"I have taken her to several doctors. They all say she is unbalanced. She's gentle and kind. But she sees a dog, a dog that doesn't exist. It's her illness. She's trapped in fear. I hesitate to tell you this, but she doesn't care to eat.
"Vicente is doing all right; he doesn't know the truth yet. He's with us. His school has closed. He doesn't get about much. It's too dangerous.
"Come when you can, Raul. She asks for you. This has been my first chance to get a letter to you. I hope you understand I have tried to communicate, in various ways. Yours, Roberto."
He filled his brandy glass again, and reread the letter. Sweat had broken out on his forehead; it trickled over the backs of his hands, ran down under his arms. A man stopped to question him but Raul ordered him away, not so much as glancing at him.
He felt Angelina's eyes focused on him accusingly; their luminosity made him get up and leave the patio. Down by the pool, he found the silence he wanted. On a bench he stared at the leaf-dotted water, fighting his sense of nightmare.
Such a letter—at such a time.
Yet he read it once more and began to think of leaving, riding horseback, catching a freight to Guadalajara. Some said freight trains went through, once in a while.
He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and walked away. He must find Manuel. In his simple, small room, on his bed, leaning against the wall, Raul was able to think straight. To Manuel he explained his decision to give up Petaca. A lamp burned below the old Chiapan hanging ... some old clothes dangled from the wooden peg. The room was quiet. Lamplight brought out Manuel's kind features, his weariness.... How he had aged!
"I want us to eat together and then I'll ride to Colima tonight. I must go to her. You will be in charge here. Save what you can, Manuel."
Raul was glad Manuel did not talk: he wanted the silence, the silence of his room, their silence. He remembered to ask about Manuel's head injury. Then there was the silence again.