When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

13

June 19, 1911

"Dear Estelle,

"As you said, it must be destiny that brings me back. Something rules me. As I rode out of Guadalajara, I felt a harshness clawing at my brain. Poor thing, she can't tell the shape of her mind or why it cries so, or what it wants. Of course it wants you, but there is this something else, dark, darker than I dare admit.

"So when I got back to help with the fiesta, I wanted to see if I could straighten myself out a little. I fixed all the clothes for the Virgin, and dressed. I thought: this is the last time. But Trini came in and we got to laughing.

"Fiestas are such bores, and this one was no exception. They praised Farias for getting in the best corn crop ever. There were Indian dances—the viejitos were best.... Doblado killed his bulls as badly as ever ... fireworks ... and all the time I kept thinking of Lucienne, because she came and met Raul secretly. So people told me. I wanted to get sick.

"Raul and I had a bad quarrel, at supper, only yesterday. He said: I want you to live in Guadalajara permanently.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Can't you stand me any more?' And he turned white. I thought he would choke. I just stared at the candle flames prettily. I wonder how you would handle him? He said: 'You came back to fix the Virgin's wardrobe. It's something you always liked to do. You can come back to Petaca, any time. I'm not banishing you.'

"'So I can come back sometimes—how nice! And do you want to keep Vicente forever?' I cried.

"'We can share him, as you like. We can work that out later.'

"'Why later? Later! Haven't we waited too long?'

"'Too long for what?'

"'For me."

"It went on and on. He says it's for my own good. But now I'm sick, and I can't go away...."

Abruptly, she got up from her desk. Barefoot, in a loose gray robe, she walked to the veranda windows, already hating what she felt she might see: men on horseback, women and children, people walking and talking. She had been writing very rapidly, and rubbed her hand as she gazed out. She thought she heard Don Fernando call, and went toward his room, dream-walking, one hand over her breast, the other lifting her skirt a little.

The old man was raving at Chavela, who seemed frozen to one spot, a dishtowel over her arm.

"We must wipe out such crooks as Enriquez and Ricardo Magon! What messes they made in Chihuahua and Coahuila! There's more than meets the eye in their actions."

He squirmed under his bedclothes, the sheet sliding over his head so that only one eye stared out.

"Listen to me: under Porfirio Díaz we have known prosperity ... our centennial celebration told the world ... there must be no political tricks."

When Angelina appeared, Chavela nodded and went out, shaking her head.

"I'm here," said Angelina. "Chavela had to go."

"Angelina, come sit by me. Fix my bed.... We must find another Díaz. We can, you know." He talked a while longer, as she arranged his bed.

She sat beside him, her hands limp in her lap. She remembered a dream she had had during the night. Caterina had been frisking in the patio with Mona. Mona had just been washed and combed and her gray-gold hair stood up beautifully. Caterina wore a scarlet dress. She tossed Mona a ball, but as Mona ran toward her she became a dog of glass bones and glass hair.

Angelina trembled. She whispered to Fernando:

"It was a glass dog ... Mona's a glass dog."

He didn't hear her.

Afraid, she climbed the tile stair to her room and locked the door. She moved stiffly to the window, and looked down to the patio fountain and cypress below. She thought she saw Raul lying beside the fountain. Men began to whip his naked back. Drawing the curtains, she threw herself on her bed and began to talk to herself.

"I mustn't blame him for Caterina's death. I must stop thinking about her. About Raul. I must just let things drift along. Nothing has changed, not too much.... I must think that nothing much has changed. It has to be that way. Close the shutters."

With a great effort, she got up and took her embroidery and began to stitch.

Just before supper, Raul found her asleep across the bed, her fur over her shoulders. He had a hard time waking her and when she woke she griped childishly:

"Go away," she said, "let me sleep. I need rest, please let me sleep. I won't eat any supper. I don't want any ... just let me sleep."

He helped her to bed and then went outside. The moon was low, the stars faded, the volcano glassy. Coyotes barked behind the grove. He felt stupid about Angelina. Could the doctors help her?

