Rich whitey turned crimson. “Amazing how our tastes coincide!”
“Don Celes, see you later.”
“‘Later’ being tomorrow?”
Don Santos swayed his head. “If earlier, earlier. I never sleep.”
Don Celes fawned. “Master of Energy, as they say in our Daily News.”
Tyrant bid him a ritual farewell, his voice slipping down a greased pole of cackle.
VII
Awesome as a bird of night, Tyrant Banderas loomed at the window. From that height he surveyed the open ground where Indian units armed with antique rifles maneuvered. The city shimmered in the reflected light of the emerald sea. A breeze wafted scents of orange and tamarind. Bright festive balloons lit up the distant, empty sky. Santa Fe was staging its autumn fiestas, a tradition that dated back to the Spanish viceroys. Don Celes’s fine horse and tilbury tripped lightly past the monastery chapel. A childish chessboard of flat pink and white roofs, the shining city climbed the hill above the harbor’s curve. The white-capped waves glistened, and the barracks’ buglers shot red flares into the deep blue of the desolate evening. Whitey’s tilbury scurried like a black widow up the sunny end of the Mostenses slope.
VIII
A remote, motionless sentinel at the window, Tyrant Banderas continued to loom like some sacred fowl. The Mostenses slope floated in the seaside sunset’s luminous glow and a blind man, pockmarked by smallpox, strummed his guitar. Prickly pears waved their arms like candelabra from Jerusalem. The singer’s voice ripped through the misty silence of the sea:
Diego Pedernales came
from noble stock,
but he didn’t claim
blood’s privilege.
Book Two
<
id="heading_id_37">The Minister for Spain
>
I
For many years the Spanish legation had occupied a mansion with a tiled façade and gnarled timber balconies, next to a melancholy French pond that romantic tradition dubbed the Vicereine’s Hand Mirror. With a high brow stuffed with licentious fantasies, the Baron of Benicarlés, His Catholic Majesty’s plenipotentiary minister, radiated a morbid romanticism, like the vicereine gazing at her own features in her garden mirror. His Excellency Don Mariano Isabel Cristino Queralt y Roca de Togores, Baron of Benicarlés and Master Chevalier of Ronda, chattered like an old spinster and pranced like a prima donna. Bleary-eyed, stout, witless, and prattling, he exuded a saccharine sweetness. His hands and throat dripped flab; he parleyed with a French nasal twang; and his fleshy eyelids harbored gelid fantasies from perverse literature. He was a threadbare stuffed shirt, a literary snob, a dabbler in decadent salons redolent with the rites and catechisms of French poetasters. The shade of the ardent vicereine, taking refuge at the back of her erstwhile garden, eyed his love fests without women and cried her heart out, perplexed, jealous, and veiling her face.
II
All Saints’ Day and the Day of the Dead. At such times the Vicereine’s Way was full of stalls and sideshows, brightly lit and bustling. Whitey’s tilbury trotted foppishly until it came to a halt in front of the Spanish legation. A stooping Chinese flunky, pigtail dangling, was mopping the lobby. Don Celes walked up the broad staircase and traversed a gallery hung with shadowy paintings, carved wood, gilts, and silks: whitey experienced a hot flash of grandeur, felt pride and reverence welling up within him; the hum from sonorous, historic names buzzed in his ears and he quivered as if flags and cannons were on parade. His patriotic delusions picked up the rolling rhythms from strident, bombastic anthems. He halted at the back of the gallery. The silent, luminous door opening onto a long, deserted drawing room left baroque whitey curiously dumbfounded. His thoughts panicked and scattered like wild colts, rumps colliding. Suddenly all the Roman candles fizzled out. The plutocrat was irked to find himself in such straits. Stripped of emotion, bereft, terrified, as if he didn’t have a penny to his name, he walked into the empty drawing room and muddied the gilded symmetry of its mirrors and consoles.
III
Sprawled on a chaise longue in a mandarin’s kimono, the Baron of Benicarlés was meticulously delousing his lapdog. Don Celes walked into the room, struggling to re-create a conceited smirk between his protruding pate and ginger whiskers. His paunch seemed curiously depleted. “Minister, am I interrupting?”
“Come in, illustrious Don Celestino.”
