Tryant Banderas

by Ramon del Valle-Inclan

  VI

  Scarface Zac pulled the brim of his sombrero down low over his face. An awful decision darkened his soul; a single thought drilled at his temples, insistent like his grief. In his mind it was hardening into a simple symmetrical phrase: “Mr. Peredita, you’re done for! You’re done for, Mr. Peredita!”

  He crossed himself whenever he rode past a church. Freak shows were lighting oil lamps. His horse quivered nervously as they rode past a wild-animal menagerie: in a rush of flesh and blood, a tiger reared and roared, pressing its furious head against the iron bars of its cage, eyes on fire, tail thrashing. Zac spurred his horse forward. Covered up by his poncho, his dreadful burden rested against the saddle horn. Zac was mesmerized by the hammer beat of that single throbbing sickening thought. All the time the same words droned in his head: “Mr. Peredita, you’re done for! You’re done for, Mr. Peredita!”

  The streets flashed by, vibrating with the strident cries of hustlers and the sound of guitars, with lantern light and streamers. A barrage of shouts, a mad stampede, a steaming crowd standing hypnotized by catchy tunes. Scarface ignored all the squabbling and speechifying. Coppery beggars straggled along under the lurid illuminations or lingered outside the bars and liquor stores. Their faces fused into a single monstrous face set off by the tawdry glitter of trash trinkets. Dancing, music, bunting fluttering absurdly in the air: an ominous, insane, pent-up chimera. Sunk in rancorous, taciturn despondency, Zac felt a single stubborn thought, a simple symmetrical phrase, whir around his head: “Mr. Peredita, you’re done for! You’re done for, Mr. Peredita!”

  VII

  Quintín Pereda, pawnbroker lit up the street from behind the panes of the shopwindow, though cracked glass made the sign illegible. The red and yellow of a percaline Spanish flag decorated the door. The counter inside was lit up by a lamp with a green-tasseled shade. The pawnbroker was stroking his cat, an aging ginger Maltese with a preposterous likeness to its owner. Cat and pawnbroker looked at the door and shuddered simultaneously. The cat on whitey’s knees arched its back then settled down, its symmetrical velvet paws on two new mends. Mr. Peredita was in shirtsleeves, a pen behind his ear, wearing a greasy cap that his little girl had embroidered for him years ago at school. “Good evening, boss!”

  Scarface Zac—poncho and sombrero, horsehide boots and spurs—bent down low and rode his horse halfway over the threshold. Honest whitey gave him a poisonous glance. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just a word in your ear.”

  “Tie your hoss up outside.”

  “It’s not broken in, boss.”

  Mr. Peredita walked out from behind the counter. “What business brings you here?”

  “Just wanted to meet you, boss! You’re famous where I come from. Just wanted to get to know you! That’s the only reason I came to the fair, Mr. Peredita.”

  “You’ve had a skinful, you tramp. Don’t bother honest citizens. Clear off before I call the night watchman.”

  “Take it easy, Mr. Peredita. I want to redeem a little jewel.”

  “Have you got the receipt?”

  “Just take a look at this!”

  Scarface rode his horse all the way in and dropped the dripping, bloodstained bag on the counter with a thud. Whitey was afraid. “You’re plastered! You get blind drunk and then you want to make trouble. Clear off and take your little bag with you.”

  Scarface’s head almost touched the roof beams. A shadow fell over his face and chest. His hands and the saddle horn stood out in the light from the counter. “But Mr. Peredita, didn’t you say you wanted to see the receipt?”

  “Stop messing with me!”

  “Please open the bag!”

  “Clear off and stop this nonsense.”

  Grimly Scarface insisted, his voice faint as he seethed inside. “Boss, won’t you please take a look and see for yourself.”

  “I couldn’t care less. Goat or pig, the only man fit to eat that is you.”

  Whitey shrunk from Scarface’s descending shadow.

  “Try opening the bag with your teeth, Mr. Peredita!”

  “Look, asshole, don’t play the pesty gaucho with me. If you want to do business, come back when you’re sober.”

  “Boss, we can settle up in a jiffy. Do you remember that Indian girl who pawned a nickel ring for nine bolivianos?”

