I turned back to Fat Cat. He was staring at me, his face white. “Dax!”
I screamed hysterically. “Dax! I’m not dead like the others! I’ll kill you! I will cut off your cojones and stuff them down your lying throat!”
“No, Dax. No!”
“Traitor!” I took another step toward him but there was something wrong with the ground. It was rolling like the sea at Curatu, where I had once gone with my father. “Traitor!” I screamed again.
“Dax!”
But this was another voice. One I had never forgotten, though I hadn’t heard it for more than two years. I looked past Fat Cat toward the kitchen door, where my father was standing. But there was something wrong. I thought I was going out of my mind. My father also was wearing an army uniform.
“Papá!” I cried. I took a step toward him, then I remembered Fat Cat and rage once more shook me. I turned and screamed, “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
I cocked my arm to throw the knife at his throat, but the sun blinded my eyes. I blinked for a moment, and suddenly everything began to fade. The knife slipped through my fingers. I felt myself falling to the ground, and then a pair of arms caught me.
The darkness started to come again and I remember thinking: how can it be night when it has just become morning? Then out of this darkness came my father’s voice. There was love in it. Pain. And sorrow too.
“My son,” he said softly. “My son, what have I done to you?”
And then mercifully the night came and covered me.
20
The old man in the black robes leaned back in his chair and placed his fingers together judicially as he waited for my answer. His dark eyes shone behind the lenses of his spectacles.
“I will try to do better, Monseñor,” I said.
“I hope so, Diogenes.” But his voice was as lacking in conviction as mine.
School was just not for me. The routine and monotony of the classroom was too confining. Some things I liked and in those I did well. Languages. English. French. Even German. Latin was a dead language, used only by priests in their mumbo jumbo, and I couldn’t have cared less about it. In the two years I had been there I had yet to pass Latin. That was the reason I stood now before el director de la escuela.
“Your esteemed father was one of our brightest pupils,” el director continued pontifically. “He was second to none in his grasp of Latin. If you wish to follow in his footsteps in the practice of law, you, too, must be.”
He seemed to expect an answer. “Sí, Monseñor.”
“You must also try to improve your grades in the other subjects.” He glanced down at the report on his desk. “There are too many in which you have barely managed to receive passing marks. Grammar, literature, historia, geografía…”
I looked out the window as his voice droned on. I could see Fat Cat lounging outside the gate at the school entrance waiting for me. He made an imposing figure in his bright red and blue uniform, and as usual he was the center of an admiring group of maids and governesses also awaiting their charges. But somehow I had never grown accustomed to seeing him in uniform. Especially that one. Even though the army was now ours and the general was el Presidente.
The revolution had been over for almost three weeks by the time Amparo and I had reached Estanza. It had taken us almost five weeks to get there, and in all that time we had not dared talk to another human being.
I remember when the general came into my room at Señor Moncada’s hacienda several days later. I lay listlessly in the bed, still weak from the fever that had raged through my body. I had heard the sharp click of boots outside my door and turned my head to greet him. He was not a tall man but in the uniform of commander-in-chief of the army he seemed to have taken on added height.
His face was still lean and sharp, his lips thin and cruel under those strangely pale-gray eyes, as unblinking as ever. He came to the side of the bed and looked down at me. His hand was oddly gentle as he placed it on the white bed sheet over mine. “Soldadito.”
“Señor General.”
“I have come to thank you for returning my daughter to me,” he said quietly.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t see what he had to thank me for. There was little else I could have done.
“You saw…” His voice was oddly hesitant. “You saw what happened to the others?”
I nodded.
“Roberto and Eduardo. Could they still be in the mountains? We never found their bodies. All had been thrown into the fire.”
“They are dead, señor.” I had to turn my face away from the sudden pain in his eyes. “I saw them die.”
“Was it…” Again the hesitation in his voice. “Was it swift?”
“Sí, señor. Like men in battle, excelencia, not boys. I myself saw Roberto kill two of them.”
Suddenly he exploded. “Damn that Guiterrez!”
I looked at him questioningly. “El coronel?”
His pale eyes were glittering. “Guiterrez, the butcher of Bandaya! He knew of the armistice before he went into the mountains.”
“Armistice, excelencia?”
“A truce, soldadito. There was to be no fighting while the surrender was being arranged.”
He turned and walked over to the window. His back was toward me as he spoke. “The war was already over when he attacked the hideout.”
I closed my eyes. The whole thing then was por nada. They had all died for nothing. All of them. My grandfather, he, too. All because of el coronel. I felt a black hatred rise in me.
I heard someone in the doorway and I opened my eyes. Fat Cat came in carrying my lunch on a tray. The bandage on his dark-brown forearm where my knife had nicked him showed whitely in the darkened room.
“Well, my little fighting cock, I see you’re awake.”
The general’s voice exploded. “What happened to the lookout? Why weren’t we warned in time to flee?” He came back to the bed. “What happened?”