The lapdog yelped, and the diplomatic roué gawped and tweaked its ear. “Shush, Merlin! Don Celes, your visits are so few and far between that the first secretary no longer recognizes you.”
A sly, stupid smile spread slowly and smarmily over the diplomatic roué’s wearied, fleshy lips. Don Celes, however, was looking at Merlin. Merlin was showing Don Celes his teeth. His Catholic Majesty’s minister remained aloof, evanescent, and equivocal as he eked out a smile with the incredible elasticity that neutral parties evince in times of war. Caught between the roué’s grin and the lapdog’s fangs and snout, Don Celes was as uncertain as a small child. He leaned over Merlin and oozed affection in a studied, sycophantic manner. “Can’t we be friends?”
The lapdog yapped and settled back on the knees of his master, who was nodding off, his off-white eyes, faintly flecked with blue, bulging like two glass marbles, in an effort to match that product of polished deference and protocol—his fixed smile. A chubby, dimpled hand, the hand of an odalisque, patted the lapdog’s fleece. “Be a good boy now, Merlin!”
“He’s declared war on me!”
The world-weariness pervading the baron’s puffy chops allowed his lapdog to slaver all over him. Turning a ruddier red between his ginger whiskers, Don Celes slowly reinflated his paunch, albeit with a hint of fear, cringing like a catcalled, tongue-tied comedian. As the petite lapdog simpered and slavered, the diplomatic nobody waffled nasally: “Where’s Don Celeste been out wandering? What luminous opinions do you bring me from the Spanish colony? Are you not here as their ambassador? The way has been cleared for you, has it not, dear, illustrious Don Celes?”
Don Celes shrank back: ingratiating, acquiescent, resigned; the bulging temples, apoplectic flab, and burbling belly could hardly hide whitey’s perplexity. He feigned a laugh. “Yet more evidence of your celebrated diplomatic wisdom, dear Baron.”
Merlin yapped and the roué waved a threatening finger. “Don’t interrupt, Merlin. Forgive his lack of courtesy and continue, illustrious Don Celes.”
Don Celes tried to lift his spirits, prayed to himself, made a quick review of all the IOUs he’d issued to the baron, strove desperately not to deflate, closed his eyes. “The colony cannot afford to remain aloof from the politics of the country. They are central to its existence and integrity and the fruit of a considerable effort on its part. As a result of my pacific inclinations and a belief in liberalism when joined with a proper respect for government, I now find myself on the horns of a dilemma as I contemplate the idealism of the revolutionaries and the highly summary procedures of General Banderas. But the Spanish colony has almost convinced me that Banderas is acting correctly. Don Santos Banderas remains the best guarantee of order there is. Victory for the revolution would be a disaster!”
“Victorious revolutionaries are quick to discover prudence.”
“But it is right now that trade is in crisis. Business is bad, finances are shaky, bandits have returned to the countryside.”
The minister rubbed it in: “And what’s worse, civil war!”
“Civil war! Those of us who have resided in this country for many years see that as an endemic plague. But revolutionary ideas are a much more serious threat because they undermine the hallowed foundations of private property. Indian ownership of the land is a demagogic aberration that cannot possibly prevail in well-oiled brains. The colony is unanimous about that. I may have my reservations, but as a man who lives in the real world, I understand that Spanish capital has no choice but to oppose the spirit of revolution.”
His Catholic Majesty’s minister reclined on the chaise
longue, clutching his lapdog to his shoulder. “Don Celes, is this ultimatum from the colony official?”
“Minister, it is not an ultimatum. The colony is only seeking to position itself.”
“Or rather seeking to impose itself?”
“I have not explained myself well. As a businessman, I am unversed in shades of meaning, and if I have suggested in any way that I come in an official capacity, I have a special interest in rectifying the minister’s impression.”
With a glint of irony in his faded blue eyes, the Baron of Benicarlés sank his odalisque hands into his lapdog’s silken fleece. He curled his flabby lips, still fatigued by recent indulgence, into a snarl of displeasure. “Illustrious Don Celestino, you are one of the most outstanding financial, intellectual, and social figures in the colony...Your opinions are indeed noteworthy...Nonetheless, you are not yet the Spanish minister. A truly unfortunate circumstance! But there is one way to remedy that: simply send a wire demanding that I be posted back to Europe. I’ll endorse the request and sell you my furniture at a bargain price.”
