Tryant Banderas

by Ramon del Valle-Inclan

  Nachito rapped his knuckles on the cloth and demanded the winnings: “One hundred and sixty sols.”

  Chucho the Hobo gave him a hard look and jeered as he paid up. “With your kind of luck, only a son of a bitch would have stayed in the game. It’s like there’s an angel whispering in your ear!”

  Nachito nodded good-humoredly, stacked his money, and gave thanks: “Croak! Croak!”

  And a captain named Viguri muttered churlishly, “The Virgin always appears to shepherds!”

  At that very moment the jaundiced specter was whispering in Nachito’s ear: “Time to split the takings.”

  Nachito shook his head, and his jaw hung open. “After the fifth bet.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “If we lose, we’ll win another way. Who knows? Perhaps they won’t execute us! And if we win, we’ll get our comeuppance in Foso-Palmitos.”

  “Stuff it, friend. Don’t tempt fate.”

  “Let’s go for the jack again.”

  “An ill-omened card.”

  “So, it’ll be the death of us. Hey you, Mr. Shuffle! That’s a hundred and sixty on the jack.”

  The Hobo replied, “Done!”

  Nachito fawned back: “Thank you kindly.”

  And the cardsharp retorted: “This’ll be the death of me!”

  He cut the pack and out strolled the jack, and the whole table murmured. Nachito turned pale, his hands shaking. “I’d have preferred to lose that one. Sorry, friend, we’ll get our comeuppance in Foso-Palmitos!”

  The specter’s wan features brightened. “For the moment, let’s just collect.”

  “That’s one hundred and twenty-seven sols each.”

  “The cut has fucked us up.”

  “It could have fucked us up worse. In this kind of situation, it’s bad luck to win at cards.”

  “Let Chucho keep the money then.”

  “That’s hardly a solution.”

  “Are you going to go on playing?”

  “Until I lose! That’s the only way I can calm down.”

  “Well, I’m going to get some fresh air. Thanks for your help. Consider me a friend: Bernardino Arias.”

  He left. With trembling hands, Nachito stacked up his winnings. Such ridiculous good luck boded ill. He would die. He was full of terror and anguish. Invisible forces had him at their mercy. They were circling around, hostile and mocking. He grabbed a handful of cash and put it on the first card to be dealt. He wanted to win and he wanted to lose. He shut his eyes, then opened them. Chucho the Hobo turned the pack over, shuffled and cut. Nachito was appalled. Once again he’d won. He smiled apologetically, under the crooked cardsharp’s glare. “Well, they’ll probably shoot me this afternoon!”

  II

  At the other end of the cell, some prisoners were listening to a one-eyed soldier tell a tale full of sibilant s’s and liquid l’s. He spoke in a monotone, sitting on his heels, as he related the defeat of revolutionary troops in Curopaitito. Five prisoners were sprawled on the ground in front of him. “When that happened, I was still with Doroteo Rojas’s band. Life was lousy, I was wet through and through all the time, with my trigger finger itching. The blackest day was July 7: we were crossing a swamp when the federales started firing: we hadn’t seen them because they were hidden behind some of those thorn bushes that were everywhere, and it was only by God’s grace that we got out of that quagmire. The minute we were out, we returned fire mercilessly, but the exchange didn’t let up, after which we were leg-leg-legging it over never-ending plains. A blistering sun turned the sand red-hot and us still leg-leg-legging it. We slunk off like coyotes, crawling through the mud, with the federales behind us. And the bullets kept winging past. And us still leg-leg-legging it all the time.”

  The Indian’s voice, with its sibilant s’s and liquid l’s, seemed stuck on a single note. A famous orator on the revolutionary side, who’d been locked up for long months on end, a young man with a pale brow and a romantic sweep of hair, Dr. Atle sat up in his hammock and listened to the tale with rapt attention. Occasionally he jotted something down in his notebook. It seemed like the Indian was trying to lull himself to sleep with his monotonous patter. “Leg-leg-legging it all day until at dusk we spotted a shack that had been torched and rushed in for cover. But that didn’t work. They drove us out, and we took shelter behind a waterwheel, but then they were firing again, bullets coming fierce and thick as hail until the ground began to boil. The federales had decided to finish us off. There were guns blazing, and soon all you could hear was zing, crackle, zing like when Mamma made popcorn. The friend at my side was dancing all over the place, so I said, ‘Don’t try and dodge the bullets, pal; it only makes it worse.’ Then one smashed his head in and there he was, staring at the stars. At dawn we reached the foothills but there was no water, no corn, nothing to eat.”

