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Back in Colima, Raul and Lucienne took Vicente to his school, where hisfriends swarmed about him, asking him if it was really true that therevolutionists had taken pot shots at his train as he came fromGuadalajara. How he enjoyed being back, gabbling! Raul and Luciennewatched him for a while from the school gate, then walked away.
The sun made a tropical wad of itself and Lucienne and Raul kept on theshady side of the street, where breadfruit and coco palms made walkingcomfortable. A water cart rocked slowly by, pulled by a donkey....The sloshing water added to the coolness of the shade. A pleasantstreet, it curved in a long curve toward the center of town, littlehomes on both sides with a tree now and then, like a jack-in-the-box,popping out of some patio or garden.
Lucienne wore freshly starched white, loose at the waist and shoulders,and carried a pink, blue-lined parasol. She was bareheaded and he wasbareheaded. His white clothes had been made by a poor hacienda tailor,and had had the freshness taken out of them, but he, too, lookedcomfortable, part of the tropical town.
At La Lonja they decided to have something cool to drink and wentinside, through a low, arched doorway. La Lonja had been theseventeenth century home of a French merchant. In the center of thegrassy patio stood an ugly statue of a sans-culotte woman, chipped andbeaten, discolored by bird droppings, yet wonderfully alive, rising upvaliantly out of a huddle of bougainvillaea and honeysuckle.
There were quite a number of Colimans at the tile-topped tables, in theshade of a high wall. Someone greeted Raul, as he and Lucienne walkedto the back, away from everyone, and farther from the biting sun.
Raul wiped his forehead.
"Vicente has already forgotten Guadalajara," he said. "Children arelucky."
"We're lucky too, to be here," said Lucienne, settling her parasolagainst her chair.
The waiter brought menus and filled goblets with ice, chatting aone-sided chatter. While he fussed around the table, Lucienne thoughtof Raul, his fatigue, his sadness. She thought of Angelina's illness:she could see her yellow dress; she could sense some of the fear thathad closed in around her.
"It seemed such a long trip, coming back," he said. The train windowshad 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 touse her name.
"She stays in her room most of the day. She goes into the patiosometimes. 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 hisfingers.
"I wish I could help her," Lucienne said.
Yes, he thought, we'd like to help. He wanted to tell her he hadbought the Sicre house, transacting the business while in Guadalajara,concluding the sale in Colima. I'll bring the furniture from Petaca,he thought, probably next week. A moment ago, I was speaking of mywife's insanity; now, now I must talk about the house I've bought inColima. Life cheats us of time to adjust. He gazed at her with a sad,hurt expression.
"I bought the Sicre house. You know where it is, out beyond thehospital, on the right, set back in that old garden."
She smiled reminiscently. "I'm glad," she said.
They ordered chilled _cayumito_ fruit; rum, lime and ice--the waiterstanding close to Lucienne, admiring her. A young man, new to Colima,he had already heard of her and her interest in plants.
"I've been told that the Sicre house needs many changes," Raul said, asthey waited. "I haven't been inside it for years. Shall we go and seeit in a day or two?"
"I remember the garden, as a girl. There's a fountain at the back ...somewhere." She looked at him lovingly, fingering her water glass,recalling those days, so long ago. Her mother had taken her to partiesthen, and introduced her to young men, wanting her to be popular.
She bent forward and said gently:
"I remember some of the trees in the garden, an old carob, analmond.... One had a split trunk and we used to hide messages inside,love notes too. I remember seeing you there, in the garden...."
Taking her hand away from the glass, he felt the cool of her fingers.He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting her mouth. She gripped hishand, her eyes serious. After all these years, no words were necessary.
* * * * *
In 1910, Mexico was in the throes of revolution. In this painfulperiod of exchanging old values for new, the upheaval was felteverywhere. This is the story of a private revolution--a conflictbetween father and son whose family estate extends for more than amillion acres in the western part of the country. Raul Medina, withliberal ideas he gathered at school in Europe, determines to take overcontrol of the hacienda. His bedridden father, Don Fernando, is amongthe last of a governing class for whom possession had been a law untoitself. With the support of a vicious servant, Don Fernando inflictsgreat cruelties on the workers. Raul is able to withstand theopposition of his father, but, from the beginning, his ideals arepowerless against the realities of hunger and disease.
Woven into the large scale panorama of Mexican life and landscape isRaul's personal story: the failure of his marriage with Angelique, adelicate city woman who hates and fears hacienda life; his friendshipwith his loyal aide and servant Manuel; his love for Lucienne, the soleinhabitant of a neighboring plantation, who is strong enough to acceptromance along with realities of life.
Along with his narrative skill, the author has lent this novel a greatlove: love of the land in all its variously colorful details; love ofthe people, their weaknesses and their strengths, their dreams andtheir disappointments. This is a novel of haunting significance,published in the year of the fiftieth anniversary of the MexicanRevolution.
PAUL BARTLETT]
Paul Bartlett is well-acquainted with the country he describes sovividly in _When the Owl Cries_. He has spent over eight years inMexico, living in desert areas, mountain villages, tropical islands andremote haciendas.
He has had over forty short stories published in magazines such as_Accent, The Kenyon Review, The Literary Review, The Chicago Review_and _New Story_. Nine of his stories have received honorable mentionin Martha Foley's _Best American Short Stories of the Year_. He is arecipient of a Huntington Hartford Writing Fellowship for 1960, hastaught creative writing at Georgia State College, and has conductedWriter's Conference Workshops.
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