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. When he had washed and rested, Raul left the house with Vicente, for the Holy Cross Hospital on Calle Molière. Hollow eyed and thinner, Vicente did not have much to say as they trudged along. Raul talked horses but Vicente seemed to have forgotten his passion for them. He said he was sorry his school had closed and wondered what his friends were doing in Colima? Was it so bad in Colima? The sun was streaming into the garden patio of the charming pillared home that had been converted into a hospital by the Sisters of Charity long ago. One of the Sisters asked them to wait in the patio and Raul and Vicente sat on a bench, facing a bed of roses. They said nothing until Angelina came. She shook hands with Raul, but disregarded Vicente. She was quiet-spoken and aloof. Vicente went gladly into the Mother Superior's office when she beckoned to him. His mother frightened him. Angelina wore a yellow dress Raul could not remember seeing; when she sat beside him, he saw how much weight she had lost; her face was older, threaded with tiny lines; her eyes could not focus on him but glided away, across the garden, to the tiled roof, then, to her hands. "Do you like me in black?" she asked. "I think I look my best in black." Her voice called up a hundred sensations in him. "Estelle has come to see me ... she comes often," she whispered. "It's not very easy, but we slip away to the theater, to hear Clavo read his poems.... We go to a play." Her eyes lifted to the roof line. "How are things with you?" "Fine, Angelina." "That's nice. Shall we walk around the patio? It's such a nice place." Raul took her arm and she did not object. White and yellow roses were in flower; a pet raven sat on a bench and clicked its bill as they passed; Raul tried to summon wisdom; he wanted to speak of Petaca, but Petaca represented every kind of painful failure and transition. He did not dare mention his father's death.