After dinner the men went into the library for their cigars and cognac and later came into the music room, where María Elisabeth played some simple melodies for them on the piano. After about half an hour she sensed their guest’s restlessness and suddenly she began to play Chopin.
My father suddenly began to listen intently. The deep passion of the music stirred him and he stared at the small girl who was almost dwarfed by the huge piano. When she finished playing he applauded.
Don Rafael applauded also. But it was polite and lacked enthusiasm. He thought Chopin too bold and perhaps even immoral. He preferred the more familiar somber music. The wild rhythms of the people he cared for not at all.
María Elisabeth rose from the piano, flushed and pretty. “It is warm in here,” she said, opening her small lace fan. “I think I will go into the garden.”
My father rose instantly. He bowed to Don Rafael. “Con su permiso, excelencia?”
Don Rafael nodded courteously.
My father held out his arm to the girl. She took it graciously, and they walked into the garden. Doña Margaretha followed at a discreet three paces.
“You play well,” my father said.
“Not well at all.” She laughed. “There isn’t much time to practice. And no one to learn from.”
“It would seem to me that there isn’t much you have to learn.”
“In music there is always much to learn,” she said, looking up at him. “I have heard it said that it is like the law. One must never stop studying or learning.”
“True,” my father admitted. “The law is a stern taskmaster. It is constantly in a state of flux. New interpretations, revisions, even new laws almost every day.”
María Elisabeth gave a soft sigh of admiration. “I don’t see how you can keep it all in your head.”
He looked down and saw the deep wonder in her eyes. Right then and there, though he did not know it, he was lost.
It was almost a year later that they were married, after my father had returned from Curatu with the news of the death of his parents. It was my grandfather Don Rafael who first suggested that he stay in Bandaya and practice law. There were two lawyers there already, but one was old and ready to retire. It was a year after that, almost to the day, that my sister was born.
There were two other children between my sister and myself but each was stillborn. By that time my father had become interested in the study of Greek. His father had had quite a library for that time, and everything had been moved to Bandaya from the little house in Curatu.
It was from Doña Margaretha that I first heard the story of my birth and christening. When the midwives and the doctor came down and told my father the joyous news, he sank to one knee and gave thanks. First for the fact that I was a son (all the others had been girls), and second because I was strong and healthy and would live.
Almost immediately the clamor about my name began. Don Rafael, my grandfather, would hear of nothing but that I should be named after his father. My father, of course, wanted me called after his father. Neither would give an inch.
It was my mother who resolved the threatened breach. “Let him be named for tomorrow rather than the past,” she said. “Let him have a name that will embody our hopes for the future and have meaning for all who hear it.”
This appealed to the romantic and the scholar in my father and to the dynastic impulses of my grandfather. Thus it was that my father chose these names:
Diogenes Alejandro Xenos.
Diogenes after the fabled seeker of truth; Alejandro after the conqueror of the world. The explanation was simple, my father proclaimed as he held me for the priest’s baptismal drops.
“With the truth, he shall conquer the world.”
4
I woke as the first glimmer of light came into my room. For a moment I lay there in the bed, then I rolled over and got up and went to the window.
The sun stood on the edge of the horizon, just climbing over the mountains. There was a faint breeze coming from the west and I shivered as the last remaining chill of the night crept into my nightshirt. Suddenly I had to pee.
I went back to the bed and pulled out the small chamber pot from underneath. While I stood there relieving myself I wondered if Papá would give me a larger pot now that we two men were the only ones left in the house. I felt warmer after I had finished, and I put the pot back and returned to the window.
Across the road in front of the house I could see the faint smoke rising from the small fires around which the bandoleros, rolled in their dirty blankets, were sleeping. There was no movement coming from them, no sound. I pulled off my nightshirt and climbed into my pantalones and shoes. I put on the warm Indian wool shirt that La Perla had made for my birthday and went downstairs. I was hungry. It was time to eat.
Sarah, who had been La Perla’s assistant, was building a fire in the stove. She looked up as I came in, her Indian face flat and impassive.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Are you going to be the cook now?”
She nodded without speaking. Sarah never talked much.
I went to the table and sat down. “I want a tortilla con jamón.”
Again she nodded and reached up for a heavy black frying pan. Quickly she threw in two fingers of grease and placed the pan over one of the openings on the stove. A moment later she had diced pieces of ham from the butt hanging nearby and had broken three eggs into the pan.
I watched with approval. She was better than La Perla. La Perla wouldn’t have given me a tortilla. She would have made me eat porridge instead. I decided to put this new one to the supreme test. “Café con leche,” I said. Chocolate was all La Perla or my mother allowed me.
Sarah put the café in front of me without a word. I drank it with loud smacking noises after putting three heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar into the cup. The sweetness helped kill the awful taste. I never really liked drinking coffee but it made me feel grown up.
