Unforgiving Years

by Victor Serge

  “Nothing wrong with you, I’m sure!” Bruno spat back at him between bared teeth, his mouth foamy. “But I threw up, I’m going to be all right.”

  For all his anger, which seemed to him completely lucid, Bruno was growing weaker. Black flashes spiraled around him. Why did I come here? Why did I bring this revolver? Who is this? What is happening?

  “Daria’s dead.”

  “You think so? That can’t be possible …”

  Mr. Brown made as if to rise. “Calm yourself, my friend, it’ll pass, have some water …” He felt for the carafe with a hand outlined in green; his lower jaw trembled, his colorless lips fluttered. “You rotten death’s-head!” Bruno spoke firmly through his black lightning flashes, his burning temples and the blue flame in his cerebellum, where the bullet enters when they execute you. “Don’t move or I’ll …” He raised the revolver. “You see I’m saved. I vomited. I vomited you up, you piece of shit, I vomited you all up …”

  Mr. Brown — facing the end of a short, black, steel barrel shakily following the movements of his head — lay back into the pillows.

  “That’s good news,” he said. “An organic reaction has taken place … But tell me, Don Bruno, how many glasses did you drink?”

  “Three …”

  Mr. Brown pouted with regret.

  “In that case, my friend, I hate to say it, but there’s nothing more to do for you. Shoot me now, then be patient, it won’t take long …”

  The marionette was fading, leaving behind a hard head of washed-out bones, distress, tension. “Shoot quickly,” Mr. Brown insisted, “because in a few moments you won’t be able to …” In his face, Bruno recognized faces from long ago. He lowered the gun and sat on the edge of the bed, brows knitted, struggling against asphyxiation. Each word germinated slowly within him before his pasty mouth was able to deliver it. He conceived of himself as opaque, colossal, disembodied, eternal, annihilated, infinitesimal … The stars were falling into the ocean, consciousness was falling into nothingness. Rhymes. Nothing rhymes with nothing. He closed his eyes, the better to think of himself as dead, and was surprised to hear himself speak from a long way off, from the beyond. He opened his eyes with a decisive effort. Mr. Brown was delicately prizing the revolver from his hand. No more revolver, of no importance, I’m not an executioner. A thing to be proud of in an age of executioners, even if it’s the last thing! Bruno asked, “Are you … from … from the Party?”

  “Naturally,” Mr. Brown replied. “I acted under orders, please believe me.”

  Bruno shrugged his shoulders. Heavy, heavy shoulders, what were they still carrying? The burning in the marrow of his bones was past endurance, the hammer blows in his chest were slowing, no less violent but widely spaced; between one beat and the next a crack opened — an abyss — these are the last … Noémi sleeping, the ocean, the ocean … He slowly slumped sideways, mouth gaping, fringed with specks of froth.

  It was really heavy, this big body, made for a long and regrettable life. Mr. Brown moved over to make room for Bruno, pushed him a little, helped him to lie flat, arms outstretched, watched him sink into oblivion, eyes wide open. Mr. Brown was trembling in every limb. He swallowed some pills and went out to breathe the electric night air. Panting, he dragged the big body onto the terrace and laid it out, still warm, under the dulling glimmers of the sky … After this, Mr. Brown washed his hands with eau de cologne.

  * * *

  Although Mr. Brown — who had become Mr. Brown only for the purposes of this short journey to the ends of obedience — had played his part in certain events, assisted in the destruction of many men, and adopted more than one unsavory disguise before now, he really was not cut out for this kind of assignment, better described as a dangerously reckless adventure, however refined its methods and means. The greatest danger is that which one creates oneself, through an excess of nervous tension; the malignities of chance are thus compounded by an adverse factor which should never be underestimated. While Mr. Brown was personally acquainted with bloodshed thanks to his experiences in another hemisphere, notably under the favorable conditions of Spain and the Balkans, he had been tempted to forget this fact ever since his professional duties had begun to coincide with his personal inclinations. His natural temperament, belatedly brought to the surface by contact with bourgeois society, disposed him to appreciate creature comforts, regular habits, hobnobbing with intellectuals and academics, taking trips through the best-organized country in modern society … As a fake U.S. citizen, he had involuntary assimilationist tendencies; a few years more in this undercover persona and he would become an almost-real U.S. citizen, which would be something of a problem. His abilities equipped him to be of genuine service in two related areas: the collection of hard, indeed scientific, information, and the exercise of a profoundly political influence upon Protestant intellectuals. To risk such gains for the sake of this particular mission could prove a grave misjudgment, should anything happen to him. Putting these reasons squarely before Mr. Ostrowieczki did no more than to reinforce a cast-iron decision that had been taken at the highest level. Ostrowieczki replied that no one was irreplaceable, not in a well-organized service. “In former times, esteemed Comrade, in Sofia …” Thus certifying his comprehensive knowledge of the other man’s history, Ostrowieczki moved smoothly on to the technicalities. “According to our sources, the local circumstances are extremely propitious … Nothing can or will happen to you, provided you carry out your instructions to the letter. The scheme includes a number of possible variations … Unfortunately, personnel is rather limited at present.” This might be true; it could also be the case that Mr. Brown (whose alias was something else at the time of the interview) was considered due for a test, to make sure he was not sliding into the complacency of taking his Americanization too much for granted … Mr. Ostrowieczki calculated lavish travel expenses. “The call we are making upon your dedication represents the highest honor.” Mr. Brown had no choice but to manifest his gratitude.