Fat Cat’s face went suddenly white and I could see the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. There was a look in his eyes I had never seen before. Not even when we had faced death together.
I closed my eyes again. I knew what had happened and why. Fat Cat had deserted his post. But I wasn’t a child any longer. I knew that one more death could not return life to those already gone. And that even had Fat Cat been there he would only have added another corpse to the others.
I opened my eyes and looked up at the general. “I don’t know, excelencia. I woke when I heard the first shots. When I became aware that the house was burning I went out the window into the ditch. Then I saw Amparo, and I grabbed her and we fled.”
The general stared at me for a moment. “You did well.” He covered my hand again, his touch curiously soft and gentle. “My sons are dead but their spirit and courage lives on—in you. I shall always think of you now as my son.”
With surprise I noticed the beginning of tears in those pale-gray eyes. The general could not be crying. Men did not weep; he had told me so himself. “Thank you, excelencia.”
He nodded and, straightening up, started for the door. He turned at the portal and looked back. “I leave you to your lunch.”
Then I remembered. “How is Amparo?”
He smiled. “She is up and about. I am taking her back to Curatu with me. Get well soon and you will join us.”
I could hear his boots echoing down the hall as I turned to Fat Cat. His face was still pale but he was smiling. “You have given me back my shirt,” he said.
I don’t know why but suddenly I was angry. “I have given you back your head!” I pushed the tray back toward him. “Take it away, I’m not hungry.”
Silently he left the room, and I turned my head toward the window. But I didn’t notice the blue sky and the sunshine, nor did I hear the soft twittering of the birds. All I could see was el coronel, and all I could hear was that detestable voice. The black hatred again rose in me, bringing the bitter taste of bile into my mouth. If he was
alive, someday I would search him out and kill him!
A few weeks later I was in Curatu. Father had found a house on the side of the hill looking out over the sea not far from where his parents had lived. Soon after that I was registered in the same Jesuit school that he had attended as a boy, and the same monseñor who had registered him was now impressing upon me my failures as a student.
Unwillingly I forced my attention back to his droning voice. “You show promise,” he was concluding, “but you must work harder to achieve a standing over which your father can take pride.”
“I will, Monseñor. I shall work very hard.”
He smiled. “Bueno. Go then in peace, my son.”
“Gracias, Monseñor.”
I left the small room which served as his office and fled down the corridor. I blinked my eyes at the sudden brightness of the sun as Fat Cat came over from his crowd of admirers. “The car is waiting, excelencito.”
Ever since Estanza he no longer called me by name. I had become “excelencito”—little excellency. I could go nowhere, do nothing, without his being around. Once he had told me that the general and my father had assigned him to be my bodyguard and I had laughed. I did not need a bodyguard. I could take care of myself. But that hadn’t changed things. Fat Cat was always around.
I looked over at the black Hudson limousine with a uniformed chauffeur seated behind the wheel. I gave Fat Cat my books. “I don’t want the car. I feel like walking.”
I turned and started down the hill toward the city. A moment later I heard the purr of a motor behind me. I glanced back. The car was following, crawling slowly down the hill, the chauffeur and Fat Cat in the front seat. I smiled to myself. In that at least Fat Cat hadn’t changed. He would still rather ride than walk.
Later I sat on a piling at the end of the dock and watched a freighter being unloaded. I could hear the sailors cursing, the longshoremen in French and the answering insults in Spanish. My French teacher would truly be surprised at my knowledge of that language if he ever heard me repeat some of their obscenities.
I looked up at the red, white, and blue tricolor flying from the mast. There was a breeze coming in from the sea and it fluttered proudly. I surveyed the port. There were only two other ships being unloaded. One flew the flag of Panama, the other was Greek.
Before the revolution, I had been told, there were never fewer than twenty ships. Mostly norteamericano and English. Now both the United States and Great Britain forbade our ports to their ships. My father said it was because they had alliances with the former government and had not yet recognized our new one. I didn’t see what that had to do with it. Especially when bananas rotted on the docks, they burned the sugarcane in the fields, and the coffee beans turned brown and maggoty in their bags in the warehouses.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned. Two boys were coming toward me. They wore the torn and ragged clothing that seemed the common garb in this part of the town. They stopped in front of me, and one of them took off his hat and addressed me respectfully. “A few centavos, excelencia, for our hunger.”
I felt embarrassed. I had no money. I had no need of it. Whatever I wanted Fat Cat got for me. “I haven’t any,” I said curtly, to cover my embarrassment.
“Just one centavo, señor. For the grace of God.”
I climbed down from the piling. “I’m sorry, I haven’t any money.”
I saw them exchange disbelieving looks. I felt strange. They weren’t much older than I and yet their manner had been subservient, almost wheedling. Now they stood directly in front of me on the narrow catwalk leading back to the main dock and there wasn’t room to pass.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I saw a sullen look come over their faces. They didn’t move. “What do you want?” I asked. “I told you I haven’t any money.”
They didn’t answer.
