“And you think Juan, too, will understand?” he asked.
“Of course. He was ready for it. Miro, my love, the only person who will be astonished at your loyalty is Vidal.”
CHAPTER V
[November 4]
GREGORIO VIDAL was not a man to indulge in self-pity. He knew his own worth and did not expect exaggerated appreciation of it by any except the departmental chiefs. And yet, as he waited for his garrison commander, he could not help wishing that he had belonged to an earlier generation.
To live in the most romantically beautiful building of all the Americas, to have to work and work in it towards the organization of a modern state was hardly fair. Miranda had said that the first duty of the new Republic of Guayanas was to preserve the Palace — to which some damned Colombian pansy had replied that the Palace was the only excuse for the existence of Guayanas. Yes, the enervating influence of this cool, paneled room, the immemorial center of government, was hardly fair. Round the walls were the portraits of the viceroys, with their distinguished hands and beards, and of the more reputable Presidents — with a blank where the picture of the Dictator Orduñez had been. Or not exactly a blank, for the panel held a Gauguin of some fat and barbarous chief contemplating the rolls of his stomach. Every President had deeply disapproved of it; not one of them, however, was willing to face the inevitable comment if he should remove it. Needless to say, it had been presented to the Palace by Juan de Fonsagrada in his extravagant youth.
Any of his predecessors, Vidal thought bitterly, could make for himself a famous reputation merely by being dignified and a legislator. The Republic continued to run itself, unchanged in any essential. What would they have made of the modern state, those dilettantes, those generals of ferocious pomposity, those idle, pleasant, overfed magnificos? Would any of the early Presidents of the United States or the Cannings and Metternichs of Europe have been capable of dealing with the problems even of little Guayanas if they were suddenly dumped in this office, deceptively familiar to them except for telephones, and told to learn the job? No. The complexities of the State, its economics, its international obligations, its demand for ever higher standards of living, its busy Chamber indefatigably making more work, all this would have been utterly beyond them.
Vidal often saw himself as a circus juggler, keeping half a dozen balls in the air and adding to them whatever his assistants threw at him: bottles, tennis rackets, Indian clubs. All of them went up with triumphant ease. All of them kept whirling. It was a reasonable way to look at the running of a Managerial Society: calm, efficient, complex. But now — what happened if the audience started to throw things too?
The Vidal administration should not be interrupted by irresponsible revolutionaries. He had no doubt at all that it was the best Guayanas had ever had. The banks, the foreign press, the United Nations all agreed. If it were not for the government machinery he had created and the statistics which were at last available, Gil Avellana could not begin to build whatever crazy edifice of Socialism or feudalism he contemplated. That damned general was only too likely to be in it up to his thick neck, backed by Felicia and her father. Fortunately their influence was negligible outside the more primitive section of the population. All the same, Kucera was becoming too popular with the masses. Concha swore that he had no political ambitions, but he wasn’t one of her intimates. She seemed to keep a motherly eye on him from an unusual distance, as if his were the one personality too strong for her.
He forced himself into casual cordiality as Miro entered the room.
“Good morning, General! Did you enjoy yourself at La Joya?”
“Not very much, Don Gregorio.”
“What a pity! I have always understood that Avellana was an excellent host.”
“Ideal.”
“Landowners . . . Well, their virtues are obvious, and none the less pleasant for that. But whether he can persuade the citizens of San Vicente that they all have the same noble character as he, I do not know. My own experience leads me to believe that most of them would sell their mothers for a thousand pesos.”
Too shallow a cynicism, Miro thought. Vidal’s remark was true, and it was not true. There was mighty little that the average poor citizen of San Vicente would not do for a thousand pesos. On the other hand, he would take still more pleasure in dramatically throwing back the money like a man of honor if someone, anyone, reminded him that he was a man of honor. And that was Avellana’s secret weapon.
“Not always in Fifth Division, Don Gregorio.”
“Your command is exceptional. I know it. Such professional pride — perhaps in our country it is only among the medical men that one finds it. I wish I could add my own profession of the law. But I still think I have more to offer to Fifth Division than Don Gil.”
Miro grudgingly admitted the tact of the little crook in mentioning the Division rather than the general himself. The distinguished little crook. The able little crook.
“You have,” he said bluntly.
“General, please do not misunderstand me if I ask — at this moment when so much depends on us both — frankly and as an old comrade — what it is.”
“Honor,” Miro answered — for he was feeling sufficiently annoyed to be melodramatically Latin, and the word was in the air.
“Would you be more explicit? Honor — I hear of it so often, and it has so many meanings to different people.”
“Don Gregorio, you are legally elected. You are the head of the State, and commander in chief. I should prefer to receive your orders through the correct channels of Don Jesús-María and his staff. But you are fully entitled to short-circuit them if you wish. Let me assure you, without any reservations at all, that I shall obey you so long as your orders do not violate the Constitution. In any case, so far as I can tell, the question is not urgent.”
