When the Owl Cries Part 25

Calmly returning to the _tienda_, Pedro checked the safe.

The old man had spun the dial. Hands in his pockets, walking stiff-legged, he went to an empty stable and sat on a feed-box. He had never had so much money. His hands trembled.

It frightened him to count it ... his tongue hung out.

"... two hundred, three hundred, four-eighty, six hundred, seven hundred ... seven hundred and twelve pesos." He stopped counting, hurriedly stuffed the money inside his hat, and strapped the cord under his chin. His face was red.

His jaw sagged. Guns ... guns. They'll be afraid of me at Mountain Rancheria. His tongue skated round his teeth. In the gloom of the stall, he smoked a cigarette and thought of his Yaqui home, the Sonora country, how far away it was.

Of a sudden, it seemed close. With hundreds of pesos he could take the train.... n.o.body would know him.

Again he counted the money, got up to fifteen hundred and fifteen pesos and stuffed the bills inside his hat, fingering his chin strap. Rising, with a great sigh, he got his horse and threw on his saddle.

As he rode uphill, he watched volcano smoke elbow across the lagoon, a calm gray surface. Petaca lay below. Oxcarts crowded the courtyard as men returned from an irrigation job along the lagoon. Sitting his gray, a spirited stallion, he knew the renegade's fear: the Clarin had planned to pay him off, could trap him if he wanted to. Well, Don Fernando might never recover. To h.e.l.l with Petaca and the old man!

He had money enough to make out. Roweling his horse, Pedro climbed the slope toward Mountain Rancheria. He would buy and sell guns there ... somebody would want his services.

10

Alberto Saenz, the Christ-faced musician, balanced empty birdcages on top of his head, as he trudged along the sh.o.r.e of the lagoon. Soon he would reach Petaca and could rest. A string of smoke hung out of the volcano, but the air was clear. No doubt the worst was over. Scooping water from the lagoon, he drank from his palms, and the sedgy flavor pleased him. Rising, he stroked his beard and resumed his walk, along the pebbly sh.o.r.e. Herons let him come close, wading no deeper, beaking their 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 roof and arches. Stonecutters pecked with hammers and chisels, fast, light strokes; a mason sloshed mortar in a box, adding sand to his mixture.

All were bare-headed, barefooted and all wore white. Alberto wore white--his trousers slashed on the outside, above the ankles, his b.u.t.tonless shirt open on his white-haired chest. Head against a veranda arch, he dreamed of other visits, Raul's kindly mother, the runaway carriage from La Calera, the fiesta of the Virgin of Petaca when they had burned four _castillos_.

Before taking his cages to Raul, he prayed in the chapel. Kneeling, he let the whiteness of the room take him: he had been a lover of Mary ever since he could remember: without a doubt She had saved his mother during the black plague. Strains of music he had played through the years came to him, as he knelt. Stepping toward the altar, he touched the gla.s.s dome covering the Virgin: her rubies, emeralds and diamonds never changed. Some night, as the dawn arrived and birds began their day, 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 for Raul.

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 the steps.

Raul overheard, came outside, and accepted the cages. Together they hung them in the patio. Alberto had ideas as to what kinds of birds should be put inside. Raul understood how much the old man prized his gift. He led him into the kitchen for something to eat. His bearded face, through the closing door, brought to mind the man decorating the hill cross and his own resolve to a.s.sume the hacienda responsibilities.

On the veranda, Raul talked with the stonecutters. In a short time the house would be repaired. This afternoon, he had to ride to the pond in Sector 17; the quake had cracked the dam and released most of the water. A group of workers was already there, but the job had to be pushed before the dry season.

Oxcarts creaked across the court, each loaded with stone for the veranda. One cart was new, made by Salvador, and pulled by his _garbanza_-colored oxen. Salvador drove his cart and young Esteban rode another, his goad over his shoulder, spear-like, his team black and white. Pigeons fluttered about the carts, as if they hoped for grain.

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, pleased with the progress.

"Ah, before you go ... I'd like to say that Isidro found sixty pesos in the stable. They must be yours. I have the bills." He dug into his back 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 the bandana, 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," said Salvador, 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, in her white dressing gown, a cat in her lap. She was embroidering a pillowcase.

"I had a letter from Maria," she said, without glancing up.

"Yes," he said, hoping she would not read it, since her sister's letters were garrulous and about people he scarcely knew.

"I got it this morning. Father Gabriel just came back from Colima, and brought 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 showing under 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 hates the s.e.x act. What is it that fills her with fear? I used to try so hard 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 had broken loose and was swimming to the surface. The smile smiles and the eyes hide something.

We've lived too many years together to disentangle our emotions. The boot hurts, at the heel ... it used to fit fine. I don't want to wear my new ones.

Maria wants her to come to Guadalajara, but she doesn't need an excuse to go to Guadalajara, or anywhere. Fifteen years ago she wouldn't have left 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 remodeling her house?"

"The remodeling's done.... I need some mourning clothes," she said.