Dressed in white tropicals, Raul's men shivered. Raul felt cold and a little shabby in old blue denim. Lucienne was comfortable in corduroy: tan jacket, dark green riding skirt, darker beret, raincoat. Italian boots, laced with yellow laces, reached almost to her knees. She loved the mist, and sang as they plugged along, corkscrewing through pine. Unpacking her plant press, she stopped for a rare fern. In a flash of sun, the mist broke and below them lay a rancho, a ragged L-shaped patch of lava rock huts with yellow straw wigs, a chapel and municipal building. "Are we going down there?" Lucienne asked. "I want to speak to the jefe." "It looks wild." "Haven't you been there?" "No, I've never been there." "The jefe wears _tigre_ skins." "You're joking." Raul's men laughed at her. A rough but short route got them to Palma Sola in the late afternoon, sun at their heels. Before freshening up, Lucienne and Raul went to see some monster turtles lying in beached dugouts. Each one had barnacles on its wounded shell: how their red eyes begged for freedom! A fisherman, coiling hand line, put his foot on the gunwale, pointed at one and said, "It came from far off," as if he had a magical probe that reached undersea and understood all mysteries. "Turtles stare in such a sad way," Lucienne said, as they went into the house. She spun her beret onto a chair. "They know they have to die," said Raul. "I like plants because they can't look at me, can't accuse, can't plead. They never fill me with a sense of guilt and sorrow." At a window, facing the beached dugouts, she clasped him tightly, tasting the flavor of transience: she saw her parents' death, saw herself in Europe, thought of other lovers, other friends. Almost tearfully, she kissed him and said, "Let's get dressed for supper." "You must be tired." "Not too tired." At supper he said, "I'm afraid I have to leave tomorrow." "Can't you stay on a day or two?" "Can't we meet in Colima soon?" he asked. "Of course we can." "But it's never like here--or in the mountains." "It's such a closed feeling, people, too many people. Maybe we can meet before I go to Guanajuato. When I wrote you about the mine it didn't seem so serious. The manager thinks the mine is giving out." "So serious ... I hope not." "Without that income, what shall I do?" Breaking open a crisp roll, he studied her and considered the problem. He had descended the mine's moldy ladders. He had checked the ore, had had it assayed, had estimated the output. Few mines had less to offer, for both gold and silver ran low. The copper percentage might pay, but no copper smelter existed in Guanajuato. "I hope I can help. I'll send Señor Rul around to check for you. Maybe it's a case of mismanagement." "I trust my man.... He can't produce ore if there isn't any ore." "Let's not let it worry us, Lucienne."