“So you’d advise us to pull back to the mountains?”
“That’s what I said. Find a natural fortress that’ll compensate for your lack of men.”
“I like it! That’s military science, that’s what’s taught in the schools! I grant you that. But I’m not a scientist and I’ve never seen the inside of cadet school. Domiciano, your battle plan’s no good at all. As you must have figured out, I’m launching a coup in Santa Fe tonight. I’ve been planning it for months, and now there just happens to be a packet unloading at the wharfs that my men and I will be taking to Snake Point. We’ll come ashore on the beach there. We’ll take the prison guard by surprise, arm the prisoners, and incite the troops in the garrison to revolt. I’ve already won over the sergeants. That’s my plan, Domiciano.”
“You’re staking everything on a single card! But what about Fabius Maximus? Do you think you know better than him? What’s your plan of retreat? Have you forgotten a good general is never rash, never rushed, never attacks without a plan of retreat? That’s what Fabius Maximus says. That’s basic. I’m telling you, the general who grasps the burning brand and fights on our plains by skillfully abandoning territory, he’ll defeat all the Hannibals and Napoleons in the world. Filomeno, revolutionaries have no choice but to play the gambit the Romans used against the Carthaginians. That’s how it is!”
“Such eloquence!”
“It’s irresponsible of you to lead a bunch of men to slaughter.”
“Boldness and Lady Luck win campaigns, not algebra from the academies. How did the heroes of independence go about it?”
“On a wing and a prayer. They were popular myths, not great strategists. The leader of the pack was Simón Bolívar, and he was the worst general. War is about scientific technique, and you’re transforming it into the spin of a roulette wheel.”
“Too true.”
“You’re arguing like a fool.”
“Maybe! I’m no scientist. I just follow my hunches. I’m off to Santa Fe to collect the head of Generalito Banderas!”
“Or lose your own...”
“We’ll see. Time will tell.”
“Yours is a campaign without tactics, banditry flying in the face of military science. Listen to the general staff of the Revolutionary Army, be a tiny grain of sand on the mountain—that’s what you should do. But you ignore discipline and indulge in this fantastical foray. You’re arrogant. You’re ambitious. That’s what you are. Pay no attention to me. Do what you think best. Sacrifice your peons. They’ve sweated for you. Now take their blood. Even-steven!”
“My conscience is clear. You won’t budge me. My hunch will win the day.”
“Your hunch is just a lust for power.”
“You don’t get it, Domiciano. I’ll win this war as easily as snuffing out a candle.”
“But if you don’t, you’ll have let your friends down and left everyone in despair!”
“Or serve as an inspiration.”
“Yes, a hundred years from now, children will study you in the nation’s schools! But now isn’t History. Now we need realistic goals. All this talk is making me thirsty. Pass me your canteen.”
He took a swig, struck his flint, and lit a dead butt, flicking ash over his Tibetan-god potbelly.
IV
The boss marched a mere fifty men through the mangrove swamp until he saw the packet unloading at a sawmill wharf. Filomeno told the pilot to throw the sails to the wind and heave to at Snake Point. The luminous reel from a lighthouse whirled on the horizon. Once the men had boarded, the packet silently weighed anchor. The moon navigated over the still life to port, a sailing ship on the beautiful briny. Its prow spurted sprays of silver and a black singer standing in the shadow of the jib drew a circle of listeners, declaiming poetry in a lyrical stream of liquid lisps. Sprawled on bunks, his students dealt out cards and oil lamps picked out sharp tricks by the hatchways and orlop decks. From the shadow of the jib the black professor continued to regale them with his lyrical, lisping bouquet:
Thail on, swifth keel!
Fear thee not!
No enemy vethell,
no thempest, no lull,
shall make thee yield
or thwerve from thy path.
Part One
A Symphony from the Tropics
Book One
Icon of a Tyrant
I
Santa Fe de Tierra Firme—sand dunes, agaves, mangroves, prickly pears—Snake Point on maps of old.
