"I guess it was quite a party," said Fernando.
"Yes, Father."
"Who was there?"
"General Matanzas, Serrato, Roberto ... the Count, Jesús Peza, the Radziwills, Federicka ... several asked about you."
"Don't be so damn' polite."
The old man screwed round among his pillows, his cot in the patio of the serpent fountain. Slouched among pillows and sheets, he resembled a beachcomber, a feudal derelict. Behind him hung one of Alberto's cages, an azulejo fluttering inside. Columnar cypress sliced the sky.
Raul perched on a cane chair, his hat on the floor beside him. He had just returned from an inspection of the lagoon irrigation project, a job that would put fifteen hectares of land under cultivation.
"I saw your cancellations in the books," Fernando cried, the flames in his eyes starting. "I want those cancellations stopped." His voice sounded childish.
Raul did all he could to control himself: he fished out his pipe, nicked off scale, stared at it, silent.
"You can't alter our records," Fernando exclaimed.