  The plan had gone without a hitch. The bottles lay at the bottom of the lake, while in the kitchen stood a couple of perfectly innocent substitutes. The poisons were recent and obscure, prepared in laboratories that were yet more obscure and would elude the average toxicologist (even if the autopsy were conducted at once). Mr. Brown’s identity was proof against two months’ investigation, and should any inquiry eventually spell trouble for the real Mr. Brown, presently in Honolulu, that was too bad; he would never know the truth … Now what, start the motor and slip away before sunup? Mr. Brown entertained this thought for a second. It would look suspicious, and besides, Mr. Ostrowieczki had stressed the desirability of postmortem pictures for the archives (newspaper clippings would do in the case of having fallen back upon plans A or B). Lastly, the old man — or rather the authentically young man — awakening in Mr. Brown’s soul enjoined him to “face the music,” which was the most sensible course of action and easier to carry off than he had anticipated, in view of the nervous hysteria that overwhelmed him without clouding his judgment.

  He paced his room like a caged animal, like certain condemned men as they wait out their last hours. Sweat drenched his body; next his flesh felt so desiccated that he seemed to be burning up. Waves of nausea came, and he was glad to disgorge what had been an overrich meal. A diabolical doubt now took hold: Had he perhaps drunk something of the extra-special vintage? Blood draining from his face, he went back over his recollections of the dinner. Impossible. But what if … But there’d be no problem, if … Confounded America, overcivilized despite its brutalities, how it spoils one for the rough life of our times! This appalling malaise could only be caused by nervous shock which, although humiliating, was useful. Mr. Brown ripped the lining of his dressing gown with satisfaction. He took two potent sleeping pills, checked the mess of the room, assuring himself of his discipline and willpower. The drug was already working its divinely sedative effect when he remembered the revolver he had taken from Bruno Battisti. (So who could he rea
lly be, this “Bruno Battisti”? Oh well, none of my business … ) He managed to wipe the gun carefully and carry it out into the middle of the coffee fields. But he was unable to shut the door on his return and collapsed, snoring already, onto the cool hard mat at the foot of his bed.

  When Mr. Brown regained his senses, it was broad daylight. The room had been cleaned up. A native serving girl was changing the cold compress on his forehead. “Gracias!” he said. “Where am I?” The bewilderment was not entirely feigned, because on sinking deep into slumber he had genuinely thought he was dying, dying happily, it was fantastically great to die while falling asleep … Harris’s ruddy snout rose before him like the moon — or like one of those huge gangster faces on a movie poster. Terribly severe, with a jaw like a hanging judge and eyes like an executioner! He was saying, “There’s only one good medicine in my book. Take a drink, old man!” The voice was full of tenderness. Mr. Brown made no objection and swallowed a shot of whiskey, which happened to be just the right medicine. “Thank you!” he said, stretching. He pretended total amazement. “What’s happening? What are you doing here, Harris? What time is it?”

  “Congratulations, pal!” said Harris. “You’ve come back from a long way off. Bring him some hot broth, quick,” he ordered the maid. “And tell Don Gamelindo he’s OK … The lousiest day of a lousy world, my friend. But at least for you it’s the first day again, and all is well …”

  Harris turned around, rubbing his hands together, flushed with relief.