The rich man reveled in his clever repartee. “Including Merlin as an adviser?”
The diplomatic dolt greeted the witticism coldly and limply, simply killed it dead. “Don Celes, advise our Spaniards here to refrain from involving themselves in the politics of this country, to remain strictly neutral, and not, through any kind of intemperate response, to undermine the actions of the diplomatic corps. Forgive me, my distinguished friend, for not granting you more of my time, but I must dress in order to go and compare impressions with the English legation.”
And the faded roué, in the waning light of his boudoir, fished his haughty blue blood for a suitably crushing gesture.
IV
Don Celes crossed the drawing room, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. More than ever, he was terrified that he was about to deflate. The ancient, pigtailed Chinese flunky was still mopping the flagstones like a manic child. Don Celes felt the complete contempt for the yellow man any whitey should. “Get out of my way, you bastard. Don’t sully my patent-leather boots!”
The double shelves of his paunch swayed as he tiptoed to the door and summoned his swarthy driver. The driver was lounging in the shade of laurel trees with other down-and-outs, next to an outdoor bar. Skittles and piano rolls. “Get a move on, you idiot!”
V
The Vicereine’s Way was lit up and bustling. Cheapjacks, guitars, gas lamps, bunting. Santa Fe was making merry, in a dizzy spin, in a feverish wave of light and shadow: Indian firewater and knives, cards and licentious dancing triggered violent, tumultuous images. The dark, desolate beat of life echoed across the open moat. In such a tragic, time-devouring frenzy, Santa Fe escaped from soporific, quotidian horrors. The festive din was as deafening as a war cry. Above crests of pomegranate and palm the tiles on the round colonial domes of Saint-Martin of the Mostenses shimmered in the gloaming.
Book Three
<
id="heading_id_38">Slot-the-Frog
>
I
His stint at the office over, Tyrant Banderas walked under the archway of the lower cloister and into the Friars Garden. Hangers-on and aides-de-camp followed. “Duty done! Now, if you agree, my friends, let’s spend the backside of the afternoon on an innocent game of slot-the-frog!”
He invited his coterie to join in, in that chummy, patronizing way he had, maintaining his vinegary puss and wiping his skull with a herb-scented handkerchief that was suitable for a schoolmaster or mendicant.
II
A geometrical ruin of cactuses and laurels, the Friars Garden enjoyed sea views: yellow lizards slithered over its tepid walls. The slot-the-frog board, with its fresh lick of green paint, provided the fulcrum for a twilight scene. This was the chosen entertainment of Tyrant’s afternoons—his relief from tedium. Chewing coca leaves, he threw his quoit methodically and meticulously, and when he missed, his mouth grimaced a deep green. Keen to win, he never missed a move and was never distracted by the rounds of rifle fire that raised puffs of smoke along the sweep of the bay. Death sentences were carried out at sunset, and every evening a string of revolutionaries was executed. Oblivious to the gunfire, biliously cruel, Tyrant Banderas aimed carefully at the frog’s mouth. Puffs of smoke raced over the sea.
“Frog!”
Ever austere, turning his back on his coterie of cronies, he unfolded his handkerchief and wiped his baldpate. “Just watch me. Don’t let anything distract you from the game!”
A sweet, pungent stench spoke of the jungle close by—where, come twilight, the stars burnt bright in jaguars’ eyes.
III
Crouching in the shade of her lemonade and liquor stand, the old Indian slapped herself and smirked. Tyrant had given the signal: “Right away, boss!”
Doña Lupita clasped her Oriental, dwarfish hands together, pressed the ends of her shawl to her bosom, and pulled it over her matted hair. She smiled slavishly, a scheming serpent’s sly glances, bare feet as smooth as her hands, words honeyed and deceitful. “I’m here to obey, my Generalito!”
Generalito Banderas folded his handkerchief with solemn scruple. “Earning money, Doña Lupita?”
“No, boss, learning to be patient! Patience and toil earn glory in Paradise! Last Friday I bought a rope to hang myself, but an angel intervened. Boss, I kept missing the hook!”
