Early Sunday morning the wind began to howl. It beat off the delicate jacaranda blossoms until the garden pool wore a top of flowers. On the terrace, a strip of honeysuckle tore loose and wrapped itself around the stone Christ. The sky became a mushy gray, and later in the day the clouds oozed rain, then hail. Hailstones, the size of parrots' eyes, flicked at bougainvillaea, jacaranda, cup-of-gold, and oleander until the garden had little brilliance left. Everything was green and wet, and the wet green clambered from within, a threat, a tropic impulse.
Raul recognized the force. He felt it also in the sky as he stood at Caterina's bedroom window on the second floor. From there, the volcano seemed to knife the sky at a peculiar angle, with a peculiar pressure. As he stood by the window frame he felt a tremor. The tiled floor shifted, swayed, lowered, raised, stopped. It was a mild quake and Caterina did not awaken. Her rag elephant fell to the floor from her bed. Eyes on the volcano tip, Raul waited for a belch of smoke. It did not come. But another quake came. Remaining by the window, he lit his pipe and listened to fumbling rain and hail.
Caterina had been seriously ill for six days. Dr. Velasco and Dr. Hernández had puzzled over prescriptions. Nothing had helped the acute diarrhea, vomiting, and fever. Her temperature had shot up, then had fallen. Dr. Velasco called it "tropic fever"; Dr. Hernández said it was "black fever." New medicines had been used effectively in Guadalajara, and Dr. Velasco had gone for them, reassuring everyone. He would be back on tomorrow's train that arrived at nine P.M., if it pulled into Colima on time.
Sitting by Caterina's bed, Raul noticed her pallor, how it seemed more pronounced in her hands than in her face. The fingers felt lifeless. Cupping his hands around hers he tried to warm them. He began to rub. This morning they had gone through the motions of a card game during the storm and suddenly, about half through the game, she had said, "My fingers hurt, they're so cold. Papa, let's never finish our game."
Taken by surprise, he had had to blink back his tears.
A dozen jobs had kept him from her since then. Coming out of the wind and hail, he had found her alone. The Colima nun, her nurse, had gone downstairs to eat. Raul liked being alone with Caterina. Hearing the storm, watching it from her window, he thought of things they had shared: the moth and butterfly collection (Lucienne's idea), horseback rides, boating on the lagoon, fishing.
She had a tiny bronze cannon that had been mounted on the garden sundial pedestal. She had found it during a visit to Guadalajara and had insisted that Raul install it for her and, for a while, she had primed it faithfully. It had "boomed" each sunny noon, the sunshine igniting the powder through a magnifying glass.
Some of her dolls were ranged on the floor beside her bed, toppled bodies, Swiss, African, Chinese, Mexican. She called one "Flaco," one "Negro," another "Henry." ... He had never known all their names.
Caterina stirred. Breathing fast, she rubbed both hands roughly over her face, and her lids fluttered open.
"Papa," she said.