II
On a hilltop, between pomegranate and palm, surveying the vast ocean and setting sun, the tiled colonial domes of Saint-Martin of the Mostenses were ablaze. A sentinel hoisted his shining bayonet in the belfry without bells. In those times of change, Saint-Martin of the Mostenses, a monastery from which the monks had been cast out by a long-ago revolution, served as the headquarters of President Don Santos Banderas: Kid Santos; Tyrant Banderas.
III
The generalito had just ridden up with his Indian battalions, after he’d executed the insurgents of Zamalpoa. Taciturn, stiff, silhouetted at a far window, watching the changing of the guards across the dingy grounds of the monastery, he looked like a death’s-head in black spectacles and clerical cravat. He had waged war against the Spanish in Peru and he still had the coca-chewing habit he’d picked up during that campaign. Green venomous drool forever flowed from the corners of his mouth. Like a sacred raven, vigilant and still in his distant window, he reviewed his Indian squadrons, melancholy in their cruel indifference to pain and death. Chinitas and camp followers hustled and bustled among the serried ranks, ferreted for a plug of tobacco amid the coins and crumbs in their pouches, or found a copper for the keeper of the harem. A brightly colored globe burnished the sky-blue turquoise as purple shadows invaded the monastery’s barren grounds. Some of the troops, Comaltec Indians from the depths of the jungle, looked up. The Day of the Dead; All Saints’ Day: Santa Fe was holding its famous fiestas. At that distant window Tyrant Banderas was the scrawled image of a night owl.
IV
Holding bayonets rising from black rifles, soldiers marched through the monkish baronial hall escorting an unkempt bum whose face dripped blood. On the right flank, leading the way, Major Abilio del Valle’s saber sliced the air. The jet-black doodle of his mustache stood in violent contrast to his white teeth wolfishly clenching the chinstrap of his broad-brimmed, silver-ribboned sombrero.
“Halt!”
The squad stood to attention and peered up at the monastery windows. Two corporals stepped forward, cowhide lashes strapped sash-like under metal rings across their chests, and stripped off the filthy blanket covering the prisoner’s flesh. Submissive, speechless, back stark naked in the sun, his coppery body slid into the hole, a yard deep as stipulated in the Ordinances for Military Punishment. The two corporals threw some earth in after him and trampled it down, burying him up to his quivering shanks. His naked torso, straggling hair, and fettered hands stuck, dark and dramatic, out of the hole: he rested his goatee on his chest and watched warily as the corporals unfurled their cowhide lashes. The drumbeat thudded and the whipping began, the classic barracks punishment: “One! Two! Three!”
The lousy bum didn’t even moan once, just puked all over his manacled hands, the irons sunk in the hollows of his chest. Blood spurted from his sides and the corporals kept time to the beating of the drum: “Seven! Eight! Nine!”
V
Kid Santos left the window to welcome a delegation from the Spanish colony. They were all dolled up in their Sunday best: the grocer, the pawnbroker, the lecherous playboy, the loudmouth patriot, the quack doctor, the bullying journalist, and the rich man of ill repute, the whole lot lined up to bow to the taciturn, wizened mummy with green spittle trickling from the corners of his lips. Plump, grandiloquent, and rotund Don Celestino Galindo spoke up, greeting the glorious pacifier of Zamalpoa with flattering hyperboles. “The Spanish colony wishes to render homage to a distinguished patrician, a rare example of virtue and energy, wh
o has been able to reestablish the rule of order by inflicting exemplary punishment upon revolutionary demagogues. Nonetheless, in a spirit of noble generosity, the Spanish colony spares a prayer and a tear for those who have fallen victim to a deadly illusion, to a malevolent virus! But the Spanish colony must acknowledge that the only salvation of the orderly flourishing of the republic lies in the inflexible implementation of the law.”
