Tryant Banderas
Page 9
“We’ll have the gendarmes here any minute! You’re only good for stuff and nonsense, Melquíades! Your advice is worth nothing in this kind of jam! The gendarmes will know what’s up and I wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t got their hands on that scheming bitch already. I’ll be implicated if I don’t abide by Generalito Banderas’s decrees and report what’s happened. Do you want to risk breaking the law? I trusted that woman, and now it’s cost me nine sols. That’s where it gets you if you don’t keep your conscience locked in the cellar. I was going to give that cheating slut three sols, but she screwed me out of nine. Nephew, if you want to prosper in this line of business, you’ve got to watch out or you’ll never make a cent. In Spain they think all you’ve got to do is scratch the surface to make a mint over here! If I don’t want problems, I’m going to have to hand over the ring and kiss nine sols goodbye.”
“When you go to tell the gendarmes, why not hand them a much less valuable item?” Melquíades asked, with the astute smirk of an Asturian farmhand.
Honest whitey gaped at his nephew. A sudden, consoling light lit up the old fellow’s soul. “‘A much less valuable item!’”
Book Three
<
id="heading_id_50">The Little Colonel
>
I
Zacarías steered the canoe to Lake Ticomaipú under a canopy of tall bulrushes. A joyous racket of brass, rockets, and baseball enlivened the morning. The Indians were celebrating All Saints’ Day. Bells pealed. Zacarías stowed the oars, slung his boathook into the silt, ran the skiff aground, and tied it to the spiny cactus that fenced in a yard for hens, turkeys, and pigs. The Indian muttered, “We’re in Kid Filomeno territory.”
“That’s good news. Put your head out.”
“The boss must be living it up in town.”
“See if he’s about.”
“What if he’s scared of getting involved?”
“Filomeno’s a good friend.”
“But what if he’s scared and orders my arrest?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You gotta to be ready for the worst, chief. Anyway I’m here to serve you. I’ll keep quiet and do what you say no matter how they tighten the screws.”
The colonel chuckled. “If you’ve got any other bright ideas, just let me know. You’re no idiot.”
The Indian was peering over the fence. “If Kid Filomeno isn’t here, I reckon we should rustle his horses and scram.”
“Where to?”
“The rebel camp.”
“I need cash for the ride.”
The colonel jumped out of the boat and scrambled up the mud bank. He stood by the Indian and peered over the fence. The church belfry and its tricolor flag stuck out above the palms and cedars. Irrigation channels and fences divided the land into little plots that spread out over the freshly ploughed reddish soil and the various shades of green. Herds of livestock grazed in the distance. Horses chomped on the banks of the waterways. They could hear the splashing oars of an approaching canoe. A gray-whiskered Indian, in a big palm-frond sombrero and a canvas shirt, was rowing: Kid Filomeno sat in the poop. The canoe docked by a wooden gate. The colonel stepped forward to greet the farmer. “Hello, I’m here in time for breakfast. I see you’re an early riser!”
The farmer was suspicious. “I spent the night in town. I went to hear what Don Roque Cepeda had to say.”
They hugged each other tight, lifting each other off the ground in turn. Old friends.
II
The colonel and Filomeno walked side by side down a path through a grove of lemon and orange trees and out in front of a large farmhouse: it had a portico with whitewashed arches and a saint from Almagro whose halo lit up the floor tiles. A large number of birdcages and the owner’s hammock hung from the portico beams. Blue creepers covered the walls. The two men slumped down on adjacent jinocales under the arched doorway in front of a little curtain with a Japanese lily pattern. The boss ordered his gray-bearded servant to bring out the breakfast meats and told the maid, a black Mandinga, to brew some maté. Old China returned with a plate of hung mutton. He explained in Cutumay that the farmer’s wife and children weren’t there because they’d gone to church. The boss simply waved his hand and offered his guest some jerky. The colonel speared a slice of meat with a knife he’d taken from his belt, dropped it on his plate, and raised his flagon of maize beer. He downed three gulps for Dutch courage and declared, “I’m in a hell of a spot!”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve set out to do that bastard Banderas in. I’ve dealt myself a shit hand, as the Holy Fathers say. My friend, I’m poorer than the poorest down-and-out, and there’s a tyrant on my trail. I’m going to rebel territory to fight for my country’s freedom, Filomeno, and I’ve come to seek your help, since you’re not exactly Santos Banderas’s buddy. Will you help?”
