"What a stupid man I was." He chuckled. "I sold her, sold my Andrea. Slave ... I was her slave and I sold her. What if she loved somebody else? I still wanted her. Can you remember a beautiful face?" He stirred painfully on his bed. "I was nineteen—that was the year I killed my father. Out of my head ... I sold her." His voice had slowed, the gravity of those days pressing him. "God, that was a dreadful year...."
"What ever became of Andrea?" Angelina asked, taking a piece of toast from his tray. They were having breakfast together.
"She died in Manzanillo ... typhoid."
He felt the weight of Angelina's body on the bed and groped to touch her.
"My eyes are worse today. Those glasses haven't helped much. I'll have to have another pair made."
Angelina forgot to listen; Chavela came for the dishes, rattling things and talking at the same time. "There's no beef to eat today," she said. "Marcelino says there's been no slaughtering."
"We must have some eggs," said Angelina. "Chickens lay eggs even when there's shooting. I suppose you could have someone kill a chicken or two."
Chavela inspected her tray of soiled dishes blankly. "An omelette," she suggested.
"Better a hen," said Angelina.
"Chavela ... cigarette," said Fernando.