He longed to paddle across the lagoon. Why not find Manuel? He knocked at his door and Manuel flung on his shirt and joined him gladly. They spent most of the night on the water, paddling and talking together in Indian and Spanish, about his mother, the beauty of darkness, ghosts, the good old days.

They returned near dawn, had something to eat in the kitchen, and said good night. Raul tried to slip into bed carefully and not disturb Angelina, but she straightened and said:

"Where have you been?"

"Canoeing."

"I wish you wouldn't go on such escapades. You're not a boy."

He did not reply, but adjusted his pillow and tried to settle onto the mattress.

"I want to go to Colima tomorrow," she said, her head turned away. "I must leave Petaca, if only for a day. I want to see Vicente, too. Don't you want to see him? The church has been repaired, Raul, and we must attend Mass, on the first of the month. A ceremony in honor of the reconstruction. The hospital isn't fixed. Why are they so slow?" Her husky voice, softened by her sleepiness, lulled Raul.

When she woke, men were loading stone onto an oxcart in front of the house, burros were trotting over cobbles, boys were spinning tops.

Glancing at Raul, sprawled on the bed, she tiptoed to the bathroom. Her maid had already filled the tub, and she sank into the cool water.

"Ah," she sighed. "Clavo said, 'It is the flesh ... with lightning in each bone' ... cool water ... morning...." Her face looked younger. There was no fear there.

I must dress and get away to Colima, have a nieve with some friends.

When Raul awoke and went downstairs, he saw Angelina driving off in their carriage. He had meant to accompany her, but had been too sleepy to say so. From the veranda, he enjoyed seeing the Placier sway down the eucalyptus lane, its spokes shining. Someone had harnessed two blacks and two whites, splendid horses!

After breakfast, Raul went to the mill to see Farias, who had his room on the second floor. As he climbed the outside stair, a peacock wailed on top the wrought-iron railing. Raul shook the rusty rail and the bird spurted to the ground, shrieking as it fell.

He knocked on the door of weathered pine. There was no answer. A large knothole had fallen out at head level, and he looked inside. Someone lay on the bunk, his arm flung over the side. Pushing the door, which swung heavily, Raul stepped in.

Blood stained the floor, serape and bunk. Raul rolled the man over and removed the serape from his face and chest. Someone had beaten him ... Farias was dead....

As if he had been struck, Raul stepped back.

"My God!" he exclaimed. "Que paso! Luis, Luis!" he shouted. Where was Farias' son?

On the stairway, clutching the rusty banister, he called:

"Luis ... Salvador ... Manuel! Get Dr. Velasco!"

Then he returned to examine Farias. The man felt cold. Without a doubt, he had been murdered hours before. But by whom, why?

Presently, a corral man came and then another; he sent one of the men for Father Gabriel and another for Luis. He covered Farias and sat on the stair, his eyes shut. He blamed his father, blamed himself ... this was another ugly mess for Petaca. What was wrong with men?

Gabriel limped up the stair, a torn notebook in his hand. He must have been doing some scribbling when the corral man called him. His glasses seemed about to plunge from his nose. Breathing unsteadily, hand on the rail, he paused by Raul and asked:

"What ... happened ... to Farias?"

"Someone killed him."

"Let me see. Step aside."

Raul stepped away.

"Let me see." Raul watched as Gabriel folded back the blanket and crossed himself.

"Madre de Dios ... dead. Who could have killed him? He's been beaten. Blood all over. Why, Raul! Raul, where's Luis?" He began to pray, asking understanding, asking peace. Adjusting his glasses and fumbling with his notebook, he came toward the door.

"I sent someone to find Luis," said Raul.

Dr. Velasco arrived, annoyed at being wakened early. He had spent the better part of the night playing dominoes, and losing. Stopping at the top of the stair, seeing Gabriel, he said, "Now, what kind of alarm is this?"

"Someone killed Farias last night," said Gabriel.

Dr. Velasco made a noise and went into the room.