The farmer’s dark eyes stared at little Colonel de la Gándara. “You’ve got what you deserved! For fifteen years we’ve endured the oppression you’re now condemning. What were you doing all that time? You never remembered our country when you were in Banderas’s good graces. And I bet you don’t now, I bet you’re just hoping you’ll prize some little secret out of me. Banderas has turned every one of you into a spy.”
The little colonel jumped up. “Go ahead, Filomeno, stick the knife in, but don’t sink me in the mud! Even the dregs have their saintly moments. And that’s how it is with me now. I’m ready to spill my last drop of blood to save our country.”
“I don’t know what your fool idea is, Domiciano. I leave that to your conscience. You can’t do me much harm, ready as I am to set my farm on fire and take up arms with my peons. That’s not news to you. I was at last night’s rally and with my own eyes I saw them lead off Don Roque Cepeda in handcuffs, between two horses. I heard the righteous outrage of the people and the insults of the gendarmes!”
The little colonel’s eyes sparkled: his ruddy cheeks puffed out into a broad grin—like a bloated idol with one hell of a beer gut. “Filomeno, there’s no legal protection for our citizens. It’s a sick joke. Don Roque Cepeda isn’t going to see the sun rise many more times once he’s locked up in Santa Mónica. The poor are on his side, but he hasn’t kowtowed to the military, and he’ll never be elected president with only Indian votes. What he needs is a revolution! I’ve been betrayed, and I’ll tell it to them straight before they execute me. Together we can knock the stuffing out of Generalito Banderas! Filomeno, my friend, you’re a greenhorn when it comes to fighting. Listen to an expert! I’ll appoint you as my aide-de-camp. Filomeno, just have your maid sew on a captain’s stripe.”
Filomeno Cuevas smiled: he was dark-eyed and aquiline, with wolfish teeth and a jet-black mustache and eyebrows: a steely, noble, handsome mien. “Domiciano, it would be a fucking shame if my peons refused to recognize you as their chief and killed you just like Banderas ordered.”
The colonel gulped. He was upset. “Filomeno, you’re not being a good citizen. You’re pulling my leg.”
The other laughed. “You’ve got talent, Domiciano, I can see that. I’ll make you my company bugler—at least, if you know your scales.”
“Don’t twist the knife, friend! Given my situation, your jokes are in terrible taste. I’m not going to take a lower rank than you. Let’s say goodbye, Filomeno. I hope you won’t refuse me a horse and a guide. I could also use some cash.”
Filomeno Cuevas looked friendly enough, but his lips curled in a sardonic smile as he put his hand on the colonel’s shoulder. “Keep calm. You haven’t had a chance to speak to my peons yet. I’ll make you leader if they want you. One way or another, let’s join forces now. We can sort things out after we’ve taken action.”
Little Colonel de la Gándara raised himself to his full height, prancing and bantering with his farmer buddy. “Hey, you’re not doing me any favors by squabbling over a bunch of Indians. You lead them to the slaughter: You’re their boss. You pay them. Stop playing the fool and
get me that horse. If they find me here, we’ll both be bound for Santa Mónica. There are bloodhounds on my heels!”
“If they show their snouts, we’ll be warned soon enough. I know what’s at stake. They’re not going to catch me napping like a bug in a rug.”
The colonel nodded, suitably impressed. “That means there’s time for another beer. If you’ve posted sentinels you’re thinking ahead—just like a soldier. Congratulations, Filomeno!”
With the neck of the canteen between his lips he sprawled on his jinocal, his belly as big as a Tibetan god’s.
III
The chatter of little voices brought cheer to the empty house and gloomy deserted rooms. Children were playing and jumping gleefully. In a cloud of priestly incense, the lady of the ranch walked in and unpinned her cape. The kids scattered around her. Colonel de la Gándara snored on the jinocal, legs sprawled before him, his beer gut rising and falling as regularly as the earth goes around. The lady of the ranch exchanged glances with her husband. “Who’s our apostle?”
“He turned up looking for a safe haven. He says he’s fallen out of favor. His name’s on the blacklist.”
