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Gabriel Storni's small room was in a one-story stone building acrossthe court from the main house. There had been a school there, nextdoor to Gabriel's room, until Don Fernando had discontinued it after heand the teacher had quarreled. As Raul walked across the forecourt,pigeons lit on the roof, then fluttered off nervously and swarmedthrough the air above the chapel spire. Raul heard the wings, but didnot see them as he walked along. Horsemen clopped over cobbles, yet hedid not turn his head. Rapping on Storni's door he waited, fingersnicking at the sun ridged wood, wood that was more slab than door.Rusty hinges hung the slab and they squealed as Gabriel opened the door.
"Come in, come in," he said affably.
The robe was Franciscan, the face Italian. Gabriel, at fifty-seven,had lustrous brown eyes, a bald head, a compassionate mouth, thickneck, large ears, a reddish wen under one eye. His front teeth hadbeen capped with gold. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. He walked with alimp. But his defects were forgotten when he smiled.
The smile welcomed Raul.
"So nice to see you."
Momentarily the dark room, after brilliant sun, bothered Raul and hebumped into one of the familiar leather chairs. He only half saw theSpanish desk with papers in every pigeonhole, its reed-bottom chair,the shelves of books, and the plain wall cross carved from a scrap ofhigh altitude cedar. Raul touched Gabriel's silver and bone rosary,where it lay on a corner of the desk.
"I'd like to talk with you."
"Sit down. Let me take these papers off the chair."
They faced each other on leather chairs, the door slightly open; againhorsemen crossed the court, the hoof beats making the cobbles soundlike empty clay bowls.
"One of these days you'll have your stained-glass windows," said Raul.
"Ah," said Gabriel, amused at such an unprompted declaration. "Rightnow, I think we ought to have a school teacher. We must reopen ourschool."
"I'm going to see to it," said Raul.
"What made your father change his mind?" asked Gabriel eagerly.
"I've decided to make these changes, now."
Gabriel began to laugh softly, one hand on his knee. His glasses shookand seemed about to fall.
"My dear boy, what's happened? Hadn't you better explain?"
"I've decided to take over Petaca. I should have done it long ago."
Gabriel blinked at Raul as if seeing him through smudged lenses. Hetrusted Raul, but he cleared his throat and knotted together the edgeof his robe.
"We're in for trouble," Gabriel said, drawing his feet underneath hischair and bending forward thoughtfully. "This will really upset thehacienda."
"I don't want trouble; that's why I came to you."
Gabriel sighed. He was willing to assume responsibility, but he couldnot see where he could help. He had looked forward to the young man'sadministration of the estate at the death of his father. Removing hisglasses, he pinched his nose, and then put the glasses on again.
"There's Pedro Chavez," he said. "You'll have to deal with him."
"Angelina reminded me," Raul said.
"Did you have to be reminded?" asked Gabriel. "Who else knows yourdecision besides Angelina?"
"Salvador and Manuel."
"Well, in a short time everyone will know."
"Father doesn't know. Shall I tell him today?"
"We'll tell him later. I see no reason to go to him now."
"I think I should tell him today. He should hear it from me.
"What precipitated your decision? I thought you would wait until..."He did not bother to finish the sentence; he was trying to considerproblems dispassionately.
"It's the shortage of corn. Father has refused to supply grain. Manyare ill, but you know the situation better than I do. I won't wait anylonger. Farias was sent to check the corn and fences along the delValle line. I don't want any shootings and I don't want any trouble."
Gabriel chuckled. "You don't want trouble," he said. "Now you'll haveyour hands full."
"Maybe it won't be so bad."
"Come--what about Pedro Chavez?"
"I'll order him to leave the hacienda." Raul slapped the side of hisboot with the palm of his hand. "I've had more than enough of Pedro."
"I'm with you," cried Gabriel. "Let's get him out of here as soon aspossible."
Raul grabbed the priest's arm, and squeezed it. Gabriel's eyesglittered, and he stood up and said: "I remember the talks we've had inthis room. I'll help you see that our people are treated right atPetaca. The Americans fought for their liberty.... Their war broughtfreedom! God will bless your decision, Raul. We'll work together."
"I'll talk to my father," said Raul, rising.
"Perhaps we should wait till Dr. Velasco comes," said Gabriel.
"I'd rather not."
"The shock may be too much for Don Fernando. I'd wait." Gabrielhesitated.
