“Were my instructions carried out to the letter?”
“I believe so—”
“The propagation of political ideals, so long as it is within the law, is every citizen’s right and deserves the full respect of the government.”
Tyrant sneered. His chief of police, Colonel López de Salamanca, queried sardonically, “And, General, if there’s trouble—do we suspend the act?”
“The Provision for the Maintenance of Public Order is undoubtedly clear on that front.”
A smarmy nod. “President, sir, the firm application of the law will be my sole concern and top priority.”
“Yes, and if you proceed with an excess of zeal, well, that is always extremely laudable, and it will hardly prove a sacrifice if subsequently you are obliged to tender your resignation. The government will naturally take your record of service into account.”
Colonel: “Has the president any further orders?”
“Have you inquired as instructed into the vicious depravity of the honorable diplomatic corps?”
“Yes, I have, and I’ve made some sensational discoveries.”
“I will be delighted to receive the information at the audience tonight.”
The colonel saluted. “At your orders, General!”
The Indian mummy detained him further, grimacing greenly. “My policy is to respect the law. The gendarmes must assure order at the Harris Circus. Chop-chop! Tonight the Democratic Youth will set an example when it comes to exercising civic rights.”
The chief of police quipped, “Civic and acrobatic.”
Equivocal and sly, Tyrant’s lips were fixed in a green grimace. “Well, who knows! Chop-chop!”
VI
Taciturn Tyrant Banderas walked on. As silent as at a funeral, his cronies trailed behind. He halted in the shadow of the monastery wall, beneath the watchful sentinel in the belfry without bells, bayonet slicing the moon. Tyrant Banderas stood and stared at the starry sky. He loved night. He loved the constellations: the arcane mystery of beautiful enigmas soothed his gloomy soul. He told time by the twinkling of the stars, wondering at their luminous mathematics and the eternal laws that governed them. The whole thing opened a religious vein within his stoic Indian cruelty. He went down to the lower cloisters and heard the nighttime cry of the sentinel in his tower. The ranks of the praetorian guard opened before him, presenting arms. Tyrant Banderas walked past, glancing suspiciously at every soldier’s swarthy face.
Part Two
Bellyaches and Fracas
Book One
<
id="heading_id_40">Iberian Quartz
>
I
Off-color reds and yellows draped the balconies of the Spanish casino. Don Celes’s rickety tilbury was waiting grumpily by the luminous edge of the terrace.
II
“Kill all whiteys!”
“Kill ’em!”
The diaphanous dome of the Harris Circus tent stood out against a green sky glittering with evening stars. In the flickering arc lights, raucous plebs crammed up against its doors. Pairs of cavalrymen stood guard in each side street and Tyrant’s spies, embedded in the crowd, ferreted feverishly. Applause and hurrahs greeted the orators: they arrived in a huddle, surrounded by flag-waving students. Pale, histrionic, and heroic, they welcomed the multitude with a wave of their hats. The tumultuous tide, under the legislating truncheons of the gendarmes, opened a corridor to the Harris Circus entrance. Lights inside shone through the dark canvas dome. Flags waved. Roman candles exploded. People kept shouting and clapping, riotous and defiant in front of the Spanish casino.
“Long live Don Roque Cepeda!”
“Long live the Indians’ liberator!”
“Long live...!”
“Death to tyranny!”
“Death to...!”
“Death to whiteys!”
“Death to...!”
III
Flower arrangements, gilded lamps, and rococo moldings. Big talk, strident, resonant, rough. The Spanish casino was lit up. The executive committee was closing a short meeting by arriving at a series of unwritten agreements in spite of boisterous rumblings of discontent in the lounges. A plot was afoot: rush out in a phalanx, break up the meeting with staves. Whitey’s brass band blasted patriotic airs; bald bridge players slapped down stakes on the beige; uncouth domino players clattered their dominoes and bottles of soda; pool players emerged on the balconies to flourish their cues. Tartuffish grocers and pawnbrokers called for prudence and a squad of gendarmes to keep order. The lights and din brought a politicking, barrack-yard hum to over-ornate saloons that emulate the ministerial suites of the mother country: suddenly a phalanx of whiteys swarmed over the balconies. Screams of applause.
“Long live Spain!”
“Long live General Banderas!”
“Long live the Latin race!”
“Long live the General, Our President!”
“Long live Don Pelayo, the Moor-slayer!”
“Long live the Virgin of Saragossa!”
“Long live Don Isaac Peral, inventor of the submarine!”
“Long live honest traders!”
“Long live the Hero of Zamalpoa!”