“What happened to you last night? I waited up because I was so worried!”
The rancher fell silent and looked somber. His dark steely eyes softened in the warm light. “Laurita, you and the kids are keeping me from doing my duty as a citizen! The most wretched peasant in the rebel camp is more patriotic than Filomeno Cuevas. I’ve decided to break the fetters of family. I’m not going to stand on the sidelines any longer. Listen to me, Laurita. I feel like a rank coward compared to the lowest soldier in the revolutionary army. Why weep for me? Laurita, I’m doing business as usual while others risk their lives and wealth in defense of freedom. I saw Don Roque led away between bayonets last night. If I don’t get my hands dirty and pick up a rifle, it’s because I don’t have any guts or I don’t have any shame. No, Laurita, I’ve made up my mind. No tears!”
Once again the rancher fell silent, though his eyes had their eagle glint again. His wife leaned back against a column and covered her eyes with her shawl. Adrift in an alcoholic haze, the colonel opened his eyes and yawned, jolted from deep sleep into delirious reality. He saw the lady of the house. Garlanded with the laurels of Bacchus and Mars, he rose to greet her heart to heart.
IV
Old China signaled to his boss from over the gate. Two bridled horses pricked up their ears. The rancher and his overseer spoke briefly, mounted their steeds, and cantered off.
Book Four
<
id="heading_id_51">Honest Whitey
>
I
Honest whitey didn’t waste any time. He headed straight to police headquarters. Following his nephew’s shrewd advice, he gave his statement and handed over in evidence a lousy solitaire so low in carats that even by the wildest overestimation it wasn’t worth ten sols. Colonel López de Salamanca praised his civic spirit. “Don Quintín, I can’t thank you enough for your forthright contribution to this investigation. Rushing to our office in order to supply us with such invaluable information—I congratulate you on such praiseworthy behavior. But could I beg you to elaborate on a few of the details? Are you personally acquainted with the village woman who brought the ring? Do you have any idea where she lives? That would be a great help in capturing the aforesaid. Most likely the fugitive met the said female when he discovered that a warrant had been issued for his arrest. Do you believe he sought her out with a specific purpose in mind?”
“Possibly.”
“They didn’t meet by chance?”
“Who knows?”
“Do you know the whereabouts of this lowlife’s abode?”
“No clue.”
II
Honest whitey was covering his back so as not to blow it and get hurt. He was afraid he might get in a tangle, tipping them off to the trick he’d pulled. The chief of police stared at him, smiling suspiciously and superciliously, the infallible skewering by a uniformed telepath. The pawnbroker began to panic and cursed Melquíades under his breath. “We enter every receipt. I’ll take a look. I can’t guarantee my assistant has got around to it yet. He’s a careless young fellow who’s only just come from the mother country.”
The chief of police stuck out his chest and leaned over his desk. “What a shame if you got hit with a big fine because of some careless fool.”
The pawnbroker concealed his annoyance. “Dear Colonel, if he has been negligent, there are ways and means for your men to get the goods. That peasant lives with a no-good who’s visited my establishment more than once. I’m sure he’s on your books. Hardly a law-abiding citizen. One of those bandits who was amnestied years ago—when a deal was done with the ringleaders and they were given an army stripe. Nowadays he sets up as a potter.”
“Do you happen to know this individual’s name?”
“I expect it will come to me.”
“Any distinguishing feature?”
“A scar over his face.”
“Scarface Zac?”
“I’d hate to be wrong, but yes, that could be him.”
“You show great insight, Mr. Peredita. I must reiterate my thanks. We’re on the right path now. You may go.”
Honest whitey inquired: “And the little ring?”
“We must attach it to the statement.”
“So I lose nine sols?”
“Your tough luck! But you can put in an appeal to the Justice Department. There’ll be some red tape but I’m sure you’ll get compensation in the end. Start the appeal now. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Peredita!”
The chief of police rang his bell. A sweaty, shabby clerk walked in: creased starched collar, tie at half-mast, pen behind ear, an ink-stained drill guayabera with black half sleeves. The colonel scribbled on a docket, stamped it, and handed it to the clerk. “Proceed to the immediate arrest of this couple. Choose men who are ready to shoot and tell them to be on high alert: Scarface Zac’s a genuine tough guy. If someone who knows him is available, give him the job. And pull Zac’s file. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Peredita. You’ve been most helpful!”