Vidal had hardly dared hope for so uncompromising a declaration of loyalty. The lawyer in him protested, but the administrator knew very well that what General Kucera said was so. When he disagreed or was in doubt he didn’t — unlike the rest of Vidal’s public servants — say anything much at all.
The President relaxed. From now on he had a partner — a specialist in a different kind of power. The slight reserve forced upon him in all his dealings with Major General Kucera disappeared. That contrast in physical type, which had always worried him, now corresponded so plainly to their spheres of action.
“Don Miro, my friend, Gil Avellana’s revolution is scheduled for this week.”
“Impossible!”
Vidal rose and opened his safe.
“You do not think a great deal of my special police,” he said. “I don’t myself, if it comes to that. But read through this file. The reports all confirm each other.”
Miro read on and on. To anyone experienced in collating and comparing intelligence reports there could be no conceivable doubt. In the provinces Avellana was mobilizing conventional support — governors, police, mayors. In San Vicente he had the university and all the left-wing leaders. The Army appeared to be neutral, with the exception of some upcountry units, old-fashioned and safely inefficient. His own meeting with Avellana at Juan’s house was recorded without comment. From La Joya there was as yet nothing, but he himself could now dovetail a report into all this evidence. What he had taken to be a groping for his character and intentions was a determined, last-moment effort to gain his approval of plans which were already settled.
“You agree?” Vidal asked, when Miro had leafed impatiently through a mass of flowery comment from the police commandants, and closed the file.
“Does Avellana know you have all this?”
“He must suspect it.”
“Then he is bound to strike very soon. But what a risk to take when he has no armed support worth anything at all!”
“You think as a soldier, friend. And that is what I want you to do. But the art of revolution is very different from the art of war. Avellana plans only one battle. If he loses, all fails. If he wins, all s
ucceeds. Look, I will be generous! I will admit he has wide support. My countrymen have no patience. They always prefer to gamble that a short-cut leads somewhere. Very well! If Avellana wishes to sit at this desk, surrounded by past statesmen of whom the most futile was more responsible than he, then he must complete his revolution in one morning, or at most in one day. If he can do that, if the whole of San Vicente is in the streets shouting vivas, Army and police will be helpless. Even you would hesitate. You cannot lead your Division into the capital when it has already hung out the flags.”
That was true enough — provided Vidal was not there to give a legal order. Don Gil himself had said there would be no point at which Fifth Division could intervene. Miro asked what objectives Avellana was likely to choose for his morning’s work.
“Posts and telegraph. Radio station. Meanwhile paralyze capital and police with a General Strike led by Morote and his Communists.”
It was not worth while to point out that Morote was a Socialist. Such subtle distinctions never meant much to a frightened American, whether he hailed from San Vicente or New York. It was true that, on paper, the difference between Socialists and Communists was chiefly evident to themselves. But since to them it was so evident, Vidal should surely accept it as a reality — and a reality reinforced by the fact that the northern democracies of Europe, those pillars of political respectability, were all of them Socialist in name or in practice.
“Morote won’t move,” he said positively.
“You know? How do you know?”
“Oh — the freemasonry of the Army. Sometimes we can guess more accurately than the police.”
“What astonishes me, friend Miro, is that your information never seems to cost you anything. Now, here is something I will give you in return — from the freemasonry of the bankers. Two days after you asked him for leave, Don Jesús-María transferred half his capital abroad.”
Vidal waited for comment and examined his left hand, as if it were the delicate, surgical instrument which had probed the Captain General’s intentions.
“Don Jesús-María is, I think, neutral,” said Miro, aware that he was out of his depth in evaluating such subtle tidbits, “by which I mean that his undoubted abilities will be at the disposal of the winning side.”
“And after he let you go to La Joya, he assumed that would be Avellana’s side.”
“But he has nothing much to gain or lose either way.”
“Hasn’t he? If you stood behind Avellana and if you wished for command of the Army . . .”
“You exaggerate, Don Gregorio,” Miro protested. “He knows me too well to think I would set myself up as a Caudillo.”
“But he would also see that there is nothing to stop you. General, here is the interest to me of Don Jesús-María’s financial transactions. He is certain that if you declared for Avellana the whole Army would follow you, and that I could not count on any armed support.”
“I will guarantee that Avellana’s revolution will be smothered before it starts,” said Miro, almost casually. “If a morning is enough for him, it is also enough for Fifth Division. After that, action is up to you. What else can you rely on?”
“Hombre! I can rely on the police and the civil governors if they are not in personal danger. I can rely on every man who is honestly making money and wants freedom to make more. I can rely on every responsible citizen who wishes our Guayanas to reach the peace and plenty of a little United States. But they are none of them very fond of bullets.”
“They will not be exposed to them. But there is a risk which you haven’t mentioned.”
“What is that?”
“The Presidential Guard. Please don’t think it the prejudice of a professional soldier.”
Vidal rose from his chair, agitated and resentful.