The row of whiteys mumbled their assent: some were rough, ruddy, and brutish; others had the jaundiced look of old shopkeepers; others, bejeweled and paunchy, were bursting with presumption. Their awkwardly gloved hands made them look like family. Tyrant Banderas spewed out a maestro’s well-oiled patter: “I rejoice to see our racial brothers who are rooted here rising to the traditions of the mother country and affirming their unassailable faith in the ideals of order and progress. I rejoice greatly in the moral support of the Spanish colony. Santos Banderas is not the ruthless ruler his adversaries attack. Santos Banderas swears that the happiest day in his life will be the day he retires and, like Cincinnatus, returns to obscurity in order to cultivate his little plot. Believe me, my friends, the duties of the presidency weigh heavily on an old man’s shoulders. A ruler must often stifle the dearest sentiments of his heart because the implementation of the letter of the law is the only way for him to safeguard hardworking, honest citizens. Tears may even well up in a ruler’s eyes when the time comes to sign a death sentence, but his hand must not falter. This is a ruler’s tragedy, and, as I said, it is more than the fortitude of an old man can bear. Among such loyal friends, I can reveal my frailties. I swear my heart was torn asunder when I signed the decree for the executions in Zamalpoa. I didn’t sleep for three nights!”
“Oh, woe!”
The cluster of whiteys scattered. Their patent-leather bunions shuffled about the flagstones. Their clumsy gloved hands flapped hesitantly, unsure where to settle. The whiteys fingered their Brazilian watch chains in silent harmony. The mummy rubbed it in: “Three sleepless, starving days and nights!”
“Oh, woizme!”
Thus spoke a highland vintner from Santander, a squat, swarthy soul with a twang, with hair bristling like a hedgehog and a bull’s neck that overflowed his celluloid collar; his shrill voice shrieked out at just the wrong time, like a theater claque. Tyrant Banderas took out his pouch and passed around some Virginian snout. “Well, as I was saying, my heart is broken and the responsibilities of government have become far too onerous. Find another man to sustain the nation’s finances, to channel its vital energies. I am of the view that the republic possesses individuals who could rule far more successfully than this old veteran. Let the representatives of the nation and of the foreign powers convene to reach an agreement...”
He swayed his parchment head as he spoke, his eyes an enigma behind his greenish spectacles. And the cluster of whiteys cooed sycophantic dissent while Don Celestino cock-a-doodle-dooed: “A man of destiny can only be succeeded by the like!”
The line burst into applause, shuffling around the flagstones like steers swatting at hornets. Tyrant Banderas shook pompous whitey’s hand as earnestly as a Quaker. “Stay on, Don Celes, and we’ll have a game of slot-the-frog.”
“It will be my pleasure!”
But as a parting shot Tyrant Banderas sent the other whiteys off with an aloof, curt farewell: “Friends, don’t let me distract you any further from your important business. You have given me my orders.”
VI
A barefoot, graying mulatto, breasts bobbling, brought in a tray of chocolate lemonade, the favorite tipple of friars and mayors in the days of the viceroyalty. Silverware and glasses tinkled in the maid’s black hands as she glanced at her boss hesitantly, questioningly. Kid Santos grimaced like a death’s-head in the direction of the trestle table that spread its spidery legs under an archway. The mulatto obeyed, flapping her skirts. Docile, moist, and lascivious, she fussed and slithered. Kid Santos wet his lips on the lemonade. “I’ve been drinking this cordial for fifty years. It’s medicinal...I can’t recommend it too highly, Don Celes.”
Don Celes stuck out his paunch. “Absolutely, it’s my favorite, too! We have similar tastes, and that’s something I’m so proud of. I’m with you all the way!”
Peevishly dodging smoky spirals of adulation, Tyrant Banderas took shelter behind a taciturn snarl, the corners of his mouth spittle-green. “My friend Don Celes, silver bullets are what’s needed to kill a revolution dead.”
Whitey chimed in even louder: “Bullets that carry no gunpowder and make no racket!”
The mummy grimaced enigmatically. “That’s right, my friend, silent ones are best. There are two critical moments in every revolution: the moment for drastic executions and the moment for silver bullets. My dear Don Celes, only silver bullets ensure the finest victories. It’s politic now to make overtures to those in revolt. I respect my enemies and know only too well that they have many supporters in neighboring republics. There are men of learning among the revolutionaries, whose brains should be ticking on behalf of the fatherland. Intelligence deserves our respect, don’t you agree, Don Celes?”
Don Celes flushed and smiled in greasy accord. “One hundred percent! I’m with you all the way!”
