"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.