"Vicente has already forgotten Guadalajara," he said. "Children are lucky."
"We're lucky too, to be here," said Lucienne, settling her parasol against her chair.
The waiter brought menus and filled goblets with ice, chatting a one-sided chatter. While he fussed around the table, Lucienne thought of Raul, his fatigue, his sadness. She thought of Angelina's illness: she could see her yellow dress; she could sense some of the fear that had closed in around her.
"It seemed such a long trip, coming back," he said. The train windows had been open on cornfields, on low rolling hills, on sunny villages. A child had cried for hours, her head in her mother's lap.
"What does she do all the time?" Lucienne asked. She did not have to use her name.
"She stays in her room most of the day. She goes into the patio sometimes. The doctors say she's afraid at night."
"Of the dog?"
"Yes."
"But what does she do?"
"She sits alone ... or talks to the Sisters. They try to favor her." He lit his pipe but let the smoke curl up, with the bowl between his fingers.