  Honest whitey looked stunned, then cunning. “No, I don’t. I’d have to check the books. Nine bolivianos? It wouldn’t be worth any more than that. I pay the best rates.”

  “You mean there are even bigger thieves than you! But that’s not why I’m here. Boss, you ratted on that chinita.”

  Squinting frantically, whitey yelled, “I can’t remember every single transaction! Get out! Come back when you’re sober! I’ll see if I can up my rate!”

  “No, we’ll settle this here and now. Boss, you informed on that chinita and now we need to have a little talk. Straight talk.”

  “Come back when you’re not trashed.”

  “We’re all mortal, boss, and at the worst your life is in no more danger than the light from that lamp. Boss, who put her in the can? Have you seen our empty shack? You will soon! Why haven’t you opened the bag? Come on, Mr. Peredita, don’t dillydally!”

  “Okay, you stubborn drunk.”

  Casual as can be, honest whitey began to undo the bag: goat or pig who cares, but the boy’s gnawed and severed head scared him out of his wits. “This is a crime! Do you want an alibi from me! Go away. I’m going to vomit! Go away. I won’t tell anyone! Don’t try to drag me into this, you monster! What can you give me? A handful of silver! A man in my position doesn’t sell himself for nothing.”

  Zac’s voice throbbed with anger: “That carcass is my son. Your fucking information put his mammy in the lockup. They left him by himself and the pigs ate him!”

  “Idiot, don’t try to charge this up to me. How horrible! How awful! I’m not to blame. I’ll give you back your ring. I’ll forget the bolivianos. You can brag you made a killing! Pick it all up. Give it a proper burial. I understand why you tried to drown your sorrows. Go! Go away. You can pick up the ring in the morning. And give those remains a decent burial.”

  “Don Quintito, you’re coming with me, you bastard.”

  VIII

  Scarface rears violently up on his steed, his lasso whips around terrified whitey’s neck and whitey slumps to the ground, arms flailing. The horse whirls around to a sound of crunching bone, bucks and crashes into the street, dragging whitey’s body behind. Horseshoes glint; at the end of the rope, the limp body twists and turns. Bent low over the saddle, digging his spurs into his mount’s flanks, the rider feels the rope tighten and the body drag as it bounces over the cobbles. Zac feels an Indian’s stoic sadness and he feels consoled.

  Book Seven

  <

  id="heading_id_54">Necromancy
  >

  I

  The horses are ready for the great escape from Rancho Ticomaipú. Little Colonel de la Gándara is supping with Kid Filomeno. Nearing the end of the repast, the rancher orders young Laurita to bring the children. Resigned to the sad days ahead she goes to fetch them. Heedless of their mother, who glowers, pressing a finger to her lips, the kids rush into the room. The boss feels sorrow sapping his resolve. He stares at the tablecloth. Avoids the eyes of his wife and children. Finally looks up. He’s got his grit back.

  II

  The kids stand silently in a circle of lamplight. Telepathic intuitions tremble in the air. “Children, I’ve worked hard to leave you land and property and spare you the path of the poor. It’s a path I walked myself, and I didn’t want you to. This determination has inspired my whole life—until today. Today has brought a change. My father left me no wealth, but he did leave me a name as honorable as any. And that is a legacy I want to pass down to you. I hope honor will mean more to you than all the gold in the world. I would be bitterly ashamed if it did not.”

  “Filomeno, you’re always abandoning us!” groaned the lad
y of the ranch.

  The boss’s scowl shot that comment down. The eyes of his children moistened, but no tears fell. “I beg your mamma to be courageous and listen to what I have to say. As a good citizen, I worked for my family’s well-being. I gave little thought to that of my fatherland, which demanded no sacrifice of me—until today. But today my conscience has wakened. I don’t want to stand ashamed tomorrow or for you to stand ashamed of your father.”

  The lady of the ranch sobbed. “So you’re going off to join that revolutionary rabble!”

  “With my friend.”

  Little Colonel de la Gándara stood up and swaggered. He stretched out his arms. “You’re a real Spartan noble! I’ll never let you down!”

  The rancher’s wife sighed. “And if you die, Filomeno?”

  “Be sure to bring up the children properly. They’ll know that their father died for the fatherland.”