He dispatched him with a round of flattering flimflam. Honest whitey withdrew, crestfallen, directing one last, lingering glance, like a whimpering pooch, at the table where the ring was irrevocably marooned under a sea of forms. After instructing the clerk, the chief of police peered out the barred window overlooking the courtyard. A squad of gendarmes lined up and rushed off. The corporal, a handlebar-mustachioed mestizo, was a veteran of the old campaign against the brigands led by Colonel Irineo Castañon, Peg Leg.
III
The corporal stationed his men in pairs around the shack on the Rich Peruvian’s Plot. He peered around the door, pistol cocked. “Zac, give yourself up!”
The chinita’s tremulous voice came from inside: “That no-good bum’s gone and left me! You won’t find him here! The beast’s looking for fresh pastures!”
Her shadow cowered behind a grindstone, as she whined and whimpered and made herself scarce. The gendarmes converged on the door, aiming their pistols inside. The corporal rasped, “Outside now!”
“Why do you want me?”
“To put a flower in your hair.”
The corporal cracked jokes to keep up his men’s spirits. The barefoot mother, child on hip, emerged meekly from the darkness, her hair trailing over her shoulders. “You can search every nook and cranny. That bum’s gone and left his kids with nothing but his sandals.”
“Listen, baby, we know what’s doing. Cut the crap. You pawned a ring that belonged to Colonel de la Gándara.”
“It was pure chance that ended up with me! I found it.”
“You are summoned to appear before my immediate superior, Colonel López de Salamanca. Put the child down and get a move on.”
“Can’t I take my child with me?”
“Police headquarters isn’t a home for waifs and strays.”
“What am I supposed to do with my kid?”
“We’ll arrange admission to a charitable institution.”
The kid crawled out between the gendarme’s legs and toddled off toward the marsh. His mother cried anxiously, “You bad boy, come back!”
Pointing his gun, the corporal entered the dark hovel. “Watch out! Who wants to volunteer to search the place? Be on the lookout. The bum could be hiding in there waiting to take a potshot. Surrender, Scarface! Don’t fuck around. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
He went into the shack, surrounded by gendarmes, his gun pointed ahead into the darkness.
IV
After completing their search, the corporal and his men came out to handcuff the whimpering chinita. She sat slumped against the doorway moaning, with her skirts over her head. The corporal yanked her to her feet. Her child was lying in the swamp slime, crying, surrounded by grunting hogs. The gendarmes were pushing and shoving the mother. She twisted around and screamed at the boy, “Come here! Don’t be afraid! Come here! Quick!”
The child ran then stopped. He called out to his mother. A gendarme turned, scaring the boy, who froze in place. He was crying and hitting himself in the face. His mother shouted hoarsely, “Come here! Come, come!”
But the child wouldn’t budge. He stood on the bank of the waterway and sobbed, watching the distance grow between him and his mother.
Book Five
<
id="heading_id_52">The Rancher
>
I
Filomeno Cuevas and Old China tied their horses up in front of a shack and pushed in under a flap of cloth. Other ranchers began to arrive in clusters, resplendent in their riding tackle and tall sombreros. They were the owners of neighboring farms, covert supporters of the revolutionary cause. Filomeno Cuevas had given the green light to meet. These associates had already smuggled him arms—a supply lay buried in Potrero Negrete—and there was urgent need to distribute the rifles and cartridge belts among his Indians. Gangers and overseers, Indian scouts and lariat throwers gradually rode in from their respective farms. Filomeno joked and humored everyone as he sized up the rally. He was, he said, in favor of riding into the bush right away. Secretly, he had already made the decision to hand out the rifles, which were hidden in the jungle, to the peons, but for now was careful to keep his plans to himself. The Creole ranchers argued heatedly and voiced their fears. They recognized their colleague’s determination and they would help him with horses, peons, and money, but they wanted to do it as stealthily as possible in case Tyrant Banderas should prevail. Dositeo Velasco, one of the wealthiest landowners, seemed an unlikely candidate for this kind of risky business, but he stoked up on coffee and maize beer and started cursing Tyrant. “Fuck you Banderitas, we’ll cover the republic with your flayed hide!”