Waking, Fernando clattered his copper bell, and this time his son appeared.
"Yes, Father," said Raul, near the bed.
"A drink of water."
"Yes."
Raul poured a glass of water from a bed-table water bottle; a great green fly buzzed about the mouth of the bottle; his father reached for the glass; the hand shook and drops spilled.
The room had been papered in egg-white paper with brown aviaries triangled on it; from every aviary a flock of birds—all resembling swallows—cascaded. A black wooden wardrobe that weighed half a ton filled one wall. Its double doors, sides, and corners were ornamented with carved eagles and brass gewgaws. Some of the eagles had conch-shell eyes. The eyes peered into a full-length mirror, framed in carved wood. Above a washstand hung a Swiss etching of the Matterhorn, a sketchy rendering. Fernando's bed was four-posted and canopied with a dingy white cloth.
Raul glimpsed himself in the mirror as he held his father's glass, and the reflection startled him. Catching the resemblance, he set down the glass with a jerk and began to walk out of the room.
"Raul," said his father.
"What is it, Father?" said Raul, compelling himself to speak politely.
"I sent Farias to check the corn fences."