  Tumultuous images flashed through his wife’s mind. Revolution. Death, arson, torture, and, far off, like an implacable deity, the mummified figure of Tyrant.

  III

  Scarface reined in his swift steed. A smell of basil came through the barred window. He’d raced there across pitch-dark fields. “Get your spurs on, Little Colonel! Whitey ratted on my wife, though I sure paid him back for his trouble. Get your spurs on!”

  Zac brought his mount to a halt. His gloomy face and muted voice penetrated the iron bars. Everyone inside turned toward the grille. The colonel asked, “So what happened?”

  “The blackest storm in my life. The glitter on that ring brought bad luck! Get your spurs on, Colonel, the dogs are yapping at my heels!”

  IV

  The lady of the ranch hugs her husband; the children huddle and whimper, clinging to their mother’s skirts. Grandma from Rome rushes in. In a hoarse voice, she cries out, “Perché questa folia? Se il Filomeno trova fortuna nella rivoluzione potrá diventar un Garibaldi. Non mi spaventar i bambini!”

  Scarface stared through the bars, his entire face in the shadows. Now and then his horse’s huge eye caught the light of the chandelier and the shifting play of broken shadows in the room. Zac was still riding with the bag with his dead child on his saddle. The family gathered around the boss in the sitting room. One by one the mother pulled out a child for the father to hug. Zac was despondent. “They’re bits of his heart.”

  V

  Old China led up the horses. Soon the sound of their galloping echoed in the black night. They rode to a river and reined in their horses. Zac drew alongside the little colonel. “That bastard Banderitas is done for! We’ve got the best insurance. Riding here with me!”

  The little colonel thought he must be drunk. “What’s that, buddy?”

  “My kid’s remains. Relics. What was left after the pigs butchered him. Here in this bag.”

  The colonel held out his hand. “Zacarías, I am sorry. But why haven’t you buried them?”

  “In due time.”

  “It doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “These relics are our passport.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale!”

  “Boss, that asshole whitey could tell you a thing or two!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I strung him up. What else could I do?”

  “You have to bury him.”

  “When we’re safe and sound.”

  “He was such a lively little kid!”

  “You’re telling me!”

  Part Five

  Santa Mónica

  Book One

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  id="heading_id_56">Seats in the Shade
  >

  I

  Ghastly legends of poisoned water, of snake-ridden dungeons, torturers’ chains, racks, and hooks swathed the Fortress of Santa Mónica, home to countless political prisoners during revolutionary struggles. These legends went back to the time of Spanish rule and in the era of the tyrant General Santos Banderas they’d grown stronger. Every afternoon, to the sound of bugles, a bunch of revolutionaries met their death at Santa Mónica, sentenced not by law but on secret instructions from Tyrant.

  II

  Sandwiched between guards, Nachito and the student passed the postern gate. Del Valle had sent a sergeant from the canteen, and based on his verbal report the governor admitted them. As they walked through the gate, the two handcuffed men gazed at the remote, luminous blue of the sky. In chronicles of those times the governor of Santa Mónica, Colonel Irineo Castañon, crops up as one of Tyrant’s cruelest killers—a bloodthirsty, grotesque, pipe-smoking old man hopping about on a peg leg. The colonel welcomed the two prisoners with cruel sarcasm, his flies unbuttoned: “I am so proud to welcome such very important people!”

  Nachito flashed a fake smile. He decided to speak up for himself: “I’m sure there’s been a grave error, Colonel.”

  The colonel emptied his pipe, knocking it against his peg leg. “That’s no concern of mine. Trials, when they take place, are the preserve of Attorney Carballeda. You are simply under arrest. The whole castle is yours!”

  Nachito pretended to smile gratefully. He sniveled. “This is a total nightmare!”

  Standing in the doorway the warder rattled his keys. He was a mulatto, thin as a rake, robotic in his movements. He wore a battered French kepi, colored military-issue trousers, and a very greasy Indian tunic. The patent leather was flaking off of his old shoes, and they cut into his bunions. The governor joked: “Don Trini, give these two front-row seats.”

  “They’ll have no reason to complain. If they’re just visiting, I’ll give them sea views from the wall.”

  The prisoners were frisked, then Don Trini led them through a low vaulted passage lined with cupboards full of rifles. At the end he opened a barred door and let them loose under the fortress walls. “Walk as much as you like.”

