When the Owl Cries

  17

  Morning sun polished one of the wooden dragons on Fernando's wardrobe.

  "... I can remember Andrea. As blind as I am, I can see her. I wantedto marry her, but you know all that folly. That was the year we gotalmost no corn at all." Bitterness and rotten teeth and food left overfrom breakfast clogged his speech and yet Angelina understood him andlistened because she felt sick and lonely.

  "What a stupid man I was." He chuckled. "I sold her, sold my Andrea.Slave ... I was her slave and I sold her. What if she loved somebodyelse? I still wanted her. Can you remember a beautiful face?" Hestirred painfully on his bed. "I was nineteen--that was the year Ikilled my father. Out of my head ... I sold her." His voice hadslowed, the gravity of those days pressing him. "God, that was adreadful year...."

  "What ever became of Andrea?" Angelina asked, taking a piece of toastfrom his tray. They were having breakfast together.

  "She died in Manzanillo ... typhoid."

  He felt the weight of Angelina's body on the bed and groped to touchher.

  "My eyes are worse today. Those glasses haven't helped much. I'llhave to have another pair made."

  Angelina forgot to listen; Chavela came for the dishes, rattling thingsand talking at the same time. "There's no beef to eat today," shesaid. "Marcelino says there's been no slaughtering."

  "We must have some eggs," said Angelina. "Chickens lay eggs even whenthere's shooting. I suppose you could have someone kill a chicken ortwo."

  Chavela inspected her tray of soiled dishes blankly. "An omelette,"she suggested.

  "Better a hen," said Angelina.

  "Chavela ... cigarette," said Fernando.

  Chavela gazed questioningly at Angelina.

  "Give him a cigarette, Chavela."

  "Si ... right away."

  Chavela's bare feet retreated soundlessly, the dishes rattling. Shewondered if all of them were to be killed at Petaca, ignominiously,falling about the fountain, bleeding on the cobbles, moaning. Shetripped on a crack, hurt her toe and swore furiously.

  Angelina lost herself in reverie. She saw the rays of sun, thebedroom, a picture on the wall; she saw Petaca as a fort and imaginedherself stealthily opening the gate, fleeing across fields to thelagoon; she would cross it in a dugout ... on the other side it wasdark; she was alone, weeping. She felt her way through the bush and ahand reached toward her, the fingers transparent, evolving into a dog'spaw ... finally, a dog trotted beside her.

  "Mona, la Mona," she whispered.

  "What did you say?" Fernando asked.

  "Nothing," she said.

  She walked to the door and went slowly toward the serpentine fountainand leaned over it and stared at the fish that huddled under greenery.Sloshing water with her hand, she gazed about her. The dog was there.It followed her upstairs, to her door.

  Breathlessly, she slammed the door.

  Breathing fast, she opened her wardrobe and removed her fur; shestroked it and kissed it and laid it on the bed. Lying beside it, shesaid:

  "We'll be going to Guadalajara soon. We'll be going there to stay.We'll be at Maria's. I'll be all right there.... You'll see. What afine time we're going to have...."

  Raul found her there, asleep. Sitting beside her, he gently woke her.

  "It's time to eat," he said.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Lunch is ready."

  "Oh ... I've slept all morning."

  "Let me help you up."

  "Everything's so quiet," she said.

  "Everything's all right."

  "I'm glad," she said.

  "I've heard from General Matanzas. Troops are all around the country;a number rode by Petaca this morning. They'll protect us, Angelina."

  She sat at her dressing table, blinking. Taking her powder puff, shebegan to powder her throat and neck, wanting to waken gradually.

  Raul stood near her, thinking of other years, time by the window, timein the garden, time to play games, to sit with a baby in his lap.Nothing would recapture those days.

  "Vicente is downstairs," he said, knowing how pleased she would be.

  "He's downstairs! Darling, why didn't you tell me?" she cried happily,holding her puff motionless. "How did he come?"

  "He came with Octavio."

  "Who's Octavio--a schoolmate?"

  "Yes."

  "They rode here on horseback?"

  "Yes."

  "They might have been shot," she murmured, thinking of those who haddied at Refugio.

  They were facing one another in the mirror.

  "They followed the back roads. They knew how to manage."