“I want silver bullets for those men of learning: they include some of our finest intellects. They outshine eminent figures abroad. Let them study in Europe and give us guidance from there. They belong in diplomatic circles...at scientific congresses...in committees for foreign relations.”
The well-heeled paunch concurred. “That’s what I call a sensible policy!”
And the generalito whispered confidentially, “Don Celes, I need a good supply of silver in order to pursue such a policy. What do you reckon, my friend? Be loyal, and let’s keep this to ourselves. I’m taking you on as an adviser; I recognize how valuable you are.”
Don Celes blew on his cream-frosted mustache, inhaling with sybaritic relish the barbershop aromas that rose up off his person. His large onion of a baldpate gleamed like a Buddha belly and his thoughts evaporated in a haze of Oriental mirages. “The contract for feeding the Liberation Army.”
Tyrant Banderas shattered the spell. “You’re giving this some thought, as you should. This is important business.”
Whitey patted his paunch and exclaimed, “My wealth, needless to say, is nothing to speak of and currently much the worse for wear, but for what it’s worth it is always at the service of the government. What help I can give is limited, but it represents the fruit of honest toil in a generous nation that I love like an adopted fatherland—”
Generalito Banderas interrupted, irritated, as if flicking off a horsefly. “Couldn’t the Spanish colony stump up a loan?”
“The colony has suffered a lot recently. Nonetheless given its close links with the republic—”
The generalito pursed his lips and expatiated. “Doesn’t the Spanish colony realize how the revolution endangers its interests? Then it should react accordingly. The government is counting on the colony to ensure the victory of the forces of order. Pernicious propaganda is plunging the country into anarchy.”
Don Celes purred and swelled. “The Indian landowner is the utopian dream of university crackpots.”
“Agreed. That’s why I said that our men of learning must be given positions far away from the country, where their talents can do no harm. Don Celestino, ready silver is indispensable, and it’s up to you to provide it. See the secretary of finance. Don’t dawdle. Our accountant has the matter in hand and will put you in the picture; discuss guarantees and resolve everything forthwith. It’s urgent to hit the revolutionaries with silver bullets. The news agency’s slanders are seducing the foreign powers! We have protested these defamations through diplomatic channels, but that’s hardly enough. My dear Don Celes, I leave it to your eloquent quill to draw up a statement that, signed by the preeminent members of the Spanish colony, will enlighten the government of the mother country. The colony must get these statesmen with their h
eads in the clouds to see that this revolutionary ideology is the yellow peril of Latin America. Revolution means ruination for the big Spanish landowners. They should be aware of that across the pond and act accordingly. Don Celestino, these are troubled times! I hear rumors that the diplomatic corps intends to protest the executions in Zamalpoa. Do you know if the minister for Spain will back such a protest?”
Rich whitey’s baldpate flushed a deep red. “That would be a slap in the colony’s face!”
“And do you think the minister for Spain has the nerve for that?”
“He’s on the apathetic side...does what comes easiest. But he’s not a straightforward fellow.”
“Doesn’t he do business?”
“He does debts, debts he doesn’t pay. Is that big enough business for you? He views his posting to the republic as a form of exile.”
“Do you suspect monkey business?”
“I do.”
“Well, that must be avoided.”
Whitey had a sudden stroke of inspiration and patted his bulging brow. “The colony can put pressure on the minister.”
Don Santos’s smile split his green Indian mask down the middle. “That’s what I call slotting the frog’s gob in one. You need to act urgently. The interests of the Spanish community run contrary to the utopian schemes of diplomats. All that equivocating over protocol shows they know nothing about the realities of the Americas. There’s only one good policy around here, which is to view humanity as an entelechy with three heads: Creole, Indian, Negro. Three kinds of human. Anything else is pure idiocy.”
Pompous baroque whitey held out his hand. “My admiration rises higher and higher as I listen to you!”
“Don’t delay, Don Celes. In the meantime, I think I’ll postpone my invitation to play slot-the-frog until tomorrow. You do like playing slot-the-frog, don’t you? It’s the medicine I take to relax and ever since I was a kid, my favorite game. I play every afternoon. It’s very healthy and it doesn’t bankrupt you like other games.”
Tryant Banderas Page 2