by Per Wahlöö
“Had you seen them before?”
“No, señor.”
“Had you said before that you ought to go and kill someone?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Why didn’t you do it before then?”
“I didn’t want to go alone, señor. No one would come with me.”
“Was it only white men you wanted to kill?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Why?”
“They kill us, señor.”
“Has someone said that you must kill white people?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Who said so?”
“The Liberators, señor.”
“The Liberation Front, you mean?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Are you in the Liberation Front?”
“No, señor. I wanted to be in it, but I wasn’t allowed to. Neither was Juan.”
“Then you weren’t joking when you said you ought to go and kill Señor Pérez?”
“No, señor.”
“Why did you steal the trumpet?”
“It was pretty, señor.”
“Do you regret what you’ve done?”
“I don’t understand, señor.”
“Do you regret killing the man and the woman and the child in the white house?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand, señor.”
“Why are you sad?”
“I want to go home.”
“How old are you?”
“Don’t know, señor.”
“What do you think we’ll do with you?”
“Kill me, señor.”
Again Behounek shrugged his shoulders.
“Sit down,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”
“What will you do with them?” said Manuel, out in the corridor.
“Keep them under arrest. Then they’ll appear before a federal civil court and will probably get a life sentence of hard labor without the prerogative of mercy. Without understanding why.”
As they were going up the spiral staircase, he said, presumably to himself: “On the edge of the precipice. So near. So very near.”
“I’m convinced that your extermination tactics only make matters worse,” said Manuel Ortega. “And it’s wrong.”
“Everything is wrong,” said Behounek. “Where shall we eat?”
They ate at a private club for businessmen and officers. It was at the top of one of the blocks in the middle of town. The rooms were large and bleak with tubular furniture and fans on every table and on the ceiling. There were quite a few guests, but the food was bad, even worse than in the little place near the square. It was very expensive too, even in comparison with the luxury restaurants of the federal capital. Both Manuel and Behounek ate listlessly and meagerly, and they did not say much.
Not until the coffee came did they talk briefly of matters relevant to the future.
“Which leaders of the Liberation Front are known by name?” said Manuel Ortega.
Behounek stared stiffly into his brandy glass and remained sitting like that even as he spoke.
“Most of them. First and foremost, the one called El Campesino, the leader and organizer of the partisan activites. He’s a Cuban, I gather. He has taken the name of some legendary Communist in Catalonia during the Spanish Civil War. Next, Dr. Irigo, who was the leader of the Communist Party in this country before it was disbanded. He’s from the north and has some kind of legal qualifications. He used to live in a place just south of the border, but now he’s probably somewhere abroad, either Cuba or Chile. Then a woman, Carmen Sánchez, who looks after the propaganda. She’s only twenty-seven and is supposed to be beautiful. And then a certain José Redondo, called El Rojo. He’s a partisan hero and holds a prominent position in the organization.”
“These are evidently the ones we need to reach with a message about the conference. I assume that one can get hold of them through the radio and the press or by dropping leaflets.”
“Yes. And the bush telegraph.”
“Have you any more names?”
“Will have eventually. But those four must be in on it. El Campesino, Dr. Irigo, Carmen Sánchez, and El Rojo Redondo. I’ll send you a list of names with all the data early tomorrow morning.”
It was half past eleven when Manuel Ortega undressed. He felt ill and frightened and found it hard to breathe. He put the Astra under his pillow, took three of Dalgren’s tablets, and went to bed.
When he switched off the light, the darkness descended on him like an ancient black-velvet curtain, thick and fluffy and dusty and suffocating.
It was morning again, his seventh in this frightful town.
Fernández, sunflower seeds on the carpet, the smell of sweat, the two steps across the corridor, and his hand on the revolver butt.
The faucets were still not working. The officer in charge of the engineers complained of a lack of materials and demanded twenty-four hours more.
On his desk lay a gray-brown cable covered with official stamps: SOON AS POSSIBLE MEANS AT LATEST WITHIN ONE WEEK STOP SIX DELEGATES FROM EACH SIDE ZAFORTEZA. Beside the cable lay a letter from police headquarters with the promised names and information.
On the telephone: Behounek.
“Everything calm.”
“No casualties?”
“No.”
“No blasting details?”
“Nothing at all.”
Ten minutes later: Dalgren.
“The Citizens’ Guard is prepared to negotiate.”
“When?”
“As soon as you’re in a position to get the two sides together.”
Danica Rodríguez in her green dress and thonged sandals on her bare feet.
Gómez, who relieved Fernández. Large, heavy, and unshaven, with streaks of sweat on his face.
The rays of the sun which hurtled straight to the ground like a cloudburst of white fire.
At ten o’clock Manuel Ortega sat behind his desk and began to write out a rough draft of his speech. The effects of the third sleeping tablet began to slacken.