  The Indian fell silent. The prisoners around him went on smoking impassively, as if they hadn’t even heard. Dr. Atle perused his notes. Pencil on lip, he asked the soldier, “What is your name?”

  “Indalecio.”

  “Surname?”

  “Santana.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I was born on the Chamulpa estate. I was born there but when I was a kid they took me with a bunch of peons to a mine owned by some miserly whitey in the Llanos de Zamalpoa. When the revolution broke out, we all deserted and joined Doroteo’s band.”

  Dr. Atle scribbled a few lines in his notebook, and then leaned back in his hammock, eyes closed, the pencil over his lips setting the seal on his sour features.

  III

  As the day advanced, the sun slanting through the high bars divided the whole cell into triangles of light and shadow. At that hour the odor of cigarettes and bodies grew thick and sticky. The prisoners were mostly dozing on their hammocks; whenever they turned over, the flies rose up, then settled back down again. Other prisoners huddled silently in triangles of darkness they had sought out. Conversation was reduced to a few words. Everyone knew what fate held in store: their wanderings in this world soon would be over and that insistent, torturing thought also engendered a stoic calm. Those brief conversations, conducted in the cheery light of lamps that were about to sputter out for lack of oil, brought back memories of long-forgotten smiles. Mortality gave an air of indulgent melancholy to eyes that were turning away from the world and looking back into the past. Sharing a destiny gave the same expression to different faces. Everyone felt transported to a distant shore, and the triangles of light slanting across the cell sharpened the silhouettes of those emaciated figures in modern, cubist style.

  Part Six

  Honey-Nut Tarts and Poison

  Book One

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  id="heading_id_60">Loyola’s Lesson
  >

  I

  The sad Indian tries to forget his troubles with fighting cocks. In dives and bars he whispers about Kid Santos’s injustice, cruelty, and magic powers. Saint Michael’s Dragon had given the Kid secret spells. He was an initiate. Yes, they were buddies! They’d done a deal! Generalito Banderas had said that bullets couldn’t harm him, a deal signed by Satan! Overshadowed by that invisible, vigilant presence, the coppery populace faced a religious destiny full of fear. Pure theological terror.

  II

  It was the changing of the guards in Saint-Martin of the Mostenses. The servile sweeney was soaping Tyrant’s face. Major del Valle stood to attention, motionless in the doorway. Tyrant had heard his report, his back turned, deadpan, with a knowing look. “Our Master Veguillas is an innocent soul. A good mopping-up exercise, Major del Valle! You deserve a medal.”

  That insidious sarcasm didn’t augur well. The major sensed the angry quivering of his lips. He instinctively exchanged glances with the aides, who were skulking in the background, a pair of young Turks in glittering uniforms, aiguillettes, and plumes. The room was a large, airy cell, with a dusty red floor and pigeons nesting in the beams. Tyrant Banderas turned around, his mask lathered in shaving
soap. The major stood stiffly to attention in the doorway, his hand by his temples. He had decided four drinks would give him the Dutch courage to present his report and now felt distressingly unreal. The faces present looked distant, hesitant. There was a hazy sensation of nightmarish unreality. Tyrant stared at him silently, pursing his lips, then gestured to his servant to go on shaving. Don Cruz, the barber, was a spindly, elderly Negro, monkey-faced under graying frizz. Born into slavery, he wore the bedraggled, crestfallen look of a whipped dog. The fawning sweeney tiptoed around Tyrant. “How are the blades, boss?”

  “Fit to shave the dead.”

  “But it’s English steel!”

  “Don Cruz, that must mean they haven’t been properly sharpened.”

  “Boss, the red-hot sun in these parts has made your skin too sensitive.”

  The major stiffened in his military salute. Glancing at the little mirror opposite, Kid Santos saw the doorway and part of the room in distorted perspective. “I’m annoyed that Colonel de la Gándara has put himself outside the law. I’m so sorry to lose a friend. That hasty temper of his will be his ruin! I would like to have pardoned him, but our dear Master V has made it impossible. He’s a soft-bellied soul. He can’t bear upsets and he deserves a different sort of decoration: a cross with a pension. Major del Valle, prepare a summons for that ingenuous soul. By the way, why was the young student imprisoned?”