  Don Gamelindo’s huge sombrero loomed in the doorway silhouetted against the light. Mr. Brown turned pale with thoughts of the police, his fingers fluttered nervously against his throat. Harris said impatiently, “Buzz off, Don Gamelindo, he’s over it … Don’t come in … Take care of the padre.”

  “All’s for the best in the best of all worlds …” sang like a jolly jig at the back of Mr. Brown’s head, in the most remote convolutions of his gray matter. If the priest is here, that means immediate burial! The salty broth the servant brought in tasted wonderful, especially when compared to the broth of the drowned. “Let me take your pulse,” Harris was saying. “You know I studied medicine in New Guinea …”

  “How was that?” asked Mr. Brown foolishly.

  “A tale too long to tell. Your heart’s fine, archaeologist. Too bad. You’ll still be able to go on measuring idols’ assholes …”

  “That’s enough,” said Mr. Brown, suddenly sitting up. “Now tell me what all this is about? I overslept, and then what?”

  He pretended to try to get out of bed, a movement promptly checked by Harris’s robust hand.

  “Hey, not so fast. You’re supposed to take it easy … Dr. Harris’s orders … You’ve had a brief illness which might have been pretty serious, and was, in fact, more than serious for some people … Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Well, all in good time. Meanwhile: bed rest, stewed fruit, glass of beer … Did you hear that, Ramona? Pronto!”

  There hung only one shadow over Mr. Brown’s speedy recovery. He kept glancing at Harris’s blunt face, admiring his features deformed by bitterness, the way he dried the welling tears before they overflowed, swelling his hairy nostrils, chewing on something with dull ferocity, all the while acting jovial, tender, fraternal. “How happy he would be to kill me,” reflected Mr. Brown, tranquilly. “And he’d be right.”

  * * *

  Everything is simple in this land of incandescent sunshine. Just a while ago there was drought, the suffering of a thirsty world. Then compact clouds the color of menace advanced over the Laguna, hiding the mountains … The tension is broken by a thunderclap. Warm fat raindrops begin to lash the water gently and raise a mist of dust across the fields. And then a million liquid javelins fall. This is the way things happen. Suddenly. Another time, on the road to Pozo Viejo, a courting couple dashed for shelter under the only nearby tree, a cypress half a dozen centuries old. The rain was pelting down. The lovers clung together, wrapped in the boy’s se-rape. It might have excited their desire, but they were not to be married before the feast of San Pedro. How good it feels, they whispered laughing. A white ball of fire tore through the ancient foliage, drew the sign of the serpent in black upon the trunk, and rebounded off the couple. When the families came to collect the bodies they found them holding hands, both half burned: he the left side, she the right. They nailed two crosses to the old tree. They wrote the names: Ponciano (the rest illegible) and Cristina (the rest torn off), “Pray for their souls.” They were fine, good-looking youngsters. Christians. Such is life. Así es la vida.

  Thus the drift of Don Gamelindo’s half-conscious meditation, at the end of a harrowing day. Singularly saddened, grotesquely attired in black for the occasion, satisfied at having been of great service — without charge — because somebody had to organize things. Cars had bumped along the potholed road; horses ridden by half-naked boys (happy to have been entrusted with important missions) had galloped through the sweltering noon. You see it was like this: At around seven in the morning Don Gamelindo had been awakened with the news. By eight he was on his chestnut horse trotting toward Pozo Viejo to fetch Dr. Rigoberto Merino in his gray gabardine jacket, felt hat, and maroon boots, astride his proud Arabian, a bay mare worth three thousand pi-asters, Señor! … Dr. Merino spent more time in consultation with the servants than on examining the remains. Ramona explained that a can of olives that had been opened for last night’s dinner was at least a year old; three years ago, in her home village, several people had expired after consuming a tin of salmon, sí Señor! Melita — too-short skirt revealing muscular knees, sweat in the crease of her arms, wide puffy neck, small teeth pertly aligned in prominent gums — had heard of many similar cases, which she recounted. Dr. Merino interrupted her in order to take a professional look at those gums, brushing the nipple of her breasts with a hypocritical hand as he did so. He summoned her for next Sunday morning, after his regular office hours, for she was evidently suffering from a lack of certain vitamins. Melita promised to come without fail, sneaking velvety glances at him in between sniffles, dabbing her eyes and mumbling, “Santísima Virgen, Virgen purísima …” Before filling in the death certificate, the good doctor had the foresight to collect his hundred piasters from Don Gamelindo. “Struck down by virulent food poisoning” et cetera, in a careful calligraphy decorated by the great flourishes of the signature. Don Tiburcio, San Blas’s town chairman, who had hastened over still wearing his mechanic’s overalls, countersigned the certificate without reading it — because he did not know how to read. Nonetheless, he asked the doctor: “Nothing suspicious, compadre?” The embarrassment of this little man with the noble Nahua profile laboriously tracing the letters of his signature amused Dr. Merino. “What suspicions would you like there to be, compañero?” he replied in a superior tone.

