Tryant Banderas
Page 5
“And we? We are not revolutionaries! We are not men who swear fealty only to the mean frontiers of the fatherland! No, we are the catechumens of a religious creed. Illumined by the light of a new awareness, we have come together here in the miserable confines of this tent, like the slaves in the catacombs, to create a universal fatherland. We want to convert the bare mountain of the world into a starry altar where everything that is worshipped is ordered by love. The worship of eternal harmony that can only be attained when equality reigns. Let us devote ourselves selflessly to our destiny as exemplary men. Beyond the crucible of misers and thieves, let us embrace a single desire—for that eternity in which our souls are cleansed of the egotism of ‘mine’ and ‘thine.’”
V
Fresh tumult. A bullying gang of venomous whiteys bawled out from the arena.
“Hooligan!”
“Ignoramus!”
“Bankrupt!”
“Beggar!”
“Hoodlum!”
“Death to the revolutionary rabble!”
Whiteys, protected by gendarmes, screamed and clubbed. Tyrant’s provocateurs wreaked havoc in the tiered benches. The two sides’ competing insults came to a crescendo.
“Hooligans!”
“Death to tyranny!”
“Idiots!
“Bankrupts!”
“Beggars!”
“Hoodlums!”
“Idiots!”
“Anarchists!”
“Long live General Banderas!”
“Death to the revolutionary rabble!”
The Indians in their blankets on the terraces swayed in waves.
“Long live Don Roquito!”
“Long live the apostle!”
“Death to tyranny!”
“Death to foreigners!”
The gendarmes slashed with their sabers. Flashing blades, screams, hands held high, bloodied faces. The lights convulsed and blacked out. The big top collapsed. Sharp-angled canvas. Cubist vision of the Harris Circus.
Book Three
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id="heading_id_42">The Ear of the Fox
>
I
Sniffing like a snooping rat, Tyrant Banderas left the circle of sycophants and crossed the cloister. The chief of police, Colonel López de Salamanca, had just arrived, and Tyrant gestured at him to follow. The eternally nosey mummy walked through the locutory. The rest came behind, sidling along into the monastic cell where he usually met with his secret police. On the threshold he welcomed Don Celes as politely as an elderly Quaker. “Excuse me for a moment. Chief, sir, please come in and get your orders.”
II
Chief, sir, strode across the room, winking and trading smut and spice in hushed tones. General Banderas was on the verge of entering the cell and stood with his back to them. Seeing that he might turn around at any moment, they all knew that they were in for a bit of a Punch-and-Judy show. Colonel López de Salamanca, chief of police, was just over thirty: a smart guy, silver-tongued, with a degree; the grandson of Spanish landowners, sentimentally and absurdly proud of his heritage and caste. The mestizo mob of Creole landowners, known as patricians in the republic, thrives on this inherited contempt for the Indian. The colonel went in, reassuming his mask. “At your orders, General.”
Tyrant Banderas signaled him to leave the door open. Stayed silent. Then spoke deliberately, weighing every word: “This is what I want to know. Is the Democratic Youth out there done speechifying? Which parrots did the squawking?”
“Advocate Sánchez Ocaña kicked the event off. Set an ultrarevolutionary tone.”
“What was it all about? Cut to the chase.”
“Freedom for the Indians. Pre-Colombian communism. The ‘Marseillaise’ of the Pacific. Fraternity of the yellow races. Stuff and nonsense!”
“Any other parrots squawk?”
“No. There was a fracas between the whiteys and the locals, and the gendarmes had to intervene.”
“Any arrests?”
“Don Roque and some others. They were taken to my office to ensure their safety.”
“Quite right, too. Though their ideas are the opposite of ours, they are people of merit and their lives should be protected. If the rabble gets out of hand, lodge them in Santa Mónica. Don’t be afraid of overdoing things. Tomorrow, if appropriate, I’ll personally release them from prison and dish out sweet apologies. I repeat, don’t be afraid to overdo things. And what news do we have of the honorable diplomatic corps? You remember what I said about Spain’s illustrious minister? It would be useful to have some real evidence.”
“An investigation was carried out this afternoon.”
“How diligent! I congratulate you. And the upshot?”
“We’ve put that filthy bastard from Andalusia in the slammer—that rent boy-cum-torero they call Currito My-Cutie.”
“What’s the connection between him and the other character?”
“He’s the pretty boy that slips in and out of the Spanish legation like a toy poodle. He has lurid press.”
Tyrant drew back severely. “Not my kind of gossip. But go on.”
“They arrested torero boy this afternoon on a charge of public disorder. His mannerisms were highly dubious, so we had his room searched.”
“All right. Say no more. And the results?”
“The inventory’s on this sheet of paper.”
“Come closer to the chandelier and read it out.”