  "Good for Vicente," she said.

  "He wants to stay at Petaca," Raul said.

  "You mean he won't go with me to Guadalajara? I need him."

  "I think we can change his mind."

  She called Vicente from the door and he came leaping upstairs, his hairbadly combed, his tropic clothes in a mess. He kissed his motherdutifully, then turned to his father and said:

  "Tell me about the shooting, the fight here." His energy flashed intohis gestures. "It must have been exciting. And to think that youdrove the soldiers away!" He beamed proudly.

  "They weren't soldiers," said Raul.

  "They were rabble," said Angelina.

  "I'll tell you all about it later," Raul promised.

  "I'm so glad you and Octavio got through safely," said Angelina.

  "It was easy, Mother," said Vicente.

  "Did anybody bother you?"

  "No, Mother. And now everybody in Colima knows that Petaca beat offthe--the others. We're safe here."

  "You and Octavio get washed for lunch," said Raul. "Aren't you hungry?"

  "Sure we're hungry."

  Octavio was an older boy, with pained saddle-leather face anddown-twisted mouth. "Is it going to be a revolution?" he asked, atlunch.

  "I don't know," said Raul.

  "People in Colima say no," said Octavio certainly.

  Raul served macaroni and chicken to the boys, helping them bountifully.

  "The men who attacked Petaca weren't soldiers, were they?" askedOctavio.

  "Just peons with guns," said Angelina, wishing she could forget.

  "But, but ... then it is revolution. They're sore at us," saidOctavio, rolling his eyes.

  "In Colima they say the rurales will finish off the peons quickly,"said Vicente.

  "Federal troops are moving to Colima from the new garrison at CiudadGuzman," said Octavio. "General Matanzas issued a paper or something.It's on the door of the..."

  The rest of his words were garbled by macaroni, but Raul understoodthem. He felt his appetite die; these boys were trying to talk likemen; chaos was a man's business not a boy's. He poked at his food andsaid:

  "Vicente, I'm sending you to Guadalajara with your mother. She needsyou there, for an escort. You and she and some of our servants will gotogether. I can't get away now that things are so bad at Petaca.You'll be helpful in Guadalajara, and you can continue your schoolingthere."

  No one spoke.

  Unable to eat, Raul wondered what kind of solution Guadalajara wouldprove to be: no further bad news had appeared in the papers that he hadseen. He wondered what might have occurred in other cities: Tepic,Celaya, Guanajuato? Was Lucienne involved in this same nightmare? Hehad sent men to Palma Sola and Colima, but she had not returned. Norwas there any letter.

  After the others had finished, Raul went into the garden and smoked.Ducks paddled and fed in the pool, their white bottoms twitching.Overhead, buzzards patrolled. Men guarded the wall. The volcano, inthe cloudy atmosphere, wore a pall of gray and straws of light suckedat the farthest slope.

  He did not see Angelina, watching him from the doorway.

  Worried about Lucienne, he walked toward the stone Christ and thenretraced his steps to the pool. His stout face had lost flesh; histobacco eyebrows seemed less twisted; his mouth had grown sterner andhe wore a look of pain and sullen a
nger.

  A frog jumped into the pool, swam a short distance and then, withoutsubmerging, faced Raul. A bubble formed as it slowly submerged, as ifdrawn from below.

  God, thought Raul, we think we can help men, determine their tomorrows,and yet we don't know ten things about a frog.

  It was a comfort to be alone, close to nature.... Also alone, Gabrielknelt in the chapel, praying for his people, particularly for Angelina.The confessional had told him her hallucination ... Maria, Teresa ...Raul ... Vicente ... Octavio ... his children.

  As he knelt, he recalled what it was to be a child, in Italy. He shookhis head to jar away his reveries but they continued. He was carryinga basket through an olive grove and it was a large basket for a boy oftwelve. The clock in the Amalfi tower boomed ten, ten grave notes, andhis mother crossed herself and said something....

  Outside, a rifle shot cracked--very close.

  Tugging his robe about him, Gabriel prayed for those who had beenharmed by the revolutionists. Surely it was God's destiny to freemankind. He prayed for guidance, for patience. An act of kindnessmight save a nation.