“I have added to their pay from my personal —”
“Don Gregorio, I am not criticizing, but pay is not everything. Avellana’s traditionalism is just the sort of thing to appeal to the guard — especially since they resent being included by you in my command.”
The President gripped his desk with fingers unnaturally white and stared at the calm, the now fatherly figure sitting opposite.
“I am horribly afraid,” he said. “But I dare not show it.”
“A soldier can nearly always say the same. That is what we call courage.”
“Really? You mean it?” asked Vidal, much relieved.
“Of course. I respect you and congratulate you, my President.”
It was quite true. Miro felt his first real affection for the absurd, able little man. He was living up to the traditions of his viceregal beard. After all, refusal to show fear was always due to the strength of a convention, social, religious or military. Inspire the tradition, and all the rest followed.
“To die at the end of a lance, Miro . . . That is what appalls me. I cannot look at the sentries of the guard without thinking of a red pennant in my stomach. To be shot is different. It doesn’t hurt, I take it. One cannot struggle for consciousness with a bullet in one’s heart. It is not the same thing as wriggling without dignity while one’s hands grip the shaft.”
“A nightmare, Don Gregorio!” Miro protested cheerfully. “You haven’t earned enough hatred for that. Gil Avellana wants you out of action, yes. But he is not a murderer.”
“Possibly. Indeed, I am sure of it. But in the heat of the moment? And the troopers of the guard are simple. Think what a pleasure it would be to boast, years after in a tavern, that with one’s own lance one had killed a President!”
“Pleasure or remorse,” said Miro. “They get just as much kick out of it. But, if you agree, we will not leave the decision to the guard. Any excuse will do. The divisional engineers could be detailed to repair the old gunports. And they do not move without their Sten guns. As for other tactical points, I think the Armored Brigade and one or two of my new Combat Groups will ensure the control of posts and telegraphs, the loyalty of the police, and the safety — shall we say? — of the civil governor. I shall try to avoid any provocation in the Barracas and to Morote’s men.”
“Yes. Very good. Very military. But perhaps — well — a little overwhelming,” Vidal murmured.
“You would prefer to let Avellana commit himself?”
“So long as you are confident, I would. It’s not that I need evidence of guilt. I have enough already if I want to use it. Miro, you cannot understand this country as I do. You must remember San Vicente has a soul. It can go raving mad. It will chase a Fonsagrada through the streets and forget all about him two weeks later. But it will never forget or forgive a sudden show of such overwhelming military power as you propose. You and I, for all our lives, would be feared and distrusted. We must smother Avellana’s revolution quickly, but we must not make it absolutely impossible.”
That was a subtle politician’s point which no mere military appreciation would ever have considered at all. Again Miro found himself respecting his President. Clearly Gregorio Vidal had a lot more to him than the Managerial Society. He might even be easy to work with if he were compelled to be, in fact as well as name, commander in chief. But if he wanted to make a show of suppressing revolution easily and mercifully instead of brutally preventing it, there was going to be one difficult moment.
“You realize, Don Gregorio, that if I am not to station troops in the town until the Avellanistas have committed themselves, there will be at least ten minutes before I can surround them and regain control. During those ten minutes San Vicente and — if my suspicions are right — the Palace will belong to Avellana.”
“They will arrest me?”
“I am sure that is all. And so are you.”
“What shall I do?”
“My dear Don Gregorio,” said Miro, smiling, “there is no human situation which you cannot handle better than I. I should not dream of giving you advice. I know very well that your geniality and exquisite manners will prohibit any unpleasantness whatever. And while you are still showing your surprise a
nd disillusionment, I shall arrive.”
“You will come yourself?”
“Of course. I am the garrison commander, and this is mutiny. I shall use a squadron of armored cars under Lieutenant Colonel Irigoyen. You know him, I believe. A steady, coolly daring officer who will go very far.”
“How are you to know? The Avellanistas will cut the wires, and anyway they will have the telephone exchange.”
“No difficulty at all. I will leave one transmitter in the hands of anyone you trust, and another under your desk which will send out a simple signal whenever you push the switch. Somehow Avellana seems to me the kind of man who forgets the advance of science.”
“He’d take us all back to the horse and cart if he could,” said Vidal bitterly. “And what the devil is wrong with skyscrapers and Coca-Cola anyway?”
That exasperated question was not at all easy to answer, Miro thought, as he returned to the Citadel. Yet it underlay the whole bitter political quarrel, this spiritual contest between chromium plate and the man in the saddle. You could uphold the right of the people, whatever the cost, to live as their contemporaries in richer countries. Or you could cut your imports, take over the land; risk the refusal of the United States to finance Socialist reform and create a self-sufficient, possibly contented Guayanas. And which was likeliest to bring a little security, a slightly higher standard of living to Juan’s Indians in Los Venados and Morote’s half-fed followers in the Barracas?
He felt that there was a symbol in this familiar road from San Vicente to the Citadel, by which he had promised that the armored cars could reach the Palace in ten minutes. It certainly would not be good for them. But after all Felicia could reach the seafront in four and a half.
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