  Standing to attention on the doorstep, Major del Valle tried to enlighten him. “We received a bad report and, well, that open window does not speak in his favor.”

  The major’s voice has an opaque, mechanical ring, as if coming from miles away. Tyrant Banderas pursed his lips. “Nicely observed, especially since you were scared stiff at the sight of the roof below. And the boy’s family—what’s it like?”

  “Son of the late Dr. Rosales.”

  “Hmmm. Have his utopian revolutionary sympathies been fully investigated? We need the police department’s report. See to it, Major del Valle. Lieutenant Morcillo, issue orders for the immediate arrest of Colonel de la Gándara. Have the garrison commander dispatch forces to search the whole area. We must be quick. If we don’t catch the little colonel now, he’ll join the insurgents tomorrow. Lieutenant Valdivia, see if there’s a long line for today’s audiences.”

  The fawning sweeney finished shaving Tyrant and helped him into his clerical frock coat. Like German automata the aides swung halfway around and marched out of the room from opposite sides. They sheathed their sabers and clicked their spurs. “Chop-chop!”

  The sun glinted on Tyrant’s skull as he peered through the windowpanes. Bugles blared, and on the barren plot in front of the monastery, dragoons rode their horses round and round the mule-powered landau—a museum piece—that Kid Santos used for his state visits.

  III

  Tyrant Banderas scurried into the audience hall like a snoopy rat, buttoning up his clerical frock coat. “Salutem plurimam!”

  Doña Rosita Pintado threw her shawl aside and hurled herself histrionically at the feet of Tyrant. “Generalito, what they’re doing to my little boy is not right!”

  The wizened Indian mummy frowned. “Arise, Doña Rosita. An audience with the nation’s premier lawmaker is not a vaudeville show. What’s wrong with the son of the late, lamented Dr. Rosales? That formidable patriot would have been most valuable in maintaining order today! Doña Rosita, what’s your complaint?”

  “Generalito, they took my boy off to prison this morning!”

  “Doña Rosita, under what circumstances was he arrested?”

  “Major del Valle was in hot pursuit of a fugitive.”

  “Had you given him shelter?”

  “Of course not. It was your buddy Domiciano.”

  “My buddy Domiciano! Doña Rosita, you mean to say Colonel Domiciano de la Gándara?”

  “You’re a tyrant for correct titles!”

  “Doña Rosita, the premier lawmaker of this land has no buddies. And how was it that little Colonel de la Gándara was visiting you at such an unlikely hour?”

  “It went by like a flash, General! He ran in from the street and flew out the window without a single word.”

  “And how was it that it happened to be your house, Doña Rosita, that he chose?”

  “Generalito, fate rules our lives. How should I know?”

  “By the same token, you must wait to know your boy’s fate. Which will be determined, of course, according to the laws of nature. My dear Madame Doña Rosita, I’m so very obliged to you for your visit. It’s been such a pleasure to see you and recall those old times when the late, lamented Laurencio Rosales was courting you. I’ll always remember you riding in that procession at Rancho el Talapachi! Console yourself that individually we have no power to alter our fate: yes, there’s next to nothing we can do.”

  “Generalito, don’t speak in riddles!”

  “Just consider this for a second. Colonel de la Gándara escapes the law by jumping out of a window. Thus he opens a case that we have no choice now but to investigate. And that’s where we stand. Madame Doña Rosita, let us agree that in this world we are merely rebellious children, walking with hands tied, forever subject to time’s lash. But how is it, as I asked, that Colonel de la Gándara chose your house? Doña Rosita, I apologize for not giving you a longer audience. Be assured that justice will be done. And in the last instance, fate calls the shots! Be seeing you!”

  Stiff as an iron rod he stepped back, gesturing sharply to an aide who stood to attention in the doorway. “That’s it for today. We’re off to Santa Mónica!”