  An old man entered the chapel and shut the door behind him, fumblingwith the latch. Slowly, he staggered toward the altar, a serape overhis left shoulder.

  In the candlelight, where vigil cups burned, Gabriel took in hisbristling beard and tousled hair.

  Miguel Calvo, the sheepherder, Gabriel told himself.

  Miguel knelt laboriously, his lips moving soundlessly. He motioned toGabriel, and then fell.

  "What's wrong, Miguel?" said Gabriel, going to him.

  "Someone..." Miguel's face wrinkled with pain; his jaw clamped.

  "Are you sick, Miguel?"

  Gabriel tried to make the man comfortable by pushing his serape underhim. His hand found the bullet wound. Blood sopped Miguel's neck andshoulder.

  "You've been shot," said Gabriel.

  "Si," said Miguel. "Don't leave ... the chapel...."

  "I want to get Dr. Velasco."

  "No."

  "Here--I'll stop the blood with my undershirt."

  In a few seconds he had yanked off his undershirt. With a jerk, hetore it and began to bind Miguel's head.

  "You'll be all right. God will help you."

  "Can you stop the blood?"

  "Yes. Hold that piece of cloth. How did it happen?"

  "As I walked past ... the chapel."

  Gabriel worked swiftly.

  "Lie still, Miguel. Hold it. I'll tie this around your head."

  "All right."

  "I want it tight."

  "It's tight."

  "Now, I'll get Dr. Velasco."

  "No," groaned Miguel.

  Gabriel struggled into his robe and stood. "I'll open the side window,by the altar; I can climb out."

  "No," said the old peasant, wanting to protect his priest.

  Gabriel had no fear. He hated fear. Opening the window, he climbedout and crossed the cobbled courtyard, trying to minimize his limp.Another man was crossing the court, crates of chickens on his tumpline. A dog began to bark near the chapel, his yaps becoming more andmore frantic.

  As Gabriel mounted the veranda steps, a shot rang out; he feltsomething gnaw his leg and put out his arms to break his fall,wondering why the dog had bitten him. Sprawled on the steps, he yankedup his robe and examined his leg--a bullet, right above the ankle ...what a shame!

  Servants helped him into the house where he asked for Manuel or Raul.Then, gathering his wits, he told the servants about Miguel Calvo, andhis head wound.

  "... it may be serious. Get Dr. Velasco."

  He gripped his leg, where the pain dug sharply, widening.

  "Get somebody to find that sharpshooter," he said.

  He sat on a sofa and began to dress his own wound, Chavela whimperingover a bowl of water, soap and rag. On the mantel, the Swiss clockchimed and he glanced at it, feeling hungry.

  "Don't be a ninny, Chavela. And get me some tortillas."

  "I will, Padre, I will," said Chavela, glad to escape to the kitchen.

  "Bring some beans, too," said Gabriel, sighing. His glasses had becomesmudged and he wiped the old lenses on his robe, blew on them, wipedthem again.

  The pain became excruciating as he waited and he rocked from side toside. He had not felt such pain since his barranca mule had crashed onthe rocks with him and broken his ankle not long after he had come toMexico.

  "Where did they shoot you?" asked Raul hurrying in.

  It took several seconds for Father Gabriel to answer.

  "My leg ... nothing."

  "Let me see."

  "No. I bandaged it."

  "Is Velasco coming?" Raul asked. He saw tears of pain behind Gabriel'sglasses.

  "He has gone to Miguel."

  "Who?"

  "Miguel Calvo."

  "Where's Miguel?"

  "In the chapel."

  "Hurt?"

  "Hit in the head."

  Chavela set down tortillas, beans and a glass of milk.

  "Oh ... I can eat now," said Gabriel.

  Gun shots cracked.

  "Someone shot me as I crossed the court and shot Calvo in front of thechapel.... I sent someone to find that fellow." Storni's words rantogether.

  Raul, armed with a .38, stepped to the front windows. They won't getany more of us, Raul thought. I've got more men on the walls. Someonesneaked in, over the wall. He won't last long.

  Shoulder against wall, Raul watched: he moved the length of the room,stationed himself near the front door, then slipped outside and hidbehind the arches. He began to work his way the length of the veranda.