Tyrant Banderas painstakingly chewed his coca leaves, jaw quivering, Adam’s apple leaping.
“Tell me what became of the manila?”
“It’s tied to the Virgin of Lima, boss.”
“What are you asking her for, dear?”
“That you, master, Kid Santos, should rule for a thousand years.”
“Don’t suck up to me, Doña Lupita! What year do your enchiladas date from?”
“They’re just cooling down, boss!”
“And what else does your little stall have to offer?”
“Juicy coconuts. First-class maize liquor, boss! Firewater for gauchos.”
“Ducky, ask this crowd what they fancy. The drinks are on me.”
At the frog board Tyrant’s toadies cowered before their mummy master. Twisting the end of her shawl, Doña Lupita demanded, “What would you boys like to drink? I can offer you the last three intact glasses I have. A drunken colonel smashed the rest to smithereens and ran off without paying a cent.”
Tyrant pronounced laconically, “File an official complaint and justice will be done.”
Doña Lupita twirled her shawl like a pantomime dame. “Generalito, you’ve got to pay just for the clerk to dip his pen into the ink!”
Tyrant’s chin quivered. “That cannot be right. The poorest peasant in the republic is welcome in my audience chamber. Secretary Sóstenes Carrillo, establish a tribunal to investigate these grievous allegations...”
IV
Ruffling her skirts, Doña Lupe jumped up to fetch coconuts from the cool watered earth under her palm-frond shelter. Tyrant relaxed on the stone bench where the friars used to admire the view. His was a mind wearied by much woe. His waxen hands clasped the gold-topped stick with its professorial tassels, his chin shook, and his greenish mouth contorted into an equivocal, mocking, vinegary snarl. “Secretary, that young señorita there sure talks.”
“Boss, she was just spinning a yarn.”
“Typical filthy goat. The old whore! I’ve known her since I was a standard-bearer in the Seventh Light—almost fifty years. A camp follower.”
Doña Lupita eavesdropped, shuffling around her hovel. The secretary addressed her with barbed wit: “Don’t be scared, my dear!”
“I’ll hold my peace, compadre.”
“I’m not under orders to tighten the screw.”
“O blessed judge!”
“So what military officer knocked your stall over, dear?”
“Kid, you put the squeeze on me and that guy will be back wanting revenge!”
“Don’t wimp out. Tell!”
“Don’t put the squeez
e on, Secretary.”
The secretary was happy sparring with the old woman for the entertainment of morbid Tyrant. With a pained look, Doña Lupe produced some coconuts and a machete. Major Abilio del Valle, who prided himself on how many heads he’d chopped off, requested the pleasure of putting the nuts to the blade: he did it as deftly as any Cuban mambí; a returning conquistador, he offered Tyrant the first nut like the skull of a hostile cacique. The old yellow mummy spread his hands and took the coconut half with an extraordinary show of thanks. “Dear Major, let that old moaner have the rest. If it’s poisoned, the two of us will kick the bucket.”
Keen-eyed Doña Lupe took the other half, toasting before drinking: “Dear Generalito, this old hide has nothing but respect for you: may Saint Peter and all the saints in heaven be my witnesses!”
In the shadow of foliage taciturn Tyrant Banderas hunched on the stone bench, an owlish black squiggle. There was something strange and scary about his shadow. His hollow, reedy voice sounded strangely imperious. “Doña Lupita, if you hold me in such high esteem, tell me the name of the drunken rascal who let himself go at your expense. Then you’ll see how Santos Banderas esteems you. Give me your hand, my dear—”
“Big daddy, give it a kiss.”
Without flinching, Tyrant Banderas heard the name the old woman whispered haltingly. Around the frog board his cronies fell silent, cowering and surreptitiously elbowing one another. The Indian mummy muttered, “Chop-chop!”
V
Tyrant Banderas left the board game like a rat on the prowl, cronies close behind. He turned into the cloister; the uniforms canned their horseplay. The mummy jerked his head at López de Salamanca, the chief of police. “When’s the meeting of Democratic Youth scheduled for?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“In the Harris Circus?”
“That’s what the posters say.”
“Who requested permission to hold the meeting?”
“Don Roque Cepeda.”
“Were any objections raised?”
“None at all.”
Tryant Banderas Page 3