His father grunted.
"I'd like to talk to you," said Raul.
"I can't very well stop you," said Fernando. "Come in," he added peevishly.
"I see you've had breakfast," Raul said.
Chavela was removing dishes and silver and placed them on her Tarascan tray. A stupid grin on her face, she worked awkwardly. Amused, Raul watched her, knowing how clever she could be in the kitchen, supervising others. When she had gone he pulled a chair up to the bed. Through the grilled window, the sun spread over the carvings on the ugly wardrobe. Fernando smoked a fresh cigarette and asked:
"Did Farias tell you that our rock fences had been deliberately pulled down along the del Valle line? Or did he keep that information to himself?"
His voice quavered; propped on his pillows, one arm under the sheet, his hair uncombed, his face unshaven, he filled Raul with pity and disgust.
"I've talked with Farias. I plan to visit Santa Cruz. I'll talk with Señor Oc."
"You'll find him a trickster."
"I've never met him. He's your enemy, not mine."