  Sure, they wanted corn of their own, beef of their own, pulque, eggs,whisky, land--they wanted what any man deserved. They could have partof Petaca, but not all. Salvador rushed up the veranda steps towardRaul, his rifle on its sling. He waved, thumped himself on the chestand roared: "I got him. He's dead."

  "Who's dead?"

  "Ignacio Raza. The fellow on the wall, the one who did the shooting."

  "How did he get inside?" asked Raul, going toward Salvador, clickingthe safety.

  "I don't know," said Salvador.

  They went into the living room to be with Gabriel.

  Manuel had come in and was bending over him.

  "How are you feeling, Father?" he asked. "Velasco's in the chapel,taking care of Calvo. He'll be here soon."

  "Show me where you got hit," said Salvador, clattering his spurs andsquatting in front of Gabriel.

  "I'd rather wait for Velasco," said Gabriel, perspiration on hisglasses.

  "Sure," said Salvador, agreeably.

  "So you killed that man.... Another man has gone.... That's not theway it should be.... We aren't thinking wisely."

  Salvador was amused, and said: "I know.... It's easy to kill a man....But he shouldn't have come over the wall."

  It was not till late that night that Miguel and Gabriel were settledcomfortably. The old sheepherder had not been seriously injured.Faint from loss of blood, he had asked to be left in the chapel tillnext day. They set up a cot for Gabriel in the dining room, close tothe kitchen in case he needed someone. Raul sat down to read to him.They had agreed on _Don Quixote_. He found the place where he had leftoff weeks ago and his eyes slid over familiar paragraphs. HadCervantes written _Don Quixote_ in prison? Then he should at least beable to read aloud under stress ... smoke curled from his pipe ...Gabriel slept.... A night bird called repetitive notes.

  In a day or two, soldiers might improve local conditions. He must getAngelina to Guadalajara somehow ... tomorrow ... next day. She hadgrown violently hysterical when she learned that Gabriel and Calvo hadbeen shot.

  He dimmed the light and laid his book on the buffet and saw his oldpipe, a favorite. Manuel had given it to him when Caterina was a baby.Manuel had carved P/C on the bowl, Petaca's cattle brand. He had beenclever at carving, but he didn't do any handcraft any more.... Hisface had lost its smile...
. So many, many things had vanished, orchanged. Raul paused in the living room by his desk where his revolvergleamed.

  In the bedroom, his father coughed his dry cough.

  Gravely concerned for Lucienne, he lit his pipe and stepped to thefireplace. Perhaps the clock needed winding: yes, he wound itcarefully, as if for the last time.

  Someone was coming up the steps.

  "Don Raul?"

  "Manuel."

  "I went to see Calvo."

  "How is he?"

  "He's all right."

  "We must get Angelina's things packed tomorrow."

  "I'm ready to help you."

  "Thank you for getting Vicente back to Colima safely. That's anaccomplishment these days."

  "Let's make the rounds together," said Manuel.

  "It's no world for Angelina," Raul said. "We must get her toGuadalajara."

  "Have you heard from Palma Sola?"

  "Not a word."

  "Esteban has gone there again."

  "I don't like the silence," Raul exclaimed.

  "Shall I ride to Colima?"

  "Wait till tomorrow. After breakfast we must work at the packing.Have the carriage in front of the house. Let's do everything to getAngelina off. Organize her guards, six or eight men. If we can get toColima tomorrow, I'll see about Lucienne."

  It seemed to Raul, as he helped load the carriage in the morning, thathe might fall asleep as he worked. He had slept little. Even the raindid not revive him, a warm, pleasant rain, slanting in long, insistentlines. He had passed most of the night on the sofa in the living room.The clock had said: Tighten that strap; put that valise on top; go seeabout Angelina.

  Someone spoke.

  "Yes," said Raul, strapping a valise.

  "I just came from Palma Sola."

  "Yes," said Raul, looking at a rain-streaked, mustached face, with ascar over one eye.

  "Dona Lucienne is all right and the hacienda has not been bothered.Federicka and some of her people are with Dona Lucienne."

  The rain was a benediction after that: such a great weight had beenlifted. He went into the house with a lighter step.

  "We're ready now, Angelina," he called presently.