  Don Gamelindo rode back to San Blas to purchase the coffins personally, for this task could be entrusted to none but the most dependable friend. Don Cuauhtémoc’s store, The Keys to the Kingdom, made sure to stock, along with ordinary coffins, a pair of deluxe caskets, big ones because a short customer can always be accommodated, whereas there’s no way around the opposite problem, is there? To each his size in this world, but once inside there, a human being’s got to have the room he needs! You can deny a man his rightful space in the sun, sir, but not in the grave! Don Cuauhtémoc knew that the Reaper tends to reap by twos, if not two the same day, then it’s within the fortnight, take my word for it. The twin body boxes were made of good pine lumber logged on the far side of the lake, upholstered in gray silk and embellished with brass handles. Don Cuauhtémoc and Don Gamelindo discussed the price for a leisurely quarter of an hour, taking alternate sips of tequila, for its fiery taste, and Coca-Cola, for its refreshing one; courtesy of the seller, of course. The negotiations were hard-headed but amicable. “That’s genuine silk, Don Game-lindo! Do you know how much real silk is fetching these days in town? No, you do not. Those brass handles, they don’t ma
ke ’em anymore! These are my last from before the war, compadre!” By the third little glass, Don Gamelindo had won a reduction of forty-two percent. Had he held out for two more glasses, he might have obtained fifty percent. But while Don Bruno was his dear departed friend, Don Cuauhtémoc had been his compadre for the past nineteen years. It was a good bargain for both of them and one from which Don Gamelindo, out of friendship, took nothing.

  A mule cart driven by boys who whistled and sang and chucked small stones at one another or skimmed them over the lake, making as many as six bounces, transported the deluxe caskets under a hard, festive sun.

  Padre Maclovio, who had promised to come around four, trotted over on the back of his own mule, balancing the little suitcase with his vestments against the pommel of his saddle. He complimented Doña Luz on her improvisation of a simple altar in the dining room, where the two coffins lay open on the great table, surrounded by candles and flowers; such an abundance of flowers that their savage, heady scents masked the odor of corpses. It was a beautiful funeral, something rare in this parish where many poor folk and too many children die, but rarely people of means. To be fair, the Battistis were not rich, only comfortably off. A more active owner could have made himself a fortune out of that plantation.

  Thoroughly estimable people, in any case: naturalized Italians who lived (or had lived … ) quietly, never wronging a soul. Padre Maclovio was well aware that they were atheists, from reading too many books — the punishment of a fallacious science; but it is just that the Holy Church triumphs in the end, and it is just that her minister should intercede for the souls of hardened sinners. Once upstairs, these can do their own explaining.

  Mr. Brown, whose recovery, quite possibly miraculous, made him the object of unanimous goodwill, faced up to the trying day with authentic courage — maintained by the alcoholic beverages and delicacies Harris made him ingest at regular intervals. He took several photographs of the deceased, promising to send copies only if the roll of film were not spoiled, as he had reason to fear it might be … “He that in life was Don Bruno Battisti” (as they say in this country) — the seasoned traveler, the indefatigable worker, the educated man, culto, the obliging neighbor — lay there, displaying a grave countenance of pacified strength. The dome of the forehead stood out, the acute convexity of imperfectly closed eyes concealed an enigma; the closed mouth suggested a faint expression of disdain. That’s what Harris thought, at any rate, during the hours he spent gazing down at the pair of them, arms folded across his chest, eyebrows knit, concentrating on the two inanimate faces. Daria was beautiful. How could a woman who was no longer young radiate such a youthful beauty, blanched by an invisible frosting of snow, modeled out of purity itself? She was smiling — just barely. It’s common for dead faces to smile, nothing but a muscular contraction apparently, but that glow of deliverance within the smile, where did that come from? Harris found the fragility of it echoed in the pale face of Noémi, who often stood next to him, chin in hand, huge eyes unmoving.