Raul gave him cigars.
"Vicente—let's go back to your school. I'll come alone tomorrow."
Angelina had stored her luggage at the hotel, ready for departure, since a train could come at any hour. When it finally arrived, late at night, Raul was on hand. He took both her hands in his, loving her for all she had been to him.
"A good trip, Angelina," he said, as train smoke blew about them.
"Good luck, Raul," she said in her lovely voice, her fingers stealing away from him, to the brooch on her blouse.
"You'll be safe," he said.
"Watch out for yourself at Petaca."
"You too, in Guadalajara. Look after Vicente. The Colegio will be good for him."
"Yes."
She wanted to kiss him but the world inside her talked of many things; she wanted to mention Caterina, wishing she could purge herself of anguish; she wanted to speak of Fernando; she felt she could not breathe. Raul stood out plainly enough—his white shirt flapping—yet he was many Rauls.