  Tears trickled down Fernando's face as Angelina said goodbye; he couldnot see her; it was goodbye to a voice, to a memory.... After she hadgone--he listened carefully to her footsteps, the banging of carriagedoors, clatter of horses--he struggled to sit up: If I can sit up, Ican still help Petaca. Petaca needs me, with people leaving, Raulaway, Manuel ... I must help out.

  In his gray world, he puttered with his nervous hands and tugged at hissheet but he could not sit up. Calling weakly to Chavela, he begged acigarette; she had to put it in his mouth, take it out, put it back;she was still afraid of him, afraid of his closeness to death now. Sheshuffled uneasily by his bed, sat down, got up.

  Raul and Angelina tried to make themselves comfortable, with a valisebetween them. The luggage on top rolled and thumped. Angelinaclutched her mother's jewel case in her lap, a box covered with pinkleather.

  "Raul, I don't see how I can make it. The rain has made the road somuch rougher."

  "It is worse on such a bad day. But the train's running again."

  "Won't all my luggage get soaked?"

  "The tarpaulin's new," he said. "Try to rest against the cushions."

  "There's no room. Will I ever get there?"

  "I'll take off my poncho. That will make more room."

  Rain drummed all the way and the road became a mire in places. Theyhad to pull off to bypass a wagon and the carriage sank to the hubs.Manuel put his cowboy escort to work, but it was a difficult job, withone of the whippletrees splintered. Angelina sat on a valise under herumbrella, a shawl around her, hating the rain and mud.

  Colima's streets and houses were a glad sight, but at the railwaystation they learned from the telegraph operator that the rails hadbeen ripped up by rebels, somewhere miles along the line.

  "It will be days before a train can get through," he explained, wantingto be sympathetic.

  Raul slipped some money into his hands.

  "Keep me informed," he said. "I'll be in touch with you."

  He took Angelina to Federicka's, but she could not shake her pessimism;she felt defeated, fated to die at Petaca; she complained of a sickstomach; her head ached. When Federicka urged her to remain in Colimashe consented, sullen, ready to go to bed, unwilling to say goodbye toRaul. She shut herself in her room, telling herself: I'll stay heretill the train runs.

  Raul learned every inch of Colima's time-gnawed station before thetrain ran again: the scaled walls, the stink of urine, the fruit peelson the floor, peasants sleeping among cockroaches.... Vicentesometimes waited with him, disgusted, a boy in school clothes. Raulwas usually hatless, in tight gray trousers and a snow-white pocketedjacket-shirt.

  Vicente chewed sugar cane. "It's going to be bad in Guadalajara," hesaid.

  "It may be bad here."

  "I don't like the Colegio Frances."

  "But you can't stay at Petaca, as it is."

  They spoke angrily:

  "Mama's getting sicker."

  "She'll be better in Guadalajara."

  "But she needs you!"

  "No, she doesn't need me. You can help."

  "But I don't want to go," Vicente exclaimed.

  "You're going anyway, to help Mama."

  "You help Mama.... You go!"

  Buzzards perched on the galvanized iron roof, and Vicente threw rottenoranges at them. When the telegraph operator came out of his room, hesaid that the train might come tomorrow. "No use waiting any longer.There's no chance today."

  Raul gave him cigars.

  "Vicente--let's go back to your school. I'll come alone tomorrow."

  Angelina had stored her luggage at the hotel, ready for departure,since a train could come at any hour. When it finally arrived, late atnight, Raul was on hand. He took both her hands in his, loving her forall she had been to him.

  "A good trip, Angelina," he said, as train smoke blew about them.

  "Good luck, Raul," she said in her lovely voice, her fingers stealingaway from him, to the brooch on her blouse.

  "You'll be safe," he said.

  "Watch out for yourself at Petaca."

  "You too, in Guadalajara. Look after Vicente. The Colegio will begood for him."

  "Yes."

  She wanted to kiss him but the world inside her talked of many things;she wanted to mention Caterina, wishing she could purge herself ofanguish; she wanted to speak of Fernando; she felt she could notbreathe. Raul stood out plainly enough--his white shirt flapping--yethe was many Rauls.

  She took Vicente's hand.

  "Goodbye, Papa."

  "Goodbye, son."