  IV

  The sun’s flame lit up the rugged stretch of roof terraces, a battlement blazing above the harbor’s curve. Sinister in storms and lulls between storms, the vast equatorial sea lay still in sheets of light from closest quay to remotest horizon. Barbicans and ramparts reflected the rough hand of military geometry like bulldogs transmuted into mathematical formula. In the parade-ground bandstand a raucous combo of virtuosos entertained a local crowd. The strident brass was an insult to the silent desolation of a sky tortured by light. The rabble of blanketed Indians, skulking on sidewalks and along arcades or thronging the steps of churches and monasteries, genuflected to the passing Tyrant. The frock-coated mummy gave an amused wave. “Chop-chop! They look so submissive and yet it’s impossible to govern them! Scholars are absolutely right when they tell us that Spanish individualism has eradicated the Indian’s primitive communism. That’s why we long for dictators. Creole dictators, apathetic natives, half-breed crooks, colonial theocracy! These are commonplaces that Yankee industrialists and European diplomats employ to put us down. They back the buccaneers of revolution so as to destroy our values and acquire our mines, railways, and customs taxes...Let’s give them a real scare. We’ll release the future president of the republic from prison with full honors!”

  The generalito’s ivories flashed a feigned smile. His aides nodded with military precision. With imperious glints and martial clatter, an escort of dragoons surrounded the landau. The rabble moved aside for fear of being trampled, and suddenly the street became an empty, silent, forlorn space. On the edge of the sidewalk, the shabby Indian in blanket and palm-frond hat knelt and waved religious crosses. Clapping and cheering enthusiastically, pool players peered over the balcony of the Spanish casino. The frocked mummy responded as decorously as a Quaker, raising his silk hat while his aides gave a military salute.

  V

  The Fortress of Santa Mónica rose above the luminous seashore like a melodrama in stone. The reserve corps stood at attention by the postern gate. Not a single wrinkle creased Tyrant’s Indian mask as Colonel Irineo Castañon, Peg Leg, came forward to greet him. Tyrant’s expression was carved in hard ridges like an obsidian idol’s. “Where’s Don Roque Cepeda?”

  “Cell number three.”

  “I hope that distinguished patrician and his colleagues have been treated with consideration. Political opposition within the framework of the law merits all due respect f
rom the institutions of the state. The rigor of the law must be applied to armed insurgents. From now on be sure to abide by these guidelines. It is our wish to meet the candidate of the opposition for the presidency of the republic. Colonel Castañon, at ease.”

  The colonel swiveled around, his hand raised to his cap in salute, his peg leg describing a stiff half circle through the air. He stopped and hopped and rasped bellicosely at the flunky with a bunch of keys: “Don Trinidad, you go!”

  Don Trinidad trotted off, only delayed by his bunions. Bolts and hinges creaked. Once the spiked steel door opened, he cantered away, keys clinking and tinkling. A sprightly fellow, he bounced and pirouetted (in beat-up deluxe patent leathers), while Colonel Irineo Castañon marked time. Tap! Tap! The tripping rhythm of his peg leg echoed through the vaults and galleries. Tap! Tap! Foxy and sanctimonious, Tyrant, surrounded by grinning aides, wrinkled his lips. Colonel Alcaide panted breathlessly. “Cell number three!”

  On the threshold, Tyrant Banderas doffed his hat in greeting and peered inside looking for Don Roque. The entire prison was standing around the door, silent and on tenterhooks. Accustomed now to the cell’s dim light, Tyrant strode between the two rows of hammocks. He clung to his ancient rituals, deferentially greeting the circle around Don Roque. “My dear sir, Don Roque, I have only just been informed of your detention in this fortress. I deplore this situation! Please do me the honor of believing that it is none of my doing. Santos Banderas has great regard for such an esteemed member of the republic as yourself, and our ideological differences may not be as irreducible as you suppose, my dear Don Roque. Though you purport to be my adversary in politics, you act at all times like one who is conscious of his civic duties. You participate in the primaries. Your battles are conducted within the charter of the constitution. My rule has been renowned for the severe rulings issued by our judges against provocateurs who take up arms and act outside the law. I shall always be merciless against such tin-pot warriors who are keen only to spark foreign intervention, but I shall always respect and even commend that opposition which operates strictly according to the laws of the land. Don Roque, that’s where you come in. Right off I want to say that I fully acknowledge your patriotism and appreciate the generous intentions behind your campaign to imbue the indigenous race with civic spirit. This matter needs to be debated, but for the moment I wish merely to offer my apologies for this regrettable police error by which a good man has, as Horace puts it, come to dignify the prison house of vice and of corruption.“