His heavy-lidded eyes screwed up as he examined Farias: he stripped his shirt and turned him over: a knife had gone in again and again. Velasco had a magician's face, gray hair, gray goatee: the features seemed to be hiding something absurd, a little vulgar; that vulgarity and absurdity disappeared as he bent over Farias. Short, small-boned, quick, he swung around to face Raul.

"He's been dead several hours."

"I've got to clamp down on Petaca. Who is capable of doing that kind of killing?"

"We're rarely short of that kind of fellow," commented Velasco.

Gabriel took Luis into the room, and stayed with him, talking kindly. Even in the bad light he saw the youngster's face grow pale; tears streaked his rawboned features; his shoulders jerked.

"Pedro did it," Luis said.

"How do you know?" asked Velasco, in the doorway.

"Sure ... Pedro," the boy repeated, his hands waving. "You did it, you did it," he said, as if Pedro had come into the room.

"Have you seen Pedro?" asked Gabriel, standing behind Raul.

"No. But a few days ago my father and I found his hut, near Mountain Rancheria, in a canyon. Guns ... guns in the hut ... rifles, pistols. Pedro came to the hut with a woman, as we hid. We tried to slip away, but my horse made a noise. Pedro shot at us. He saw us both. He shouted threats. He said he'd kill us. My father and I got back last night. He was going to tell you, Don Raul."

"It's lucky Pedro didn't find you," said Raul.

Gabriel had covered Farias, and bent over him in prayer again.

Manuel appeared on the stair, stopping about midway. "Don Raul," he said. "Did you call me?"

"Pedro has killed Farias. Have three horses saddled, Manuel. I'll go with Luis and see if we can get Pedro. You ride to Colima and get the rurales. Can you show me the way, Luis?"

Luis tapped his thigh where he had worn his gun on trips with his father. "My father," he began, but his voice broke. He walked down a hall to his own room, where he snatched up his revolver, holster and belt. He returned, strapping them on, trembling.

"Don't go, Raul," said Gabriel, coming out on the stair. "Let the law take care of Pedro Chávez."

Raul was at the bottom of the stair.

"The rurales can have Pedro. I won't stop them. Pedro's not at Mountain Rancheria. We can get there before he does, if we move fast. We'll have a chance to get his guns. Let's at least try to get them. Come on, Luis. Manuel, look after the horses! Get water bags. I'll see to the food. We may be able to get to Rancheria within five days."

But it was a hard push, through bad weather, and it took six days to get there and four to come back, ten days of rough riding, wet weather, poor food and little rest. They found Pedro's hut, his woman and guns. Luis had to cover her with his revolver while Raul removed the guns and ammunition, stuffing them into long grain sacks. They rode off in a hailstorm that gradually became a torrential rain. Making a cairn, in the downpour, they cached the guns and ammunition. Freezing cold, they mounted and rode on, hoping to reach a cabin before night.

When they returned to Petaca, through driving mist, Raul was astonished to see rurales in front of Father Gabriel's room. Dirty, fagged and sore, he dismounted and gave his reins to Luis, saying: "I hope this means they've got him."

A stranger opened the door, and Raul found Gabriel in bed, covered with serapes.

"Raul, thank God, you're safe! Is Luis all right?" he asked.

Raul nodded and said:

"What happened to you, Gabriel?"

"Malaria.... This is Captain Cerro.... This is Señor Medina."

They shook hands, the captain holding his riding gloves in his left hand. Raul had heard good reports of Cerro's having organized his rurales into an efficient corps. He was hard-mouthed and gray-eyed; he seemed the kind of a man to do his job.

"I hope you've had better luck than we've had," Cerro said.

"I couldn't find Pedro," Raul said. "I didn't expect to find him. I found his hut and took his stock of pistols and rifles. His ammunition. The people at Mountain Rancheria are afraid to talk about him."

"My men got there shortly after you had taken the guns. You disappeared in the rain." Cerro drew his gloves through his fingers as he talked.

"We cached the guns. I'll send Luis for them with some men."

"I left some of my men at the rancheria. We're on the lookout for Pedro. You feel sure that he murdered your man, here at the hacienda?"

"There's not much doubt about that," said Raul.