“Let me pass,” I repeated, beginning to get angry. Did these fools think if I did have a few centavos I wouldn’t give it to them?
“He wants to pass,” the larger said mockingly. The smaller smiled nastily, and echoed the other in a mocking sissy voice.
I needed no further invitation. The pent-up rage roared inside me. A moment later the smaller one was flying from the catwalk into the water and the larger one screamed as the toe of my shoe caught him in the cojones. He fell to his knees on the catwalk, clutching at his groin, and as I kicked him in the side he too went over into the water.
While I stood looking down at them as they struggled toward a piling I heard footsteps behind me.
“What happened?” Fat Cat asked.
“They would not let me pass.”
“Campesinos!” Fat Cat spat into the water after them.
I started back to the shore, Fat Cat following me. The big black limousine was waiting at the edge of the dock. I turned to Fat Cat before I got into the car.
“Why do they beg?”
“Who?”
“Them.” I pointed to the two boys climbing back onto the dock.
Fat Cat shrugged. “There are always beggars.”
“They said they were hungry.”
“There are always the hungry.”
“But there aren’t supposed to be. That’s what the whole revolution was about.”
Fat Cat looked at me, a strange look in his eyes. “I, myself, have been in three revolutions. Yet I never knew of one that put food in the bellies of the campesinos. Campesinos are born to starve.”
“Then why did we fight?”
Fat Cat smiled. “So that we would not be like them and have to beg for our bread.”
I stared at him for a moment, then took my foot off the running board. “Do you have any change?”
He nodded.
I held out my hand.
He put his hand into his pocket and dropped some coins into my open palm. I closed my fist around them and walked back down the dock. The two boys watched me warily, fear clouding their eyes. The bigger one was still holding himself. The smaller spat at my feet.
“Campesinos!” I threw the coins down at them and turned and walked away.
21
The Palacio del Presidente was in the center of the town. It occupied two city blocks and was surrounded by an eighteen-foot brick-and-concrete wall, which effectively cut off the building from the streets. There were but two entrances, one on the north side facing the mountains at the rear of the city, the other on the south looking toward the sea. It was a fortress within itself. There were always guards at the iron gates and sentries who patrolled the walks atop the high walls.
By a decree of one of the former presidents, who had had a shot fired at him from a nearby building while he was walking from the residencia to the offices, all the buildings for two blocks square surrounding the palace had been razed. This kept any windows from overlooking the presidential enclosure. It did not, however, keep that particular president from assassination. After several months of brooding humiliation over his taking a mistress, his own wife had shot him.
The soldados at the South Gate snapped to attention as the big black limousine rolled through. I looked out at them carelessly from the backseat. The car turned right and headed for the residencia, a white stone building in the southeast corner. When it stopped in the driveway the soldiers there looked at me without curiosity, for my regular weekly visit to Amparo was by then routine.
Amparo’s apartamiento was in the right wing. The left belonged to her father, and the center of the building contained the public rooms. I was ushered into the large corner room that served as her sitting room. As usual I had to wait. La princesa, as she had come to be called, was never on time.
I was standing at the window looking out on the grounds when she came in followed by her dueña. She came toward me in a fine white dress, her long blond hair falling to her shoulders and her hand outstretched imperiously.
As was the custom, I kissed her hand. “Amparo,” I said gravely.
“Dax.” She smiled. “It was good of
you to come.”
We said the same things each week and now we waited for la dueña’s customary words. They came right on schedule. “I shall leave you children to your play.”
Amparo nodded. We waited until the old woman closed the door behind her, then turned to each other, grinning. In a moment we were at the window looking down.
Sure enough, la dueña came out the side entrance. Fat Cat was waiting there, his uniform cap in his hand, and together they turned and hurried to la dueña’s small apartment in the servants’ building.
Amparo burst out laughing. “She waits all week for your visit.”
“Not mine,” I replied dryly.
She laughed again and turned to me. “Shall we watch them?”
I shook my head. I didn’t feel like it today. Sometimes we would run into Amparo’s bedroom, where from one window we could look down through a skylight just over the bed in la dueña’s room. It was dull. They always did the same thing. I couldn’t understand why Fat Cat didn’t get as bored with it as we did at watching them.
“What do you want to do then?”
“I don’t know.” I stood at the window looking out.
“You’re not much fun.”
I looked around at her. Amparo at nine was growing into a more beautiful child each time I saw her. And well aware of it. But she was alone too much. She was not allowed outside the walls of the palace. Not even to attend school. Tutors and teachers were brought in.
Every afternoon selected and approved playmates were allowed to visit. Señor Moncada’s two daughters, now at a private school in Curatu, came once a week; other children of the local aristócratas and políticos also had their turn. Once a month there was a party which we all attended.
Beyond that Amparo lived in a world completely peopled by adults. There were times when I felt she was much older than I. She seemed to know so much more about what went on in the world. She was always filled with tiny malicious bits of gossip about people.
She went now to the couch and sat down. “What did the monseñor say to you?”
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