She placed the tortilla in front of me. It was dark brown and smoking hot and firm like La Perla made them. I waited a few minutes for it to cool, then picked it up in my fingers and began to eat, watching Sarah out of the corner of my eye.
She said never a word about my not using the knife and fork that were lying beside my plate. She merely stood there watching me, a curious expression in her eyes. When I had finished I got up and went over to the pump and ran some water on my hands and wiped my lips, then dried them on the towel that hung there. “That was very good,” I said approvingly.
Something in her eyes reminded me of the way she had looked when the bandoleros had approached her in the cellar. Her eyes contained that same inscrutable acceptance.
On an impulse I went over and lifted the front of her shift. Her thighs were unmarked and the mat of hair between her legs did not seem in the least disturbed.
I lowered the shift and looked into her face. “Did they hurt you, Sarah?” I asked.
Silently she shook her head.
“I’m glad they didn’t hurt you.”
Then I noticed the faint edging of tears around her dark eyes. I took her hand. “Don’t cry, Sarah,” I said. “I won’t let them do it to you again. I’ll kill them if they try.”
Suddenly her arms were around me and she was holding me close against her. I could feel her warm breasts against my face and I heard the heavy beating of her heart. She was sobbing convulsively but almost soundlessly.
I was very still within her arms. All I could think of to say was, “Don’t cry, Sarah. Please, don’t cry.”
After a moment she let me go. I slipped down to the floor but already she had turned away and was back at the stove throwing more wood chips into the firebox. There was nothing more to say. I turned and went out.
The house was silent as I walked through the dining room and living room. I went out the front door onto the galería.
Across the road there was movement. The bandoleros were beginning to wake to the day. The sun was slanting in over the barns and its
rays were reaching across the yard toward the house. I heard a faint sound at the far end of the galería. I turned toward it.
That part was still in deep shadow but I could see the glowing tip of a cigar and the outline of a man sitting in my father’s chair. Instinctively I knew it wasn’t my father. He would never smoke a cigarro this early in the day.
The face was much clearer when I stepped out of the light into the shadows. The pale-gray eyes were watching me steadily. “Buenos días, Señor General,” I said politely.
He answered equally politely. “Buenos días, soldadito.” He took another puff on his cigarro, then laid it carefully on the edge of the table. “How are you this morning?”
“I am fine,” I replied. “I got up early.”
“I know. I heard you at the window above.”
“You were up already?” I asked in surprise. I had heard no one.
His small even white teeth showed in a faint smile. “Generals, like small boys, must be up at sunrise to see what each day has in store for them.”
I didn’t answer. I looked across the road at the soldiers’ camp. “They were still asleep,” I said.
A slight edge of contempt came into his voice. “Campesinos. All they think about is food for the day. And they sleep well knowing that it will be provided for them.” He picked up his cigarro again. “Have you eaten?”
“Sí. Sarah gave me desayuno. She was crying.”
The cigarro glowed red. “Women always weep,” he said casually. “She will get over it.”
“I don’t cry.”
He looked at me for a moment before he answered. “No, you are a man. Men have no time to shed tears for what has already been done.”
“Papá cried,” I said. “At the cemetery yesterday.” I felt a lump in my throat as I remembered. The fading sun throwing long shadows across the little graveyard behind the house. The creaking of the rusted iron gate. The soft squashy sound of the damp black earth as it fell on the coffins, and the unctuous sound of the Latin of the priest echoing hollowly in the morning air. I swallowed the lump. “I also cried.”
“That is permissible,” the general replied gravely. “Even I wept.” He put down his cigarro once more and reached for my hand and drew me to him. “But that was yesterday. Today we are men again, and there is no time for tears.”
I nodded silently.
“You are a brave boy. You remind me of my own sons.”
I didn’t speak.
“One is a few years older than you, the other a year younger. I have also a little girl. She is four.” He smiled and pulled me up onto his lap. “They live in the mountains.”
He looked over my head at the distant hills. “They are safe there.” His eyes turned back to me. “Perhaps you would like to visit them for a little while? There is much to do in the mountains.”
“Could I have a pony?” I asked quickly.
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Not just now. When you are a little older, perhaps. But you could have a surefooted burro.”
“Will he be my own, my very own?”
“Of course,” the general replied. “No one will be allowed to ride him except you.”
“That would be very nice,” I said gravely. “I think I would like that very much. But…” I climbed down from his lap and looked up at him. “But what would Papá do? He has no one but me now.”
“I think your father would approve,” he replied quietly. “He will be very busy this next year. He will have no time to be here. He will be with me.”
By now the sun had crept around the corner of the galería and the warmth of the day was beginning to make itself felt. A faint scratching came from beneath our feet, then a sudden slithering sound as if someone had been hiding under the wooden floor. Almost before I could move, the general was on his feet, a pistol suddenly in his hand. “Quién es?” His voice was harsh.
