Victoria at the Falklands

by Jack Tollers

  Chapter Four

  Stormy weather

  It had been decided that they would go in the old family car, an archaic Ford Falcon, one of the first that had been introduced into the country at the end of the fifties, painted in jade with loud red tapestry on the inside. Jimmy's mother hated the looks of it and refused to move in the dreadful thing quite unruffled by her husband's expostulations on the advantages of American mechanics, which he staunchly upheld against anyone siding with European motorcars. However, being of a more theoretical turn of mind than an effective driver, he had not used the car much, and when Jimmy came of age he benefited from this, being one of the very few young men that in those days had a car at his disposal. What is more, it was always in good condition owing to his father's loving care, having it washed once a week and constantly controlling its tyres, oil pressure and what not. On the other hand, he was surprisingly generous in lending it to his son in an offhand way, only recommending them not to drive after more than a beer or two. Little did he know about the clumsy driving the car was subjected to when Jimmy and his friends came back from their binges.

  It was in this vehicle that the three took to the streets on that Saturday evening. Jimmy had arranged to pick Thomas up and, sure enough, he was duly waiting for them on a prearranged corner. He hopped in beside Veronica in excellent spirits, though in a rather dishevelled condition. He was an unassuming but blithe-spirited young man, of middle height and juvenile looks even if his thin fair hair revealed patches of premature baldness here and there. He dressed in the conventional way of those days, when black moccasins, blue jeans and a blue or red tee-shirt were absolute musts, as well as abundant brilliantine for good measure. Thomas had a startlingly high-pitched voice and a characteristic tendency to sway a bit to his right and left while talking. Nobody in his senses would have catalogued him as handsome or anything like it, but a lot of girls were attracted by the very force of his personality, if not by his good looks. Thomas was older than his friends, in his mid twenties, and had met Jimmy a couple of years before on occasion of a spiritual retreat preached by one of the few well known traditionalist priests who hang on to their cassock and Latin mass against all odds. The retreat had ended with a tea party and Thomas had happened to sit at the same table with the officer candidate. They got on like a house on fire. Under the stimulating influence of three whole days of absolute silence they were soon chatting away about six topics at the same time and eventually found out that Thomas lived only a few blocks away from Jimmy's home. That evening they had gone to his place and had continued their enthusiastic conversation over one bottle of wine after another—their most recent ascetic purposes and promises discreetly vanishing in the midst of that so very particular enthusiasm that grips young people when they happen to strike up a new friendship. Jimmy soon introduced Peter to his new friend and before long he discovered that Thomas was always willing to talk about any subject under the sun, quite capable of going on and on until the small hours in the morning, as was the case that first night. Thomas appeared to be rather timid when one first met him, but after some time, if and when he had decided that you enjoyed books the way he did, and music, and history, and philosophy, and girls, and so on, he elaborated on any of these subjects with unusual wit and unabashed verbiage.

  Of course, by now they knew each other quite well, and, as usual, Thomas keenly dived into the conversation. Peter, Jimmy and his sister soon learnt about the circumstances that explained his appearance, uncombed and not dressed like his usual prim self.

  ‘The problem with the Nationalist tradition is that it is, precisely that, nationalist,’ he blurted to his bewildered audience while Jimmy deftly swerved the car to his left to avoid collision with an absent-minded cyclist. Veronica made a face at him through the car's window.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Peter, not quite able to suppress a grin. He well knew that these peculiar Thomas-tirades announced fun.

  ‘Well, the way I see it is that in this country Nationalists have quite obvious shortcomings and faults when not showing themselves as outright fools—and you can find more than one of them among us if you look around a bit.’

  Thomas opened the back window and lit a cigarette, while he gave a wink to Veronica. The other two in front couldn't see it, but they could well hear it, so to speak, in his tone of voice.

  ‘Faults?’ Jimmy graciously entered the game, ‘Shortcomings?... In Nationalists? I can't really see where...’

  Thomas leaned forward to ensure his friends heard him over the traffic din and the crackle of the car engine.

  ‘Yup, namely, if you ask me, trying to fix enormous problems... No, I mean, er, sacred problems, with their fists and pistols—just like us, half an hour ago.’

  Presently they heard about the circumstances in which Thomas had decided to go to Mass that Saturday evening having figured that by the end of the service he would still have ten comfortable minutes at his disposal until Jimmy appeared with his car on their way to Bella Vista. Apparently in that church, St Nicholas of Bari, a group of juvenile Catholics had arranged with the young priest there to play the guitar and sing some profane and sentimental songs during the service—the sort of things young girls would sing around a camp fire—an unheard of practice till then in that Parish, and quite a contrast with the old church music, on occasions punctuated by an organ, but never before by any other instrument.

