But my irritation was misplaced. Fear would have been the correct response. It was more soldiers—suspicious and aggressive, secure in their bullying. They pushed their way in, a dozen of them, stamping their feet and swinging their weapons in all directions, their faces smeared with camouflage paint. They were like rough dogs ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Seeing them, I held back by the door to the dining room. How does one describe fear? Rapid breathing, a pressure in the chest, tensing of the muscles. I kept thinking it would be so easy for one of them to make a mistake and start shooting. We three guests stood petrified, careful not to make the sightest movement. Pacheco, on the other hand, became angry.
“What is it now?” he asked, standing by the doorway. “What right do you have to push your way in here?” The soldiers had spread through the hall, hardly paying attention to him.
A captain stopped in front of Pacheco, a small and dark young man looking somewhat electric and almost twitching with attention as he glanced around the room. In his hand was a large pistol.
“There have been gunshots from the roofs of these houses,” he said, “and we must make a search. Do you have identification?”
“I am Dr. Daniel Pacheco.”
“Do you have identification?”
“Isn’t my word good enough?”
Casually the captain raised his pistol and laid its barrel alongside Pacheco’s nose. “Don’t play the fool with me. I’ve shot many men tonight and another would mean nothing.”
I must say that Pacheco never flinched. As the captain threatened Pacheco, the other soldiers pointed their rifles at us, as if we three middle-aged men might run indignantly to his aid. As I had noticed before, the soldiers were young and rather excited. They were scattered across the hall and one was halfway up the stairs looking down at us. The paint on their faces made them appear particularly inhuman. It was the sort of moment that seems pointed and brittle and I could only shut my eyes. Most likely it was our obvious fear that made Pacheco reconsider.
“Do you think I can reach for my wallet without your becoming upset?” he asked the captain. “And perhaps you can tell me your name as well.”
The captain looked at Pacheco’s identification without answering. He was at least six inches shorter than Pacheco and had thick black hair visible beneath his cap. I guessed he had Indian blood and felt sure he was offended by the opulence of the hall. Another of Diogenes’s remarks occurred to me: “In a rich man’s house the only place to spit is in his face.”
“Search these men for weapons,” said the captain to another officer. “Then search the house.”
“No!” shouted Pacheco. “I refuse to allow you to bully me within my own home.”
The captain spun around, lifting his revolver, then struck Pacheco on the side of the face, knocking him back. Before I could see more, the soldiers grabbed us, pushed us up against the wall, and proceeded to search us with no attempt to be gentle or respect for our age. I felt myself yanked and then the rough touch of their hands as they prodded and groped, but there was nothing I could do. Briefly I saw Señora Puccini standing by the door to the hall. I wondered about her small pistol and if she still had it on her person. Then she turned and disappeared into the back of the house.
When the soldiers were certain that I wasn’t armed, they pushed me toward Dalakis and Malgiolio so the three of us staggered together and my head bumped Dalakis’s shoulder. Both of my friends looked terrified. I glanced back at Pacheco, who was getting to his feet. The left side of his face was bleeding but he didn’t touch it. Really, I had to admire him. He stood up as if he felt no pain or discomfort and addressed the captain with perfect calm.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he said.
The captain ignored him and turned to his men. “Search the house but don’t disturb anything. If you find anyone, bring them to me.”
“Wait,” said Pacheco, “there’s an invalid in an upstairs bedroom.”
“Can he walk?” asked the captain.
“He hasn’t moved for twenty years. Nor can he speak.”
“Why should I believe you?” asked the captain.
“If you saw him, you would believe me.” Pacheco noticed Señora Puccini standing again in the doorway. “Señora, take the captain upstairs and show him our permanent guest.”
“That’s all right, my men can look at him.” He called over another officer. “Have that woman show you the house. Make sure she doesn’t skip anything. I also want her searched. Don’t be too brutal. And hurry, we’re wasting time here.”
Pacheco was wiping his face with his handkerchief. It still appeared to be bleeding. Señora Puccini stared at the blood but I couldn’t guess her thoughts. Did the sight of his blood give her pleasure? In any case, she was soon hurried up the staircase by the soldiers while other soldiers fanned out through the downstairs rooms.