There was more scratching, then a familiar yelp and whine. I leaped down from the galería and stuck my head down into the opening. A cold nose and familiar tongue slobbered all over my face. I reached in and pulled the little dung-colored dog out from under the galería, and, holding him wriggling in my arms, got to my feet.
“Perro!” I cried happily. “Perro! He came back!”
5
Manuelo held up his hand to halt us, then drew his fingers quickly across his lips. I sat astride the little pony scarcely daring to breathe. I looked at Roberto; he, too, was very tense.
Roberto was the oldest son of the general, Diablo Rojo. He was almost eleven, two years older than I. I was almost nine but I was taller by a good three inches. He had become very jealous of me, ever since last year when it became apparent that I had grown the faster.
The others sat quietly on their horses. They were listening also. I strained my ears but could hear nothing above the rustling of the leaves in the forest around us.
“They are not far,” Manuelo whispered. “We will have to move quietly.”
“It would be better if we knew how many there are,” Gato Gordo whispered back.
Manuelo nodded. Fat Cat always made sense. He was a thinker. Perhaps it was because he was so heavy; it was difficult for him to move and he thought much.
“I will scout them,” Manuelo said, slipping from his horse.
“No,” Fat Cat answered quickly. “The leaves are dry, the twigs will give you away. Then they will know we are here.”
“How else can we find out?”
Gato Gordo pointed over his head. “Through the trees,” he said, “like a monkey. They will never think to look up.”
“We are too heavy,” Manuelo replied. “A branch might crack under our weight and—poof!—we are dead.”
Fat Cat looked at Roberto and me. “But they are not too heavy.”
“No!” Manuelo’s whisper was almost explosive in the stillness. “The general will kill us if anything happens to his son!”
“Dax can go,” Fat Cat replied softly.
Manuelo looked at me. I could see doubt written on his face. “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.
Before he could say any more I reached over my head and grabbed a branch. I pulled myself up out of the saddle and into the tree. “I will go,” I said, looking down at them.
Roberto’s face was sullen and glowering. I knew it was because I was going and he wasn’t. But his father made very strict rules, and one always obeyed the leader. Roberto didn’t move.
“Be silent,” Manuelo cautioned. “Merely find out how many there are and what weapons they have. Then come back and report to us.”
I nodded and, turning, climbed higher into the tree. About fifteen feet from the ground, just before the limbs grew too thin to bear my weight, I started to move from tree to tree.
I was very quick, having spent much time in the trees like all boys, yet it took me almost an hour to cover the quarter-mile to their camp. And if it hadn’t been for the smoke from their fire reaching my nostrils I would have been there before I knew it. As it was I ended up almost directly over their heads.
I clung silently to a limb, my heart pounding, sure that they could hear it even over their hearty conversation. Slowly I inched my way back until I was completely hidden in the foliage.
From the loudness of their voices I realized that they didn’t suspect anyone was within miles. I counted heads carefully. There were fourteen men, their red and blue uniforms faded and dusty. The evening fire had already been started and occasionally one of them would go over and throw wood on it. I wondered why no one among them had started to cook the evening meal but that question was answered almost immediately.
A woman came into the small clearing. One of the men who had been lying closest to the fire sat up and spoke to her. From the markings on his sleeve, I could tell that he was a sergeant. His voice sounded harsh in the quickening dusk.
“Dónde está la comida?”
“It is coming,” the woman answered in a low voice.
A moment later two other women a
ppeared, carrying between them a large iron pot. The smell of a meat stew came up to me and I could feel the juices in my mouth begin to bubble.
The women put the pot down near the men and began to dish the stew out onto tin plates. After each man had been served, the women took what was left and retired a few feet off to eat.
I took advantage of their preoccupation with the food to move quietly away. I circled the clearing in the trees until I located where the women had been doing the cooking. There were the remains of another small fire about twenty feet away. There were also a few blankets on the ground nearby, indicating where the women slept. I started to work my way back.
The sun was fast disappearing by the time I arrived. Despite the fact that the others were listening for me, I managed to drop into their midst without a sound. I was very proud of myself when I saw the startled expressions on their faces.
“Fourteen men under the command of a sergeant,” I said. “They have already made camp for the night.”
“What weapons do they have?” Fat Cat asked.
“I saw rifles and two tommy guns.”
“Only two?”
“That’s all I saw.”
“I wonder what they’re doing out here?” Fat Cat said.
“It must be a patrol,” Manuelo replied. “They are always sending out patrols to discover where we are.” He laughed. “They never have.”
“Fourteen men and two machine guns,” Fat Cat repeated thoughtfully. “There are only five of us, not counting the two boys. I think we’d better give them the slip.”
“Now is the time to do it,” I said boldly. “The women have just given them food. They are too busy eating to hear us.”
“They have women with them?” Manuelo’s voice sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“There are three of them.”
“Deserters!” Fat Cat said. “They’ve run off into the hills with their women.”
“Maybe it’s time then,” one of the others said. “The general has the army on the run. La guerra will soon be over.”
The Adventurers Page 4