When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

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 wanted to marry her, but you know all that folly. That was the year we got almost no corn at all." Bitterness and rotten teeth and food left over from breakfast clogged his speech and yet Angelina understood him and listened 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 somebody else? I still wanted her. Can you remember a beautiful face?" He stirred painfully on his bed. "I was nineteen—that was the year I killed my father. Out of my head ... I sold her." His voice had slowed, the gravity of those days pressing him. "God, that was a dreadful year...."

"What ever became of Andrea?" Angelina asked, taking a piece of toast from 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 touch her.

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

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

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

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."

"Sí ... right away."

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

Angelina lost herself in reverie. She saw the rays of sun, the bedroom, a picture on the wall; she saw Petaca as a fort and imagined herself stealthily opening the gate, fleeing across fields to the lagoon; she would cross it in a dugout ... on the other side it was dark; she was alone, weeping. She felt her way through the bush and a hand reached toward her, the fingers transparent, evolving into a dog's paw ... 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 fountain and 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; she stroked it and kissed it and laid it on the bed. Lying beside it, she said:

"We'll be going to Guadalajara soon. We'll be going there to stay. We'll be at María's. I'll be all right there.... You'll see. What a fine 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, she began to powder her throat and neck, wanting to waken gradually.

Raul stood near her, thinking of other years, time by the window, time in 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 had died 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 hair badly combed, his tropic clothes in a mess. He kissed his mother dutifully, then turned to his father and said:

"Tell me about the shooting, the fight here." His energy flashed into his gestures. "It must have been exciting. And to think that you drove 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 off the—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 and down-twisted mouth. "Is it going to be a revolution?" he asked, at lunch.

"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?" asked Octavio.

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

"But, but ... then it is revolution. They're sore at us," said Octavio, 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 Ciudad Guzman," 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 understood them. He felt his appetite die; these boys were trying to talk like men; chaos was a man's business not a boy's. He poked at his food and said:

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

No one spoke.

Unable to eat, Raul wondered what kind of solution Guadalajara would prove to be: no further bad news had appeared in the papers that he had seen. He wondered what might have occurred in other cities: Tepic, Celaya, Guanajuato? Was Lucienne involved in this same nightmare? He had sent men to Palma Sola and Colima, but she had not returned. Nor was 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, in the cloudy atmosphere, wore a pall of gray and straws of light sucked at the farthest slope.

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

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

A frog jumped into the pool, swam a short distance and then, without submerging, faced Raul. A bubble formed as it slowly submerged, as if drawn 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, Gabriel knelt in the chapel, praying for his people, particularly for Angelina. The confessional had told him her hallucination ... María, Teresa ... Raul ... Vicente ... Octavio ... his children.

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

Outside, a rifle shot cracked—very close.

Tugging his robe about him, Gabriel prayed for those who had been harmed by the revolutionists. Surely it was God's destiny to free mankind. He prayed for guidance, for patience. An act of kindness might save a nation.

An old man entered the chapel and shut the door behind him, fumbling with the latch. Slowly, he staggered toward the altar, a serape over his left shoulder.

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

Miguel Calvo, the sheepherder, Gabriel told himself.

Miguel knelt laboriously, his lips moving soundlessly. He motioned to Gabriel, 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 under him. His hand found the bullet wound. Blood sopped Miguel's neck and shoulder.

"You've been shot," said Gabriel.

"Sí," 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, he tore 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 climbed out and crossed the cobbled courtyard, trying to minimize his limp. Another man was crossing the court, crates of chickens on his tump line. A dog began to bark near the chapel, his yaps becoming more and more frantic.

As Gabriel mounted the veranda steps, a shot rang out; he felt something gnaw his leg and put out his arms to break his fall, wondering why the dog had bitten him. Sprawled on the steps, he yanked up 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, and his 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 whimpering over a bowl of water, soap and rag. On the mantel, the Swiss clock chimed 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 become smudged and he wiped the old lenses on his robe, blew on them, wiped them again.

