"You'll be all right in Guadalajara. You'll be able to reach her," Manuel said, that old bond coming to the fore. "I'll be waiting for you here, or in Colima. I can't eat now, my friend. Go with God, Raul." And he stood up, knowing how hard it was for him to go.
"Goodbye, Manuel."
For Raul, it was easier to get to Guadalajara than he had supposed. By the next day he found a freight that carried him and others as well—a slow ride, but not hazardous. They had bad water or no water. Some of the people were ill. At the many stops they got fruit, tacos and tortillas. Those who had money paid; those who had no money begged. Raul made a little corner for himself in an old red boxcar, the splintered floor full of holes. He sat among rich and poor. Since the train seldom moved fast, the heat poured on them and they looked forward to the night. And they arrived in Guadalajara in the small hours of the night, their second day out of Colima.
Guadalajara was filthier and more degraded than Roberto had painted it. Poor Vicente, thought Raul. Poor Angelina. Stinking garbage cluttered nearly every street corner. There were no street lamps. Wild dogs ran about. Barbed wire had been flung over benches and around trees in the plaza. Machine gunners had sandbagged the roofs of the municipal buildings ... buzzards were everywhere. All the way to Roberto's house, along Vallarta, the main street, barricades of cobbles had been erected, topped by wrought-iron benches and smashed grilles and balconies. It was amazing to Raul that the hack driver was able to get through to Roberto's home.
"Not much of a homecoming," said Roberto, "but we're still here."
Vicente danced with joy and yet was troubled by his father's haggard face.
"Papa, isn't it awful the way they've torn up the city?" he said, backing away a little.
"It is. Now for the bathroom. I hope there's water. I want to get cleaned up."
"Is Petaca all right?"
"We're still there," he said, and glanced at Roberto.