Down in the street, the cavalry charged the swarthy, poncho-clad mob and the mob fled, machetes close to its chests.
IV
Protected by the gendarmes, bumptious whiteys spread out in the café. Defiant, arrogant, clapping. Don Celes was chewing on a long Havana between two of his sort: Mr. Contum, a Yankee adventurer with mining interests; and a Spanish landowner, renowned for his wealth, a dimwitted, dour fanatic from Álava, superstitiously devoted to the principle of authority that rules through terror and shock tactics—Don Teodosio del Araco, an Iberian rock of ages perpetuating the colonial tradition of indenture. Don Celes held forth with a self-made man’s showy pride and an eloquence that was meant to dazzle the lackey pouring his coffee. Turmoil in the street as a melee of Indians bustled around the streetlamps. Town criers promoted the rally. Vinegary inquisitor Don Teodosio didn’t mince words: “Just look at that rabble!”
Don Celes blushed and purred, “By authorizing such politicking the government of General Banderas is signaling its respect for all manner of political opinion. This action boosts his prestige! General Banderas doesn’t fear dissent and permits open debate. Recall what he said when granting permission for tonight’s rally to proceed: ‘Citizens will see how the law allows the people a safe framework for the peaceful exercise of their rights.’ Let us all agree that only a great leader speaks in that way. Personally, I think the president’s words will go down in history.”
Don Teodosio del Araco, laconic: “Deservedly.”
Mr. Contum consulted his watch. “Yo muy interesado in hearing the spiches. So mañana yo am bien informado. Yo no oigo it from otros’ lips. Yo oigo it con mis own ears.”
Don Celes puffed himself up and delivered a great vacuous sigh. “No point in polluting ourselves in that stinky, poisonous den!”
“Yo muy interesado in hearing Don Roque Cepeda.”
Don Teodosio expanded his bilious grimace. “A lunatic! An idiot! It’s incredible that a man in his financial position sides with the revolution, people without a share to their name.”
Don Celes riposted with pitying irony: “Roque Cepeda is an idealist.”
“He should be locked up!”
“On the contrary. Set him free to get on with it. He’ll soon bite the dust!”
Don Teodosio shook his head, rent by doubts. “You people don’t realize that those preaching deviants have made the Indians restless. The Indian is naturally nasty—never grateful for the bounty he receives from his boss. He makes a big show of bowing and scraping, and he’s sharpening his machete all the while. He’s only reliable when under the lash: he’s weaker, works less, and gets drunk more often than any Caribbean Negro. I’ve had Negroes, and I’ll guarantee the superiority of the Negro over the Indians of these Pacific republics.”
With gallows humor M
r. Contum pronounced, “If the Indio no so flojo, the white-skins would no vivir so safe in the Paradise of Snake Point.”
Don Celes nodded, fanning himself with his Panama hat. “Too true! But your very formulation underlines how unsuited the Indian is to political activity.”
Don Teodosio rose to the occasion. “The Indian is a lazy drunkard and needs to feel the white man’s lash to work and serve society.”
The Yankee with the mining interests interjected: “Mr. Araco, the amarillo peril can be very dangeroso in these republicas.”
Don Celes protruded his patriotic paunch, tinkling the links of the great chain that girded his belly from one pocket to the other. “These republics will look to the mother country to ensure they never deviate from the path of civilization. It is from the mother country that these twenty nations seek illumination for their historical destinies!”
Mr. Contum’s skinny, white parrot’s profile stretched with scorn. “If the Spanish whiteys are still in control, it’s thanks to nothing but U.S. guns and boats.”
The Yankee half closed one eye and surveyed the curve of his nose. The Indians were still hustling and bustling under the streetlamps.
“Death to Uncle Sam!”
“Death to whiteys!”
“Death to all fucking gringos!”
V
At a nearby table, the editor of The Spanish Criterion was sipping a pineapple, soda, and kirsch cocktail that had brought fame to the barman of the Metropol Room. Pompous and rotund, Don Celes patrolled the pavement, fanning himself with his Panama hat. “Congratulations on your editorial! I completely agree with the line you take.”
The owner-editor of The Spanish Criterion had an overblown, jingoistic, florid style and a fervid following among whitey grocers and pawnbrokers. Don Nicolás Díaz del Rivero, a prickly character, hid his hypocrisy under a coarse accent from the Ebro Valley. He’d been a Carlist in Spain, until he embezzled the funds of the Seventh Navarrese. In the colonies he lauded the cause of the restoration: he’d won two Great Crosses, the splendid title of count, and a bank on the basis of securities pledged, but nothing as an honest man. Don Celes swaggered over to him, Panama pressed to his paunch, taking his cigar from his lips and offering his hand. “What do you reckon about tonight’s performance? Will we be reading your review in the morning?”
