Raul found a spade and began leveling behind the statue, where Manuel had not placed his shells.
"Shall I lay them in rows, here?"
"I like them that way, Manuel."
Blackbirds shot past on the wind; a large white butterfly wobbled by, as if injured; on a mound of sand an iguana scratched its way over a vine, its head cocked toward the men.
Spade in hand, Raul stepped to a crooked marker that read Alberto Saenz, in jagged lettering. The musician had died during Raul's Guadalajara trip. Raul missed him now. So there would be no more cedar harp at the fiestas.
Manuel said that his box of shells was empty and that he was going for more.
"I'll go with you," Raul said.
They walked together, and Raul asked, "Was Alberto born at Petaca?"
"Yes. His father was born here too."
"Who'll play the harp for us now?"