The text seemed disorganized, and soon he went into the next room to give his secretary some instructions.
“Reserve a spot for me on the radio at five o’clock.”
“Find a printing plant which can begin printing ten thousand leaflets today.”
“Investigate distribution possibilities and find people to do it.”
“Get some ice and another crate of lemonade.”
“Don’t bite your nails.”
Then she laughed. It was the first time she had laughed while on duty. She was pretty when she laughed, he thought. And she was not wearing a bra. Today her nipples could clearly be seen beneath the material. Perhaps it was because of the heat.
He felt very peculiar and went back to his draft.
At eleven o’clock Fernández came back, slinking into the room like a cat.
At half past eleven Danica Rodríguez stood in the doorway and said: “You’ve a visitor. A lady.”
“Show her in.”
It was Francisca de Larrinaga. Manuel rose to his feet in confusion. He discovered that he had forgotten all about both her and the proclamation as well as the General.
She was dressed completely in black with a mourning veil over her face, but she moved swiftly and energetically. Despite this, she seemed cool and fresh, quite untouched by the appalling heat.
“May I speak in the presence of your staff?” she asked.
Danica Rodríguez was still standing in the doorway and Fernández was rooted by the wall.
“Certainly.”
“Good. I just wanted to be sure on that point. I promised you a definite decision within four days. Well, I’ve decided.”
She opened her handbag and took out a long white envelope with a monogram embossed on it.
“This envelope contains the draft of my father’s speech. I have also enclosed a certificate in which I confirm on oath the genuineness of the document.”
Manuel
Ortega took the envelope with two fingers as if he were afraid of soiling it.
“I’m handing it over to you then, for reasons I explained to you earlier. What you will now proceed to do with it is something with which I do not want to be concerned.”
She closed her bag.
“That I’ve come in person is partly due to the fact that I consider this document much too important to be entrusted to a servant, and partly because it is not the kind of business to be dealt with over the telephone.”
“Of course. Listening in …”
“Yes, it is very efficient. At one time it even saved people’s lives. It would perhaps interest you to hear that five people called me up after your visit of condolence with the single intention of finding out what you had come for. You ought to know at least two of them. Señor Dalgren and Captain Behounek.”
Before Francisca de Larrinaga left the room, she looked at Danica Rodríguez in an amused way and said: “Terribly hot, isn’t it?”
Then she left.
In comparison with the woman who had left the room, Danica Rodríguez looked undressed, sweaty, and excited.
Fernández stared after the General’s daughter as if he had just experienced a revelation.
Danica Rodríguez shrugged her shoulders.
Manuel Ortega wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief which was already drenched. Then he sat down, picked up the letter opener, and slit open the envelope.
“Come here,” he said. “This might be interesting.”
She walked around the desk and read over his shoulder.
The proclamation was spread over two quarto pages. It was typed and divided into numbered paragraphs like a military order of the day, but here and there the General had crossed words out and added notes in his spiky handwriting which was hard to read. One could see that the changes had not all been made at the same time, for he had sometimes used ink and sometimes pencil.
PROCLAMATION
1. I, General Orestes de Larrinaga, at present Provincial Resident and authorized representative of the government in this province, hereby wish to state my views on the situation here.
2. These views are based partly on the conclusions I have drawn from my knowledge of the country and the people, and partly from the experience I have accumulated during a long and varied career as an officer of high rank.
3. The disturbances in the province are caused by two political extremist organizations competing for power. One of these (the Citizens’ Guard) wishes to retain the established order. The other (the Liberation Front) wishes to destroy the present order. Both these endeavors are equally erroneous and must be utterly condemned; not only the aims but also the methods which are used on both sides.
4. In recent years, in most parts of the world, and even in most parts of the states in our Federal Republic, there has arisen a new concept of the citizen as an individual (human being). This point of view has not been applied in our province. The majority of the inhabitants live in great material and spiritual poverty; nor are they given opportunities for education. This, in the present day, is indefensible.
5. The Citizens’ Guard is wrong when it tries to retain by force the old system, which from several points of view is out of date. Through it the majority of the people are forced to remain in wretchedness. This could lead to a catastrophe.
6. The Liberation Front is wrong when it tries to seize power by violence. It is also wrong when it believes it can use that power without support from other groups of people.
7. The Citizens’ Guard is right when it tries to protect and retain the enterprises and material culture which have already been created in the province. They are also right when they, within reasonable limits, wish to represent the interests of the landowning classes.
8. The Liberation Front is right when it asserts every person’s right to employment and education, tolerable living conditions, and wages which are more or less in reasonable proportion to the work done and likewise are roughly comparable with the wages of workers in other parts of the Federal Republic and in other countries.