“Whatever the red pencil lets through. But please be seated, Don Celes. I have first-rate bloodhounds. One of them is bound to bring me whatever news there is. I hope we won’t see any regrettable disturbance of public order tonight! All this revolutionary propaganda makes passions rise...”
Don Celes pulled up a rocking chair and flopped down, fanning himself continuously with his Panama. “If the rabble takes to the streets, I’d blame Don Roque de Cepeda. Have you seen that smart-ass lunatic? He could do with a spell in Santa Mónica.”
The editor of The Spanish Criterion leaned over confidentially. With a grand, enigmatic gesture he calmed the tempest in the air. “They must have set the rattrap already. What impression did you glean from your visit to the general?”
“The general is concerned by the attitude of the diplomatic corps. He means to abide by the law, which is why he has authorized this rally. Or perhaps, as you say, it’s just a rattrap!”
“Don’t you think that would be a masterstroke? But perhaps it’s simply the concern you just noted...But look who’s here, Larrañaga the Seer. Seer, come near...”
VI
Larrañaga the Seer was young and lean, pallid and smooth-cheeked: romantic hair, a loose bootlace tie, rings on his mournful hands, the sweet innocence of a passionate soul. He came over, nodding shyly. “Advocate Sánchez Ocaña has only just begun to speak—”
The publisher interrupted him. “Did you take notes? Pass them on. I’ll take a look and send them on to the printer. What effect did he have on the audience?”
“On the masses—enormous. There was the occasional protest from the gods, but applause won the day. He had the audience eating out of his hands.”
Don Celes looked up at the stars, as the smoke rose from his cigar. “Is Advocate Sánchez Ocaña really and truly such an eloquent orator? In the few dealings I’ve ever had with him, he’s struck me as being quite mediocre.”
The seer smiled shyly and avoided giving an opinion. Don Nicolás Díaz del Rivero directed the full glare from his spectacles at his copy. Larrañaga the Seer, hunched and silent, waited. The publisher looked up. “You lack political insight. We can’t say that ‘the audience greeted Advocate Sánchez Ocaña with a standing ovation.’ You could write, on the other hand, ‘Dutiful applause from a few of his friends couldn’t hide the vagaries of an eloquence that was anything but Ciceronian.’ You report in perfunctory fashion. You seem less and less a journalist every day!”
Larrañaga the Seer gave a shy smile. “And I was afraid I had over-censored myself!”
The publisher continued glancing over his copy. “‘I found myself’ is a gallicism.”
The seer quickly corrected himself: “‘I evidenced.’”
“Not allowed by the Academy.”
The breeze brought a faint ripple of applause and hurrahs. The hollow voice of Don Celes boomed out: “Plebs everywhere are dazzled by metaphors.”
The publisher looked reproachfully at his cub reporter.
“Why so much applause? Do you know who’s speaking?”
“Probably the advocate still.”
“So what are you doing here? Go back and help your colleague. Listen here, my little seer: I’ve got an idea, and if you pull it off it’s going to be a prize scoop. Write the review like the review of a circus act, complete with tame parrots. Turn up the flimflam! Begin with a vote of thanks to the Harris Brothers Company.”
Don Celes purred, “Now there’s a pedigree reporter!”
Cryptically wrinkling his lips and lashes, the publisher ignored the compliment; he went on talking to the lean little seer: “Who’s with you?”
“Friar Mocho.”
“Don’t let him be taken in by that crew!”
Larrañaga the Seer shrugged his shoulders. With a bored smile, he repeated, “See you soon.”
Applause blew their way again.
VII
Touts shout on shiny pavements; Nubian bootblacks zigzag; waiters from American bars carry chinking trays aloft; curvaceous mulattoes conga by the side of the old dear in a shawl. Shapes, shadows, and lights proliferate and crisscross, multiplying hallucinatory, dark vibrations from the Orient ushered in by opium and marijuana.
Book Two
<
id="heading_id_41">The Harris Circus
>
I
Between dense foliage and beaming arc lights the Harris Circus spread out its dark diaphanous parasol. Gendarmes in pairs goose-stepped in front of its brightly lit doors; their drooping, strap-framed mustaches and jutting jawbones terrifying as Chinese masks. Crowds of ordinary people jostled wildly down the broad park paths: gangers with ponchos and machetes, Creoles in silvery broad-brimmed sombreros, villagers wrapped in cotton blankets, and Indians from the sierras. In the background, the diaphanous canvas with its metal lamps cut a triangle against the green sky and evening stars.