"Ana Paz came to me while you were at the rancheria," said Gabriel to Raul. "She saw Pedro leave Farias' place early that morning. She's been at the hacienda for years, Captain."

Raul laughed angrily.

"You'd think we needed proof that this Pedro is a murderer. There are any number of witnesses to his killings, at Petaca. Father Storni, Manuel Boaz, Salvador Vega, Luis."

"But I understand he committed these ... ah ... crimes ... under orders," said Cerro.

His remark stopped Raul.

"If so, who is guilty?" asked Gabriel, propping himself on his elbow.

"The person who gave the orders," said the captain.

"My father," said Raul.

Embarrassed, Cerro shoved his gloves under his belt and moved toward the door.

"I'll send men to del Valle," he said. "Pedro may be there. I must return to Colima. I'm glad to have met you, Señor Medina. I hoped you might have better luck on your hunt.... I hope you are well soon, Father."

"Stay overnight, Captain. It's a long trip. I don't want you to leave at this hour; you won't get in till very late. Come, meet my wife, have supper with us."

"I have met the señora. She has been very kind. I'm leaving because I have to be at court in the morning. Thank you. I'm sure there will be another time."

Raul saw him outside and then returned to Gabriel.

"Well, I see you didn't take care of yourself while I was away."

"I'm on the mend—now that you're back."

"How is the fever, bad?"

"It comes and goes, not too severe."

"Has Dr. Velasco been helping?"

"Both he and Hernández. Everyone's kind, especially Angelina."

Cerro's horse and the mounts of his rurales clattered out of the court.

"I hated to lose Farias," Raul said, sitting wearily at the desk.

"I can't see why things like that have to happen," Gabriel said. "Men have no right to assume the law. I didn't want you to go after Pedro."

"These disturbances..." Raul said, but he was too tired to finish his sentence.

"Don't become a killer, whatever happens," said Gabriel passionately. "In all your program here at Petaca you have avoided violence. Let's do our best to keep it that way."

The high altitude crucifix hung in a streak of candlelight and attracted Raul's eye. He studied Father Gabriel's face. It had such a sickly pallor; there were rings under his eyes. Poor Italian, so far from home!

"Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

"Let me have a couple of those pills, in the paper on the desk. And some water."

"Get better soon," said Raul, helping him.

"Before you leave, let me say ... how good it is to see you. I know you're tired but you're all right." He shivered under his blankets, but smiled.

"You'd better get some rest," Raul said. "I'm getting cleaned up."

"Will you put my glasses on my desk?"

"Of course. I'll send someone with a supper tray. In the morning I'll talk with my father."

Raul went to his room, glad to be home, glad to hear the voices of his servants. When he had washed and changed, Angelina came in. She wore a blue dress and white henequen slippers. It was such a change from the mourning clothes that he started to comment, but checked himself. She waited, in the middle of the room, holding a vase of bougainvillaea in her hands.

"It's so good, your being back," she said agreeably.

"It's good to be back."

"Pedro?"

"He's still at large." He unfolded an ironed handkerchief and put it into his pocket. "Luis and I got his guns.... It's up to Captain Cerro and his rurales now."

"I'm sure they'll get him," she said, and set the flowers on her dressing table where they doubled in the mirror. "I met Captain Cerro. Has he gone back to Colima?" Arranging her flowers, she said: "I like the captain and wanted him to stay.... Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

She walked across the room toward Raul. It was as if she had something unusual to say. She was smiling. But suddenly the floor began to shake, at first slightly, then with marked undulation. She reached out for him and they held each other. Raul waited for the underearth rumbling. She began to sob.

"Take me away. Yes ... yes ... I'll go to Guadalajara and live. Take me away, Raul. Raul ... I have to go. I can't bear it here. All these quakes, these killings." She paused and caught her breath. "Will there be ashes and lava and smoke again?"

He kissed her forehead.

"You know it wasn't a bad quake," he said.

She held to him, as she had during her grinding pains before Vicente had been born: those tortures had made a groveling animal of her. Oh, to be in love again, to be treasured, to be kissed every morning and every night.... "Raul, I feel another quake!"