“Remember,” shouted the captain, “don’t touch anything!”
Pacheco took a few steps toward us. Several drops of blood spotted the jacket of his gray suit. “Shall we return to our dinner?” he asked.
Noticing Pacheco walking away, the captain bellowed at all of us, “You’ll stay in this hall until I give you permission to leave! Sit down over there.” He pointed toward one of the marble benches bracketed on either side by a vase of red flowers.
Pacheco turned slowly. “Again I ask you for your name, Captain? Are you afraid of giving it?”
Dalakis hurried to Pacheco and took his arm. “Come along, Daniel, they’ll be gone in a minute. Let’s just do what he says.” From other rooms and upstairs we could hear soldiers stamping around and banging the doors.
Truly, I think Pacheco would have preferred being tied up than do anything the captain asked, but Dalakis and I prevailed upon him to sit down. Malgiolio had been silent all this time. Glancing at him, I saw his face was paper white. He appeared to think that at any second he might be shot. I took his arm and led him to the bench. The four of us sat in a little row. What a contrast to the grandeur of our sumptuous meal. Dalakis was trying to look pleasant and obliging. Pacheco was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as if studying his shoes. Malgiolio was hunched over with his arms crossed. I too felt nervous but my fear wasn’t enough to keep me from observing all that happened around me. The captain was over by the stairs talking to one of his men. I noticed he had a limp and the heel of his left shoe was about one inch thicker than the other. Five other soldiers were spread around the hall and three were staring up at the tapestry of satyrs and nymphs. Then they began to poke each other as they took notice of the sort of sexual celebration that was going on there.
After several minutes, Dalakis stood up. “Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me, sir.” The captain gave him a look which made me guess he was one of those career soldiers who hates civilians. “I wonder,” continued Dalakis, “if you could give us some idea what’s happening in the city. I’m a government employee and it’s difficult to get information.”
To tell the truth, I was rather surprised by Dalakis.
The captain seemed surprised as well. “You sit and you do not speak! Do I have to tie you up? Are you a child?” He turned back to say something to the man with him and the man laughed. Dalakis sat back down on the bench. His brow was severely creased and I thought he might cry.
Pacheco patted him on the knee. “They are intent on being animals. Leave them alone.”
The captain glanced at Pacheco but made no comment. As for Dalakis, his behavior was only to be expected. Even as a boy he had constantly backed whoever was in power. There were stories that he’d even reported our various pranks to the school authorities, but we never had proof of that.
But there was a time when Pacheco, David Kress, and I had gone wandering in the night. We were seventeen and ready for adventure. Pacheco had led us down to a sort of low-class dance hall that catered to sail
ors and was filled with prostitutes. The place was extremely crowded and one of the people, surprisingly, was Dalakis’s father, dancing rather drunkenly with a fat red-haired woman who wore a shawl of bright purple feathers. At the time we were sure he didn’t see us. Then several days later we were called before the headmaster. It seemed someone had reported us. Kress denied being there. Pacheco said the school had no business telling us how to behave outside of school. And I kept silent. The upshot was that we had to do extra work and stay late for about two months. A dreary punishment.
Kress was certain that Dalakis had heard about us from his father and reported us. Of course Kress was furious and within an inch of beating poor Dalakis black and blue. But Pacheco said that many people had seen us and the information could have come from anywhere. I rather sided with Kress but without definite proof we had no case. Actually Kress was quite a gentle fellow but he hated betrayal and hated spies. Sometimes I’ve wanted to ask Dalakis if he told, but then I decide I’d rather not know. If he did betray us, even after this much time has gone by I’d have difficulty maintaining a friendship with him.
—
In twos and threes the soldiers had begun to return to the hall. Presumably they had found nothing to interest them. All at once we heard a shouting from back toward the kitchen which grew louder as it approached along the corridor. Several soldiers burst through the door dragging the cook’s grandson, Juan, who was struggling to break free. One of the soldiers threw Juan to the floor, kicked at him, and missed. I had forgotten about the boy. Pacheco jumped to his feet and ran toward him.
