When the Owl Cries Part 10

Pedro lashed with the flat of his palm and smashed the cricket. He continued to squat, though he swayed on his heels.

"I'll tell the rurales to remove you. They know how. You'll rot in jail a while. The police will appreciate my att.i.tude. You have your choice. Now, get out. I've had more than enough of your killings.

When Flores was tied behind a horse and dragged across the ground, you whipped the horse. I should have killed you myself then. G.o.d knows, I wanted to."

Raul paused to wet his lips. Pedro glared at the floor between his legs. "You've killed four of our men, two without provocation. I'm not running that kind of hacienda."

"I get the work done," Pedro muttered.

"I can get the work done without beatings and killings. Don't be a fool, Pedro. Your job is over. My father can't keep you against my will. Go back to being a Yaqui sergeant."

"I'll see," said Pedro.

Raul jerked at his belt. The angry gesture made Pedro look up; it annoyed him to be reminded that Raul was unarmed; then he reconsidered that thought--his right hand stole toward his Colt: a secretive, instinctive movement: his hand had performed the same movement on the hunt or when among brawling men: the timing would be perfect. Raul had begun to turn away; instantly, instinctively, he whirled around.

"Get out of here!"

Raul's stony face moved Pedro. He got up, hitched his trousers, hitched his belt, snuffed, examined the cricket stain on his hand, and stalked off, his spurs nicking the stone steps. He had a cowboy sprawl, a cowman's gait; he strolled toward the corral, rolling a cigarette as he walked, feeling the weight of his Colt, insensible to everything but the urge to kill.

5

Early Sunday morning the wind began to howl. It beat off the delicate jacaranda blossoms until the garden pool wore a top of flowers. On the terrace, a strip of honeysuckle tore loose and wrapped itself around the stone Christ. The sky became a mushy gray, and later in the day the clouds oozed rain, then hail. Hailstones, the size of parrots'

eyes, flicked at bougainvillaea, jacaranda, cup-of-gold, and oleander until the garden had little brilliance left. Everything was green and wet, and the wet green clambered from within, a threat, a tropic impulse.

Raul recognized the force. He felt it also in the sky as he stood at Caterina's bedroom window on the second floor. From there, the volcano seemed to knife the sky at a peculiar angle, with a peculiar pressure.

As he stood by the window frame he felt a tremor. The tiled floor shifted, swayed, lowered, raised, stopped. It was a mild quake and Caterina did not awaken. Her rag elephant fell to the floor from her bed. Eyes on the volcano tip, Raul waited for a belch of smoke. It did not come. But another quake came. Remaining by the window, he lit his pipe and listened to fumbling rain and hail.

Caterina had been seriously ill for six days. Dr. Velasco and Dr.

Hernandez had puzzled over prescriptions. Nothing had helped the acute diarrhea, vomiting, and fever. Her temperature had shot up, then had fallen. Dr. Velasco called it "tropic fever"; Dr. Hernandez said it was "black fever." New medicines had been used effectively in Guadalajara, and Dr. Velasco had gone for them, rea.s.suring everyone.

He would be back on tomorrow's train that arrived at nine P.M., if it pulled into Colima on time.

Sitting by Caterina's bed, Raul noticed her pallor, how it seemed more p.r.o.nounced in her hands than in her face. The fingers felt lifeless.

Cupping his hands around hers he tried to warm them. He began to rub.

This morning they had gone through the motions of a card game during the storm and suddenly, about half through the game, she had said, "My fingers hurt, they're so cold. Papa, let's never finish our game."

Taken by surprise, he had had to blink back his tears.

A dozen jobs had kept him from her since then. Coming out of the wind and hail, he had found her alone. The Colima nun, her nurse, had gone downstairs to eat. Raul liked being alone with Caterina. Hearing the storm, watching it from her window, he thought of things they had shared: the moth and b.u.t.terfly collection (Lucienne's idea), horseback rides, boating on the lagoon, fishing.

She had a tiny bronze cannon that had been mounted on the garden sundial pedestal. She had found it during a visit to Guadalajara and had insisted that Raul install it for her and, for a while, she had primed it faithfully. It had "boomed" each sunny noon, the sunshine igniting the powder through a magnifying gla.s.s.

Some of her dolls were ranged on the floor beside her bed, toppled bodies, Swiss, African, Chinese, Mexican. She called one "Flaco," one "Negro," another "Henry." ... He had never known all their names.

Caterina stirred. Breathing fast, she rubbed both hands roughly over her face, and her lids fluttered open.

"Papa," she said.

"Yes, dear."

"Where am I?"

"In your bed."

"I dreamed ... I was in school."

"In Guadalajara?" he asked.

"Yes.... Oh, Papa, don't send me back to school."

"Why? I thought you liked the school and the Sisters."

"I can't go, and it's too far."

"Not now," he said.

"Papa..."

"Yes?"

"Oh ... Papa..."

Tears came.

"Papa..."

"Yes."

"When shall we go on a picnic?"

"Soon," he said. "Maybe next week. Where would you like to go?"

"'Way up the mountain."

"Up the volcano on horseback?"

"Yes," she said, liking her father's bushy hair and eyebrows.

"We'll do that--all of us. Soon."

She shivered and closed her eyes. It seemed to her that all the window frames and doorways were merging. It seemed as if the floor had tilted.

"Papa ... have the nurse change me."

"Again?"

"Yes."