The honorable colonel read with a church lady’s twang: “A bundle of letters. Two signed photos. A walking stick with a monogrammed gold top. A monogrammed cigar case. A necklace, two bracelets. One curly blond wig and a black one. A box of beauty spots. Two ball gowns. Some silk underwear, garters.”
Tyrant Banderas quivered like a Quaker and thundered his excommunication: “Repulsive abominations!”
III
The barred window opened onto moonstruck colonnades, where the black triangles of bats’ shadows troubled the ruin’s nocturnal whiteness. Dexterous honorable colonel took his time as he cheerfully shook jewels, photos, and letters out of various pockets. He lined them up on the table for Tyrant’s perusal. “The letters are particularly interesting. A pathological case.”
“Disgusting filth. Colonel, sir, put it all in the archive. The mother country deserves my best attention, and that’s why I’m so very interested in protecting the reputation of the Baron of Benicarlés: you must promptly ensure the release of the slimeball from Andalusia. It would be most helpful if Spain’s illustrious minister were to hear of this incident. He might even realize how ridiculous it is for him to be piping his fife to the tune of the English minister’s folderols. Now what about the meeting of the diplomatic corps?”
“Postponed.”
“I would be so sorry to see Spain’s illustrious minister getting too involved!”
“He’ll do the right thing, after that young chicken fills him in.”
Tyrant Banderas nodded: lamplight glinted off his ivory skull and the round lenses of his spectacles. He checked his watch, a silver pocket watch he wound up with two keys. “Don Celes will throw light on the illustrious minister’s thinking. Do you know, was he able to talk to him?”
“Yes, he was just filling me in.”
“Colonel, sir, if you have no more pressing news, then let us bring this exchange to a close. I’m keen to hear the news that Don Celestino Galindo has for us. So please ask him to step inside and you stay here.”
IV
Distinguished whitey Don Celes Galindo was fiddling with his walking stick and hat and looking at the door to the room: in the dim vestibule of the locutory his ridiculous rotundity made him look as petulant and self-preoccupied as an actor in the wings awaiting his cue. Seeing the honorable colonel peer out and about, he waved his stick and hat to catch his attention. His time had come, he sensed, and he swelled with pride at the earth-shaking role he was to play. With a mocking, commiserating glance all around, the honorable colonel summoned him: “Don Celeste,
sir, if you would be so kind.”
Tyrant welcomed Don Celeste in his usual rancid style. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I beg you to accept my apologies. I’m so keen to hear your news! Did you question the minister? Did you speak to him?”
Don Celes gave a look of disgust. “I saw Benicarlés. We debated the line the mother country should adopt toward the republic: there was no common ground.”
The mummy’s response was lordly: “I regret if there was friction—all the more so if I was in any way to blame.”
Don Celes pursed his lips and shuttered an eye. The matter was trivial. “I have shared my impressions with a few stalwarts of the colony who have confirmed my conclusions.”
“Tell me about His Excellency the minister for Spain. What are his diplomatic connections? Why does he behave in a way that is contrary to the interests of the Spanish colony? Does he fail to grasp that inciting the natives means ruin for landowners? The landowners will face the same stubborn agrarian problems he confronted in the old country. Legislators can’t solve this sort of thing.”
Don Celeste boomed out obsequiously: “Benicarlés is not one to embrace such a clear-sighted, acute analysis.”
“How does he defend his position, I’d like to know?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Or his point of view?”
“He doesn’t.”
“He doesn’t have anything to say for himself?”
“His position is that his views must not deviate from those of the diplomatic corps at large. I set out the objections and explained that it might lead to serious conflict with the colony. That he could be risking his career. All in vain! My words rebounded off his utter indifference, and he went on fondling his lapdog! I was furious!”
Tyrant weighed his words carefully as he spoke with mocking respect: “Don Celes, you must override your repugnance and speak to the minister once more: you must bring up the issues again, and make some very specific suggestions. You might try to explain to him the pernicious influence of the British representative. The honorable chief of police has evidence that our present difficulties are the result of an intrigue set in motion by the London Missionary Society. Isn’t that so, Chief, sir?”
“Undoubtedly! The humanitarian pleading of those puritan proselytizers is just hot air—and a trick. The English always wave the Bible when they are bent on wrangling their way into our mines and financial affairs.”
Don Celes nodded. “I am quite aware of that.”
With clockwork precision the mummy leaned forward to redirect the conversation. “An honest Spaniard cannot bow out when good relations between the republic and the fatherland are at stake. Besides the gendarmes have provided an ugly new angle on the situation. Chief!”
The chief of police focused a mocking, lugubrious eye on Don Celes. “The humanitarian principles of the diplomatic corps may have to bow before some stark realities.”
The mummy: “And in the last instance, the Spanish colony’s interests are not humanitarian. What’s in the interest of the Spanish community is something entirely different. The minister must understand that! And give his support! If he’s reluctant, inform him that that the gendarmes have evidence on file of his engaging in truly Roman orgies in which a prostrate pervert splays his legs pretending to give birth. Chief!