Terrified, she broke away and went to the door leading to the stair and stood under the door frame.

"I think there won't be another one," he said calmly.

"I want to be with you.... Let me sit at the dining table with you. I can't bear it alone." The husky voice moved him as much as what she said.

Taking her arm, he led her downstairs. She curled her feet under her legs on a chair next to his. A new maid, a charming village girl, served, walking lightly, humming, her stiff skirt swishing. Angelina mentioned the quake to her and the maid said, with a shrug, "It was nothing."

A tall kerosene lamp with a pewter base and blue shade lit the table. All the windows stood open; the air, warm with pastora clouds, did not move. A dead moth lay beside Raul's plate; he pushed it about with a spoon, too tired to think.

"Father set fire to his bed while you were gone," she said.

"What ... was he smoking?"

"Cigarette or matches ... anyhow, Chavela threw water on him."

His face brightened.

"She threw it all over him."

They laughed together, a little ashamed of their disrespect.

"How he must have spluttered," said Raul.

"Oh, he did, he really did! And while you were away, the optometrist came to fit his glasses. They had a time. But he'll have new ones tomorrow. The doctor thinks he'll be able to see fairly well."

"I hope so," Raul said, though Velasco had told him that glasses would not remedy his father's eye condition or would be temporary, at best.

He enjoyed the dinner, his first meal since morning. The new maid served steak, dry rice, sliced tomatoes and tortillas. She poured a dark Spanish wine. For dessert he ate a flan, hot chocolate and pan dulce. The bright face of the village girl went in and out of the blue lamplight, as Angelina talked.

Quite abruptly, he said:

"I'll go with you on the train to Guadalajara. I can get away in a day or two. I have to see about our mine shares. The bank's correspondence with me is so much wasted paper. I have a hunch it's time to sell because Roberto is selling some of his stock."

"I like hunches," she said, nibbling a mango. She thought of Lucienne's mining interests in Guanajuato, and bit into her mango harder than she wanted to.

In the morning, Gabriel received a letter that excited him and made him feel better, and he sent a man for Raul. He was having breakfast when Raul arrived. While Storni munched a roll and drank coffee, Raul waited, troubled by his friend's yellow face and fingernails. For the time being, he had no fever or chills, but when would they come again? With a flourish, Gabriel put down his cup, rubbed his hands together, and cleared his throat.

Raul glimpsed a coat of arms on the letter.

"I had to make you wait a little but now I'll read it to you: 'Dear Gabriel, I have not written you for a long time. Your letters have gone unanswered because I am a careless, busy hulk, as you know. Far busier these trying days than you might surmise. Still, busy as I am, worried by political conditions, I have been thinking of you. You won't be able to say I have no heart, when you lay down this letter.

"'I have not forgotten the part you have played in my thinking. I am not always foolish. Years ago we used to discuss things that shape the world. Those were memorable days.'"

Gabriel stopped to fix his glasses and wipe his nose, and ask, "Do you know now?"

"Roberto."

"I'll read on," Gabriel said: "'You have wanted to brighten your chapel for a long time. Since I, too, love Petaca I want to donate the stained-glass windows. In fact, I have ordered them. Salvador got the dimensions for me. The windows are being made in Mexico City; only a small part of the leading has yet to be done. They will be coming to you very soon.

"'In remembrance of meaningful days. Perhaps I am religious—who knows? Cordially'...."

Gabriel could not speak Roberto's name; tears shone in his eyes. He removed his glasses and blew his nose.

"Good for Roberto," said Raul.

"Ah, yes," said Gabriel.

"Get rid of that malaria so you'll be up and around soon. It wouldn't do to have the windows arrive and you in bed. I'm sure they'll be beautiful," said Raul, ready to leave. "All of us will enjoy them. I wish I had given them."

"Ah, to be sure ... well, I can't say how grateful I am.... But I have something else to tell you, before you go. The same man who brought Roberto's letter brought another one. You know how it is: good news and bad news, a pair of horses."

"What's the bad news?"

"The Colima hospital isn't getting along. They haven't money to hire workers. They're facing a serious situation."