"You're wrong. Father will fight. He won't give in to me, in spite ofhis stroke. Let's talk to him before Velasco comes. Come with me."
"I suppose we may as well," sighed Gabriel.
Together they crossed the cobbles, a mangy yellow dog trailing them,sniffing the priest's robes. Entering by the veranda, they wentdirectly into Don Fernando's bedroom. He was asleep. Gabriel bentover him, made the sign of the cross, and counted his pulse, the oldman's skin cold to his fingers.
"It's steady," he whispered to Raul.
Fernando opened his eyes.
"Is it time for Mass?" he jibed thickly. He disliked Father Gabriel.To his way of thinking, his kind of mental superiority was out of placeon an hacienda. It had been Gabriel who had influenced Raul to studyabroad. Priests were for women and children. He had been a fool toput money into Raul's education. Education destroyed a man'sstrength.... Lids barely open, he glared at his son and the priest'sbald head.
"How are you feeling?" Gabriel asked, avoiding his stare.
"Thirsty," said Fernando.
Raul poured water from the table bottle and gave the glass to hisfather.
"More water, Father?"
"No."
"You look rested," said Gabriel.
"I'm hungry."
"I'll speak to Chavela," said Gabriel, and started to leave the room.
"I came to tell you I have taken charge of the hacienda. People arehungry and sick. They can't wait any longer." Raul realized thatGabriel had halted abruptly, to listen. He had spoken distinctly butnot loudly. He was not disturbed. He felt ashamed of himself for notdeclaring himself long ago.
His father's eyes flashed with wild anger; his mouth twitched; his jawdropped; his decayed teeth showed. He raised one hand but it shook,and he shoved it underneath his sheet and tried to sit up. His Adam'sapple rose and fell; he gulped and rolled on his pillow. He tried toget one leg out of bed but could not. Patches scabbed his sight; heshook his head but saw his father riding a white range horse. Withgreat difficulty, Fernando made out that Gabriel had returned to hisbedside.
"Get out," Fernando managed. "Get out!" he shrilled.
"It's time Raul managed Petaca," said Gabriel kindly. "You must see ithis way. You need to rest." He was alarmed by the man's tortured face.
"I am dismissing Pedro Chavez," said Raul. "There will be no morekillings on my hacienda."
Fernando's eyes were bloodshot; they flicked from left to right; tearsoozed at the corners.
"God damn you!" he said hoarsely. He puckered his lips to spit,wanting to catch them both.
"It's time our sick were cared for, Don Fernando," said Gabriel.
"Shut up," said the old man.
They waited a few moments longer by his bed. A burro screeched andhollered in a field. A cloud passed over the sun. The old man coughedand faced the ceiling, one hand clenched; the other, beneath the sheet,trembled.
Raul tapped Gabriel's arm and they went out.
In the patio, Raul said, "It's done now."
"He took it hard," said Gabriel.
&
nbsp; "When it came time to tell him, I couldn't spare him," said Raul.
"Such hate," said Gabriel,
"He tried to spit on us. Did you see his lips?" asked Raul, resentingthe scene, feeling he would never be able to forget it.
"Ssst, Raul. It's bad enough."
"It won't be bad for our people."
"I know ... I know," said Gabriel.
"Tomorrow our people will have grain."
"Tomorrow, yes ... tomorrow," said Gabriel. He brushed flies from hisbald spot and scanned the sky, his gold rims twinkling. "It has gottencloudy. It may rain. The corn needs rain. I must go, Raul. I musttalk to others."
Walking away, he felt for the small bronze cross he wore on a neckchain. The cross was buried in the hairs of his throat. He prayed ashe walked, fingers enclosing the metal. He prayed for the haciendapeople; he asked help for the old man; wisdom for Raul; let good comeof this transition, no additional anguish.
In his room, the door closed, a candle lit, he knelt on the bare tilesbefore the mountain crucifix: as he knelt, a lovely bone figurineappeared on the barren wood: the figure had hung in his mother's housein Padua, very old, very yellow, very fragile. A women knelt besidehim, in this illusion, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. It was cloudyand sultry and the Italian light filmed the room; the woman wasspeaking.
Strange he could not recall her face, only the form, wrapped in bluecloth. The sound of her voice was also lost.
"Mother," he said aloud; then he pushed aside his longing for Italy andhis home and family and began to pray:
"Jesus, help us. We are many here. Bless us with a special mercy.Take us to your sacred heart; we are your children ... the haciendasare headed for troubled times. Help us to be decent to one another."
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