II
Like a drooping black buzzard, Larrañaga the Seer fluttered through the serried ranks of the gendarmes. The canvas dome vibrated with applause. Advocate Sánchez Ocaña was still singing his tenor aria. The little seer wiped his brow, untied his scarf, and sat down beside his colleague Friar Mocho: pockmarked and hook-nosed, an old salt of a scribbler who welcomed his companion with a vinous wheeze: “It’s a speech and a half!”
“Taking notes?”
“You’re kidding. It’s a flood!”
“And it just goes on and on.”
“For ages.”
III
The orator dissolved a sugar lump in a glass of water, sipped, stuck out his chest, tugged at his starched cuffs.
“If the ancient Spanish colonies w
ish to return to the path of their historic destiny, they must listen to the voices of the original civilizations of America. Only in this way can we cease to be a spiritual colony of the old continent. Catholicism and its corrupt laws are the cornerstones of the whole civilizing, Latinizing mission in this America of ours. Catholicism and its corrupt laws are the fetters binding us to a discredited, selfish, and lying civilization. But if we reject abject servitude to religious laws, let it be to forge new bonds in which the ancient traditions of our millenary communism will be reborn, in a future full of human solidarity, a future that stirs the womb of the world with awesome, cataclysmic tremors.”
“Your mother’s womb!” a voice broke in.
Tumult: pushing, shoving, screaming, arms waving everywhere. The gendarmes dragged out a peasant with his head split open. Advocate Sánchez Ocaña turned pale. He smiled. With staged affectation, he stirred his glass of water with his spoon. The little seer muttered excitedly into Friar Mocho’s ear, “If we could write freely! The boss wants merciless criticism...”
Friar Mocho extracted a little bottle from his shirtfront and bent down to kiss its neck. “Such eloquence!”
“Selling your conscience is shameful.”
“Come off it! You don’t sell your conscience. You sell your pen—not the same thing.”
“For thirty miserable pesos!”
“It puts beans on your plate. You don’t have to be a poet. Want a swig?”
“What is it?”
“Moonshine!”
“I don’t fancy that!”
IV
The orator pulled at his cuffs, flashed his links, and approached the spotlights. A round of rapturous applause. He drew himself up like a tenor and resumed his aria: “The Creolocracy retains all the privileges and protections of ancient colonial law. The liberators failed to destroy them. Our indigenous people suffer the slavery of indentured labor just as in the worst days of the viceroyalty. This America of ours has gained its independence from Spanish tutelage but not from Spanish prejudice, sealed with the stamp of these Pharisees: the law and the Catholic Church. The liberators failed to redeem the insulted and defenseless Indian, working in mines and on landed estates, under the whip of the overseer. And our revolutionary faith, an ideal of justice inspired by human solidarity and stronger than patriotic feeling, is driven by the duty to redeem the Indian. The Pacific Ocean, the sea of our different peoples, hears the same fraternal cry of protest on all its far-flung shores. The yellow peoples have awakened, not for vengeance but to destroy the legalized tyranny of capitalism, the foundation of Europe’s decrepit states. The tides of the Pacific Ocean rock to the rhythm of a unanimous outcry from Asia to the Americas. Still tossing in the nightmare they have endured for centuries, these people are gestating a new awareness, a new ideal, hewn from duty and hewn from sacrifice and mixed in an arduous, mystical crucible, one that will undoubtedly seem like Brahman lunacy to sordid Europe, besmirched with the concupiscence and egotism of private property. Born out of war and crime, the states of Europe feel no shame before their history. They boast of their crimes. They embrace their bloody rapine. Yes, across the centuries they trumpet their felonies and their cynical immorality. In schools youthful choirs are taught glorious anthems to degeneration. Inspired by our ideals, the critical spirit within these nations rejects the Roman and his doctrine of justice. That obese patrician, stooping over the cesspit, vomited the same creed. The owner of slaves defended his right to property. Spattered by the filth of greed and luxury, he made slavery the foundation of society and prospered accordingly: herds of slaves reaped the harvest; herds of slaves went down into the mines; herds of slaves rowed the triremes. Agriculture, the metal trade, maritime commerce couldn’t exist without slaves, the patricians reasoned. And the master’s brand on the slave’s flesh became an ethical precept, inherent to the public good and the health of the empire.
Tryant Banderas Page 4