Don Celes was stunned; the honorable colonel launched his rocket: “Spain’s illustrious minister apparently played the midwife.”
Don Celes groaned. “I’m appalled!”
Tyrant Banderas scowled contemptuously. “Sometimes the mother country will send us maniacs.”
Don Celes sighed. “I’ll set up a meeting with the baron.”
“Yes, and tell him that his good name depends on us. The minister will no doubt reconsider. Give him a most courteous greeting from Santos Banderas.”
Stiff as a stick figure, Tyrant stooped. “Diplomats always drag their feet. Nothing will come of that first meeting. Let’s see what tomorrow brings. The republic may perish through war, but it will never consent to foreign interference.”
V
Tyrant Banderas walked into the cloister and bent over a campaign table. With a flourish he signed the edicts and sentences the secretary to the law courts, Carrillo, had just taken from a folder. Poorly painted martyrdoms, purgatories, sepulchers, and green devils glowered on the whitewashed walls. After ratifying the final document, Tyrant drew his Indian lips into their familiar green grimace as he drawled, “Chop-chop! Mr. Secretary, we’re much indebted to the old camp follower of the Seventh Light. Justice demands he be given a good whipping. Punish him like a beggar! And he was one of my most invaluable friends! That idiot erstwhile companion of mine, ‘Dainty’ Domiciano de la Gándara! That buccaneer, soon to be dubbing me a despot, while winking at the insurgents! Punish him! Horsewhip him! He insulted that Indian camp follower and broke the pact we made and shook hands on. He’s foul and slippery. Secretary Carrillo, what do you advise?”
“Boss, this is definitely a case of a Gordian knot.”
Mouth still snarling and green, Tyrant turned to his chorus-in-waiting. “My friends, don’t run off now: get a grip on the situation; weigh in. You heard what I was saying to our secretary? You know the fellow. A right-hand man. We all value him highly! If we beat him like a beggar, he’ll be furious and join the ranks of the revolutionaries. So do we punish him and then release him, bursting with rancor? Should Tyrant Banderas—as the great unwashed call me—tread warily or magnanimously? Consider that my friends. I am interested to hear your conclusion. You are the jury. It is up to you—and your consciences—to decide the case.”
He extended a three-piece telescope and leaned against a column of the arcade surrounding the hazy garden. He lost himself in heavenly contemplation.
VI
At the other end of the cloister his coterie ponders the pros and cons, exercised by the moral dilemma Tyrant has thrown them like a bone to a dog. Oily, foxy Secretary Carrillo tiptoes around the issue like a man of the bench. “What’s the boss got in mind?”
Master Nacho Veguillas purses his lips. His eyes bulge and he croaks like a frog.
Major Abilio del Valle expresses contempt. He tugs his neatly trimmed goatee. “Your guitar’s out of tune!”
“Dear Major del Valle, we will have to get our hands dirty!”
Secretary Carrillo harps on sweetly: “We have to guess what the boss is thinking and do that.”
Nacho Veguillas played the fool in this farce. “Croak! Croak! I’ll do whatever you say, Sec’cy my sweet.”
Major del Valle muttered, “To get this right, we’ve all got to put ourselves in his situation.”
“And once you have, my dear Major?”
“What, Mr. Secretary?”
“Give the crone the lie or beat Gándara like a beggar?”
Still tugging at his neatly trimmed goatee, Major Abilio del Valle flimflammed: “What I say is put ‘Dainty’ Domiciano up against a wall and whip him.”
Master Nacho Veguillas had an attack of whimpering sentimentality. “But the boss might be swayed by old friendship. That spiritual bond could soften his severity.”
Mr. Secretary Carrillo petulantly passed the baton. “Dear Major, dear Major, you must play Alexander to this Gordian knot.”
Anguish spread over Master V’s mien. “A squabble in a bottle shop doesn’t warrant the death penalty! I reserve my verdict. I don’t want Domiciano’s ghost haunting me. You know what Pepe Valero acted in last night? Fernando the Forewarned. Boy! That’s some episode from Spanish history!”
“That’s a thing of the past.”
“No, a fact of daily life, oh Major mine.”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“They go unpublished because the forewarned aren’t crowned heads.”
“The evil eye? I’m not a believer.”
“I know an individual who lost at cards whenever he neglected to have a dead butt in hand.”
Mr. Secretary Carrillo grinned broadly.
“Well, let’s get back to the business at hand. I suspect there’s something else against Gándara. He’s always been on the untrustworthy side, and recently he’s been short of money. Maybe he tried to squeeze some dough out of the revolutionaries.”
A whispering chorus of voices:
“It’s no secret that he was plotting.”
“Though he owes everything to the boss.”
“Like every one of us.”