  As always, Nachito fawned. “Thank you so much, Don Trini.”

  Unmoved, Don Trini slammed the door. Bolts and locks grated. As he walked away, he shouted, “There’s a canteen, if you want something to eat or drink—and can pay.”

  III

  Nachito sighed. He studied the prison walls emblazoned with graffiti of phallic spoils. Behind him a taciturn student rolled a cigarette. His eyes twinkled with amusement and he pursed lips that were as dark as blackberries. He was aloof yet compassionate. Some prisoners strolled about in miserable isolation. Down below waves swirled and crashed, as if to undermine the prison’s foundations. Forests of nettles grew in shadowy corners. A flock of jet-black buzzards circled above in the blue sky. Nachito flexed his legs conceitedly and glanced at the student reproachfully. “You know, your silence is hardly cheering. It could even be seen as impolite. What’s your name, friend?”

  “Marco Aurelio.”

  “Marquito, what’s going to happen to us?”

  “How should I know?”

  “It’s frightening here! Listen to those lashing waves! It’s like being on a boat.”

  The Fortress of Santa Mónica, a dramatic castle with defenses dating back to the viceroyalty, was built on coastal reefs above the vast equatorial sea, sinister in squalls and in lulls between squalls. A few ancient cannons, corroded by salt, lined the barbican, where prisoners’ shirts hung out to dry. An old man sat on the parapet above the sea, mending a blanket. A cat hunted lizards on the highest rampart. Platoons of soldiers exercised at Snake Point.

  IV

  Corpses bobbed in the foaming waves lashing the fortress wall, their bloated bellies bruised black-and-blue. Clamoring mutinously, prisoners climbed the ramparts. The waves rocked the corpses and rolled them up against the prison wall. The blazing sky was home to mangy buzzards, hovering high in the cruelly indifferent turquoise. The prisoner who was mending his blanket broke his thread and held his needle to his fat lip. He muttered bitterly: “The fucking sharks are weary of all that revolutionary flesh, but that bastard Banderas still isn’t satisfied! Hell!”

  There was a stoic aspect to his wrinkled leathery face, and his long, ashe
n-gray beard made him look even more severe. Nachito and Marco Aurelio were hesitant, like travelers who have lost their way. Meeting a prisoner, Nachito gave way with a friendly smile. They reached the ramparts and leaned over to look at the sea, gleeful in the morning light, necromantic with bodies churning miserably in the foaming swell. Prisoners clambered on the walls, belting out mutinous songs, scowling angrily, and gesticulating. Nachito was shocked and frightened. Had the corpses washed up from some shipwreck?

  The old man with the blanket gave him a withering look. “They’re our people. They were killed in Foso-Palmitos.”

  “They didn’t bury them?” the student asked.

  “Are you kidding? They throw them into the sea, but the sharks are glutted on the flesh of revolutionaries, so they’ll have to bury whoever’s next in line.”

  He laughed bitterly. Nachito shut his eyes. “Friend, have you been sentenced to death?”

  “Have you ever known the Tiger of Zamalpoa to issue a more lenient verdict? A death sentence! I’m not afraid and I’m not going anywhere! Down with Tyrant!”

  Perched on the parapet, the prisoners gazed at the green swell churning against the ramparts. Shaking with fury, they roared out insults. Dr. Alfredo Sánchez Ocaña, poet and satirist, a famous tribune of the revolution, held one arm aloft and began a harangue. The ink-black eyes of the sentinel at the postern gate observed him. The sentinel held his rifle at the ready. “Heroes in the cause of freedom! Martyrs to the noblest of ideals! Your names, written in letters of gold, will emblazon the pages of our History! Brothers, we who are about to die salute you and give you our weapons!”

  He swept off his hat and everyone followed suit. The sentinel cocked his rifle. “Get back! You’re not allowed on the rampart.”

  Dr. Sánchez Ocaña cursed him: “You vile lackey!”

  A coast guard boat lowered sail and maneuvered to salvage the corpses, landing seven. The prisoners refused to leave the ramparts. They began to riot. Guards ran out. Bugles blared.

  V

  Gripped by epileptic terror, Nachito grabbed the student’s arm. “We’re fucked!”