9. In view of the foregoing, neither side has the support of the government or the armed forces.
10. Nevertheless, both sides should be awarded the legal right to represent the interests of their own respective social classes, on condition that armed activities are suspended.
11. Because of the people’s low level of education, it is too early to institute universal suffrage. An interim government should therefore be set up with an equal number of representatives from each side and an equivalent number representing the federal authorities.
12. The education system should be expanded immediately. Also the health services. New living quarters should replace the present substandard housing around the capital of the province.
13. The wage system for mine, estate, and industrial workers should immediately be adjusted according to the standards outlined above. Likewise regulations for working hours should be instituted.
14. The inhabitants’ demand for land of their own should be met at once; not a difficult task. On the other hand, any idea of rapid and comprehensive agricultural reforms would be premature.
15. The Federal Police should be withdrawn and in the future should be used only for purely police purposes.
16. The army should take over responsibility for law and order, but not until the present Military Governor and the present High Command are removed and replaced by nonpolitical officers.
17. The present situation in the province is degrading, both for the people who live here and for the country as a whole. The measures suggested in points 10–16 should therefore be carried out immediately.
Orestes de Larrinaga
General. Provincial Resident
There was an eighteenth paragraph in the text too: All political ideologies should be permitted. Similarly every person’s right, regardless of color, creed, or class, to a basic education and a decent standard of living should be secured by law.
It had, however, been garnished with several question marks and finally struck out altogether.
“But this is magnificent,” said Danica Rodríguez. “Elderly reactionary discovers the majority of the human race and produces a three-point plan. This is dynamite.”
“Yes, it’s dynamite,” said Manuel Ortega.
“What are you thinking of doing with it?”
“Publishing it,” said Manuel Ortega.
“Now?”
“Yes, as soon as possible.”
“They’ll take any measures to stop you.”
“Which ‘they’?”
“The Citizens’ Guard, the army, the police, the lot.”
“Let them try.”
“How are you going to publish it?”
“We’ll have to think of a way.”
“Yes,” she said. “We must think of a way.”
She stood behind him and scratched her short black hair.
“One even sweats in one’s hair,” she said. “It really does feel damned awful.”
Manuel drank a glass of lemonade and wiped his face again with his soaking handkerchief.
“Francisca de Larrinaga didn’t appear to sweat at all,” he said.
“No, if one lives here all one’s life one gets used to it.”
Quite unexpectedly she added: “D’you think she’s beautiful?”
“Not very.”
“But attractive?”
“No, not at all.”
The incorrigible Fernández let out an astonished grunt.
“Give me the papers and I’ll make a few copies,” said Danica Rodríguez. “Otherwise something idiotic might happen to us.”
“You think of everything.”
She leaned over his shoulder and picked up the General’s proclamation. As she did so she brushed her lips over his ear and he felt her nose against his temple.
“Yes,” she said. “I do think of all sorts of things, but even so, I’m mostly wrong.”
She went out and he watched her go. When he shifted his look he saw that Fernández was watching him with a mixture of doubt and pleased consternation in his eyes. At that moment López came in, hung up his black hat, and sat down on the chair by the wall.
It must be twelve o’clock then.
Two hours later he had finished his speech and he went in to the next room to get it typed.
“I don’t think they’ll accept this,” said Danica Rodríguez.
“Who won’t?”
“The Liberation Front. The guarantees aren’t good enough. They daren’t trust the government and first and foremost they don’t trust you.”
“They should,” said Manuel Ortega.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, the main thing is to get in contact with them.”
“You can easily do that.”
Half an hour later she had finished the typescript and brought it in. At the same time she brought two copies of General Larrinaga’s proclamation.
“I made three,” she said. “I’ll keep one myself.”
He nodded, folded one of the papers up, and put it in his pocket. As he took out his wallet he noticed that the leather was soft and damp and had begun to acquire a slightly pungent smell. He put the other copy in an envelope, sealed it, and went over to the man in the chair.
“Will you keep this for me until tomorrow?”
López nodded and put the envelope into his right inner pocket.
Manuel Ortega sat down at his desk and thought. The heat and the low air pressure worked against even his ability to think. Now and then it was as if whole sections of the system of cells in his brain turned numb and were put out of action. It was a long time before he succeeded in coming to a decision.
In the meantime Behounek called.
“Everything calm?”
“Yes, but the Communists are dropping a leaflet signed by the Liberation Front. It’s a long time since they did that.”
“What do they say?”
“It’s well put together, I must say. That damned Carmen Sánchez … Yes, they’ve got it all, the blasting details, the wells, the riots the day before yesterday, the Santa Rosa affair …”
“I think you should keep very quiet about that, Captain Behounek. Later on you’ll certainly have to explain yourself further.”
“Yes, yes, but what worries me is how it ever got out at all. Someone must have been careless somehow. Perhaps … yes, I’ll have to check up on it.”