When the Owl Cries Part 20

Ashes from the volcano sifted on the pool, gray, powder-fine, moving in tiny eddies; the same ash flecked the men's hats, beards, shoulders and sleeves. A swallow dipped over the pool and then banked away, as if repulsed by the ash. Silence kicked at the walls of the mill, at the jacarandas and palms, at the fields beyond them.

"I must go and speak to the senora about Don Raul," Manuel said, heading toward the main house. "See me later, in the kitchen, Farias."

8

Sitting in a hammock on Lucienne's porch facing the ocean, Raul saw himself, a self-portrait: the slightly over-fleshed face, brown skin, tough hands, twisted eyebrows. Not a big man, part Spanish, part Indian. His eyes had taken on a hurt look these days, his mouth had hardened, shoulder muscles had sagged. Briefly amused, he saw himself as a Colonial canvas--reading in a stiff-backed chair, a cat on the floor at his feet, a vase of paper roses on a side table.

Tomorrow, Lucienne's victoria would take him home, away from lolling hammock, the sound of the ocean, back to his people. He thought of his wife, of her discontent. Petaca's deed, in its cedar box, had been the deed to many souls. Yes, Petaca had drained away her spirit, warped her. It had changed her, a painful change.... Her rebellions had been brushed aside. The weather was bad, the food was monotonous. She said: But I haven't any friends here. I said: Can't you read something! Go look at the stars.

But it's so dark outside, Raul, so dark.... I love the stars, but if we could just go to the theater tonight. I want to see a play.

Remember that play set in Salamanca.... We liked that play, remember?

You have your work. I don't see what's wrong with my wanting friends.

I went to school with them. Remember, I'm from Guadalajara.... I like Estelle.... She's....

Slowly, Raul got up and circled the house, to the garden side.

Lucienne was talking to her gardener. He had been clipping hedges and they walked among them, stepping over little heaps, pointing, gesturing. Barefooted, wearing light blue, she laughed gayly at something he said. Her hair blazed against the dark hedge, beside the gardener, a wizened, half-naked man.

She came toward Raul. "Don't the hedge leaves smell wonderful?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Like the woods," he said.

"Let's go together one of these days," she suggested. "Way up the volcano, the way we used to ... after the fire and smoke have gone."

"Will the fire and smoke ever go?" he said, letting his discouragement get the better of him.

"That's no way to talk." She kissed him. "Sit on the bench, there,"

she said, quietly. "Maybe you shouldn't be walking around. I'll change the bandage soon."

"We can skip that.... Let's leave it."

"Who'll change the bandage at Petaca?"

"Manuel."

"Not Angelina?"

"She doesn't like blood."

"Stay with me a while longer."

"I can't, Lucienne. Who knows what my father may do? With me away, he may press every advantage."

"You must turn Pedro over to the rurales."

"I know," he said.

"Don't wait."

"I've waited too long already," he said. "But Pedro's not hanging around Petaca, waiting to be turned over to the rurales. They'll have to get him."

A banging started beyond the hedge, where the gardener had resumed his clipping. Raul glanced in the direction of the noise.

"They're trying to mend a damaged spring in the victoria," she explained. "I want them to do something to it, to make it better, for your trip tomorrow. It will be a hard-enough trip for you, I'm afraid." She sat by him, smiling.

"As long as it doesn't fall apart," he said.

She played with his fingers. Through his open shirt, his gold cross dangled on his chest, reminding her she had once shared his faith, when they were youngsters, before her belief had been destroyed in Europe.

It seemed to her everyone she had met abroad had been either agnostic or atheist. Viewing Mexico from across the sea, the country's peasant credulity had gradually become absurd. Within a few years, she had ridiculed its faith.

"Raul, I'll miss you."

"You have your friends."

"No friends are like you."

"Ride to Petaca with me, Chula."

"I can't.... I must see the families of the dead. There are many things to look after. I wonder what happened at Petaca?"

"We're buried in duties," he said too loudly.

"Is your shoulder better than yesterday?"

"Yes.... Yes."

The worker banged at the damaged spring.

"I wish we could meet soon in Colima," she said. "Will Angelina be going away ... perhaps?"

"To Guadalajara?"

"Yes."

"Since Caterina's death, she doesn't seem to want to go away," he said.

"I've suggested it.... No, she refused."

"How long has she known about us, do you suppose? Do we know how difficult we've made her life?"

He didn't know, but he knew he should never have married Angelina, that he had been carried away by her prettiness, by fancy, by pa.s.sion, lopsided but nonetheless real, nonetheless foolish, pa.s.sion for her city manners, her frailty....

Really, how long had Angelina known?

Lucienne felt they had been considerate, as she thought about it, but she wasn't sure. It struck her, with brief but keen poignancy, that Angelina had never been married to Raul. What about her charming, corrupt friend, little Estelle, her secrets?

Her head against him, her hand in his, he sensed the beauty of her garden, tall poinsettias, cerise bougainvillaea, roses, honeysuckle, _azucenas_. A row of lilies crossed a stretch of gra.s.s under crooked cypress.... This was Lucienne's workshop. She neglected her friends for her garden, a collector's garden: rare columbine, carnations, violets, asters, unusual willows, acacia, papaya, fig, breadfruit and zapote. She grew pittosporum, succulents and cacti. She had Humboldt fever ... her hands felt rough. Something was always germinating in her gla.s.shouses. When she had come back from Europe, along with her Parisian lingerie, Swiss jackets, and Italian hats, she had smuggled seeds or plants. A j.a.panese rosewood on one trip, a Greek olive tree on another.