear, no doubt.
When the Owl Cries Page 14