  ‘When I got to the parish with a most pious disposition I happened to see two comrades giving quite a beating to a couple of young bigots, while a third one—I don't know if you happen to know old Coco De Napoli—was shattering a guitar against a wall.’

  Except Veronica they all laughed at the preposterous scene so depicted. Encouraged, Thomas’ voice reached higher pitches.

  Veronica just couldn't believe her ears.

  ‘No, but, I say...’

  ‘Well, anyway, when I got to where the brawl was in full force, I discovered that our comrades there were only four or five and that the enemy was made up of quite a crowd of fresh youngsters eager to spill their blood in the name of Vatican II’s celebrated spirit. So there was nothing I could do except enter into the fray and do my bit in defence of the by now surrounded troops. Fortunately the Police arrived and I just managed to disappear among the shouts and general chaos, not before having delivered one or two good blows myself—as well as receiving my due.’ He nursed his left ear.

  ‘Well, as I was saying, this is another case of the blatant Nationalist tomfoolery which will never get us anywhere and it pertains, as I say, to the best Nationalist tradition.’ He sighed affectedly while throwing his cigarette butt through the window.

  ‘Well, but, I mean, not always...’ Peter protested.

  The car had stopped in front of a railway barrier, waiting for a train to pass so Thomas now had no need to talk at the top of his voice, and accordingly his tone of voice scaled down to something closer to normal.

  ‘I mean, the very idea that you can stop liturgical desacralisation by breaking old guitars against old walls, I ask you. It's a rum thing. Might as well try to stop the American way of life and its gobbling up this country with a whip... or a pistol, or the atomic bomb, for that matter.’

  He paused for breath and a bewildered Veronica chipped in. ‘But why did you join in the fight then?’ she naively asked.

  Thomas replied with a frown. ‘There are a dozen answers to that one, but I'll give you three for a start. One, I love street fights.’ He used his right hand fingers for the counting. ‘Two, a couple of comrades were losing a battle and that appeals irresistibly to any Nationalist comme il faut; losing battles is the speciality of the house,’ he chuckled, ‘And thirdly,’ he paused, ‘thirdly, uh, well I forget.’ They all laughed at this.

  ‘All right. But why the devil do you call yourself a Nationalist then, if things are as you say,’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Well’, Thomas was obviously enjoying the cross-questioning, ‘in the first plac
e, it's the only live tradition extant. Show me another one and I'll happily subscribe to it as soon as I have proof of it being a real tradition, and not one of these oriental fakes your Woodstock youngster goes for. But again, let me tell you that you don't exactly choose a tradition. Things work the other way round. Nobody chooses his parents, or country or, for that matter, baptises himself. When you are born you land, as it were, in a place where a tradition is waiting for you.’

  Jimmy was trying to remember who the devil had said that civilization is a place where you receive so many blessings that in a lifetime you'd never be able to pay back enough.

  By now the car was well on its way on the Panamericana highway, an ambitious road project that would connect Buenos Aires with Miami if you were to believe the current military authorities.

  With the car’s speed, Thomas's verbosity gained new impetus.

  ‘Last and not least, because I love Nationalists for some of their faults which are difficult to find in others, such as staying up all night arguing about French poetry, Bauhaus architecture, jazz music or the Crusades.’

  ‘Or, perhaps, the sex of angels?’ quipped Jimmy.

  ‘Exactly.’ Thomas smiled. ‘That is the reason why I love Vocos Lescano's sonnet to Lucas Padilla.’

  He proceeded to recite it at the top of his voice while the old car arrived at Bella Vista.

  It was dark by now and they had some difficulty finding Veronica's friend's house. When they eventually got there, Jimmy fumbled around the car for a pencil and a piece of paper while Peter was asking Thomas who the hell Lucas Padilla was.

  Veronica disembarked moodily fighting off a bit of mud she had picked up with her sandals as soon as her feet had made contact with Bella Vista's somewhat inhospitable ground. She left the three boys in the car, shaking her head at their quirks, while searching for a bell to ring at the gate.

  Through the hedge she could see a glow from a fire burning in the back garden. While she waited for someone to answer the bell she distinctly heard Thomas's dictation set against some guitar playing in the garden and a couple of dogs barking in the distance.

  While passions are kindled, aflame by the night,

  And all our joys ring at the «Tropezon» bar

  Let’s talk, Luke, philosophy, see who was right

  And spend all the worries that come from afar.

  Come out with the logic, unfold reason's might:

  «Plato would say so, Aquinas would say...»

  Bring out all the music but sing before light

  Unwittingly carries the magic away...