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

"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's glasses.

"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 the chapel.... I sent someone to find that fellow." Storni's words ran together.

Raul, armed with a .38, stepped to the front windows. They won't get any more of us, Raul thought. I've got more men on the walls. Someone sneaked 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 hid behind 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 part of Petaca, but not all. Salvador rushed up the veranda steps toward Raul, his rifle on its sling. He waved, thumped himself on the chest and 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, clicking the 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 and squatting in front of Gabriel.

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

"Sure," said Salvador, agreeably.

"So you killed that man.... Another man has gone.... That's not the way 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 settled comfortably. The old sheepherder had not been seriously injured. Faint from loss of blood, he had asked to be left in the chapel till next day. They set up a cot for Gabriel in the dining room, close to the 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 left off weeks ago and his eyes slid over familiar paragraphs. Had Cervantes written Don Quixote in prison? Then he should at least be able 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 get Angelina to Guadalajara somehow ... tomorrow ... next day. She had grown violently hysterical when she learned that Gabriel and Calvo had been shot.

He dimmed the light and laid his book on the buffet and saw his old pipe, 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 been clever at carving, but he didn't do any handcraft any more.... His face had lost its smile.... So many, many things had vanished, or changed. Raul paused in the living room by his desk where his revolver gleamed.

In the bedroom, his father coughed his dry cough.

Gravely concerned for Lucienne, he lit his pipe and stepped to the fireplace. Perhaps the clock needed winding: yes, he wound it carefully, 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 an accomplishment these days."

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

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

"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 get Angelina off. Organize her guards, six or eight men. If we can get to Colima tomorrow, I'll see about Lucienne."

It seemed to Raul, as he helped load the carriage in the morning, that he might fall asleep as he worked. He had slept little. Even the rain did not revive him, a warm, pleasant rain, slanting in long, insistent lines. 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 see about 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 a scar over one eye.

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

The rain was a benediction after that: such a great weight had been lifted. 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 could not see her; it was goodbye to a voice, to a memory.... After she had gone—he listened carefully to her footsteps, the banging of carriage doors, clatter of horses—he struggled to sit up: If I can sit up, I can still help Petaca. Petaca needs me, with people leaving, Raul away, Manuel ... I must help out.

In his gray world, he puttered with his nervous hands and tugged at his sheet but he could not sit up. Calling weakly to Chavela, he begged a cigarette; 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. She shuffled uneasily by his bed, sat down, got up.

Raul and Angelina tried to make themselves comfortable, with a valise between them. The luggage on top rolled and thumped. Angelina clutched her mother's jewel case in her lap, a box covered with pink leather.

"Raul, I don't see how I can make it. The rain has made the road so much 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. They had 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, with one of the whippletrees splintered. Angelina sat on a valise under her umbrella, a shawl around her, hating the rain and mud.

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

"It will be days before a train can get through," he explained, wanting to 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 sick stomach; her head ached. When Federicka urged her to remain in Colima she consented, sullen, ready to go to bed, unwilling to say goodbye to Raul. She shut herself in her room, telling herself: I'll stay here till the train runs.

Raul learned every inch of Colima's time-gnawed station before the train ran again: the scaled walls, the stink of urine, the fruit peels on the floor, peasants sleeping among cockroaches.... Vicente sometimes waited with him, disgusted, a boy in school clothes. Raul was usually hatless, in tight gray trousers and a snow-white pocketed jacket-shirt.

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

"It may be bad here."

"I don't like the Colegio Francés."

"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 rotten oranges at them. When the telegraph operator came out of his room, he said 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 at night, Raul was on hand. He took both her hands in his, loving her for all 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 stealing away 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 be good 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 of anguish; she wanted to speak of Fernando; she felt she could not breathe. Raul stood out plainly enough—his white shirt flapping—yet he was many Rauls.

She took Vicente's hand.

"Goodbye, Papa."

"Goodbye, son."