"How much money do they need to hire workers?"

"Several thousand pesos. Father Gamio tells me that they have to pay more for workers and that ... they wonder if you could help. They mention several thousand pesos, no exact amount."

"Shall I send five thousand—for the Medinas?"

"God bless you, Raul!"

"We need His blessing, Gabriel."

"With five thousand they can get some new equipment perhaps!" Gabriel's outburst delighted Raul.

"I should look after the hospital better than I do. Father Gamio can't do it all himself. I'm off to Guadalajara later today, Angelina and I. She'll remain there. I'll be bringing Vicente back when I return. He wants to ride and hunt ... there's another fiesta. You can expect us in three or four days."

"If you see Roberto, tell him how grateful I am."

"I'll tell him. Is there anything you need?"

"Nothing, thank you, Don Raul. Maybe some newspapers?"

"I'll bring back papers and magazines. I'll leave my check for the hospital in the tienda. Will you have someone pick it up off my desk? Write an accompanying letter, a gracious one, for Petaca."

"I'll be glad to."

"Goodbye, Gabriel." He smiled affectionately. "Get well."

"I'll pray for you and Angelina," said Gabriel.

"Adiós."

"Que le vaya bien."

Shortly after lunch, Raul and Angelina drove toward Colima, the horses pulling well. Gray clouds darkened the landscape; across the lagoon, between its shore line and the volcano, a sandstorm blew. The great peak seemed old, harmless, a dusty, withered thing.

Their carriage clattered over a tzontli bridge; here, on one side, a Medina had erected a plaque in 1761, mortaring it deep inside a niche where it had weathered the years with scarcely a sign of wear.

"Hasta la eternidad," it began, and the phrase ran through Raul's mind as the horses trotted, clopping over firm ground.

Angelina leaned against the faded plush on her side, lost in herself, her folded parasol hard against her side, fingers motionless in the handle strap sewn with gold threads.

Until eternity, he thought, gazing at her uneasily, recalling those lines from their marriage ceremony.

Sugar-cane fields lay on both sides. The road twisted and grew rough, and the driver slowed his horses. A tall knob of a man, he sang in a deep bass, improvising expertly.

Raul hoped the train would be more or less on time because he hated arriving in Guadalajara late, when the air was chill and cabmen were sleepy and crusty. He anticipated a satisfactory adjustment of the mining business. He would invite Uncle Roberto to dinner: Angelina, María ... the four of them enjoying the lobster at the Copa de Leche. It would be fun returning to Petaca with Vicente; the boy was putting on weight, growing too. Nowadays his talk was all about horses: "Tell me about Esmeralda, has she foaled? Is Canelito in pasture? How's Chico? I've read that the heaviest work horses are in France, is that true, Papa?"

While she held tightly to her parasol, Angelina thought of Estelle. She planned an afternoon with her at the hairdresser's: their hair, their nails. They would obtain good seats for the Degollado Theater season: plays, musicals, vaudeville. Because Caterina had not been dead a year, they'd have to steal away. Her head began to ache. She objected to the swaying, the country roads, horrible country roads. Soon, Estelle's face would be lifted to hers, laughter, laughter, laughter....

And it was rather as they both had hoped. The train was on time and the mining deal went well and the four of them enjoyed lobster at the restaurant.... Gray skies, rain sloshing the houses, carriages and streets ... rain ... but the rain didn't matter to Angelina. She met Estelle at her home, on López Cotilla, a tiled house under lofty eucalyptus.

Estelle covered her with kisses. They exchanged little gifts, and had supper in a Directoire dining room adorned with gold candles, the rain scuffing across red and green glassed windows. To Angelina, Estelle had the beauty of something original.... It was as if hair had been invented for her, or hands, or laughter, for her own particular use. Estelle's pile of yellow hair, so disarranged, so beautifully curled, her pink dress, so sheer, sewn with dozens of nacre buttons, her dishabille, they were as Angelina saw her in the bedroom mirror. And when she went to bed with Angelina she took all that glory and absurdity.... Laughter, laughter....