“Leave him alone!” he shouted. He pushed himself between Juan and the soldiers so quickly that everyone was too surprised to do more than stare. “You’ve murdered this boy’s grandmother and now you bully him. Get out of my house!”
What would have happened I don’t know. Certainly the captain was capable of his own fury and seemed indifferent to anything that Pacheco might say. But as Pacheco was speaking several new soldiers appeared in the doorway. They entered followed by an officer, a colonel, who, much to my surprise, was someone I knew. At least we belonged to the same club and even played cards on occasion.
“Carrera,” I said, almost without thought, “tell these men to leave us alone.”
The colonel looked at me with surprise. “Batterby, is that you? What’s going on here?”
“Your captain has gotten out of hand,” I said with increasing anger. “First he assaulted our host, Dr. Pacheco, and now he’s threatening the servant boy.”
Carrera continued to glance around the hall with some puzzlement. He was a man of about sixty, quite thin and with a little white moustache. He looked quick and agile and had always reminded me of a kind of racing dog, a greyhound or whippet. After a moment, his eyes settled on Pacheco.
“You’re the doctor, aren’t you? We’ve never actually met but I’ve seen you at the hospital. I wanted to ask if we could use your hall for some of our wounded. We have several medics to do most of the work but if you could just take a brief look at one or two of the more seriously wounded it would be a great help. We don’t seem to be able to get through to the hospital.”
With hardly a glance at Carrera, Pacheco walked slowly over to the captain. “I want to know this man’s name. He has insulted me, my guests, and my servants.”
“My name is Captain Quatrone,” said the captain, looking just as angry, “and I have been doing my job.”
“Is it your job to threaten and abuse defenseless people? I want you out of my house.”
Quatrone clicked his heels and made a sarcastic bow. I doubted he would apologize or that he regretted any of his actions. Colonel Carrera appeared somewhat confused as to what was happening but I felt he cared little for the captain, most likely because of his dark skin. Carrera was a wealthy man whose family has been in the military for generations. He affects a stuttering way of talking, which makes him sound both bored and surprised at the same time.
“Really, Captain,” said Colonel Carrera, “I don’t see by what right you’ve threatened these people. Obviously those were not your instructions.”
Carrera had crossed the hall and was standing by the fountain with Pacheco and Quatrone. We three guests had remained by the marble bench. About twenty soldiers were scattered around the hall watching the little scene being played out by their officers. Some were grinning.
“Our men were being fired at from the roofs,” said Quatrone. “I decided to search the houses.”
“I think you had better leave, Quatrone,” said Carrera in a low voice.
Quatrone made a sharp salute, nodded to his lieutenant, and walked quickly to the door, his heels clicking on the polished marble.
“Wait,” said Pacheco.
Quatrone stopped but kept his back to the doctor. Pacheco walked over and stood directly behind the captain who, after a moment, slowly turned. Pacheco tilted his injured face down toward Quatrone. It had stopped bleeding but the bruise and dried blood looked dreadful.
“You see this?” asked Pacheco.
“What about it?”
“I won’t forgive it.”
Captain Quatrone glanced at the colonel, then back at Pacheco. He seemed to be trying to conceal a smile. “It’s part of the night,” he said at last. “There is much danger about. You must be more careful.”
“Is this a threat?” asked Pacheco.
“It is a description of the city. As for your warnings or forgiveness, why should I care? I have my own work to do.”
“Quatrone,” said the colonel, “you had better go.”
Without another word, Quatrone turned and left the house. His men straggled out after him, some still smiling, others looking indifferent or uncertain.
Once the door was shut, Pacheco turned to Carrera. “Colonel,” he said, “come and drink a glass of wine with us. This was supposed to have been a banquet for my friends but events have interfered.”
“Perhaps a small one,” said Carrera. He had a little stick like a riding crop that he kept slapping against his leg. “You still haven’t answered my question about the wounded men.”
By now we had begun to move back toward the dining room. “By all means,” said Pacheco, “bring them here. But if Quatrone winds up among them you must allow me the pleasure of letting him suffer.”
Carrera appeared embarrassed. “This is a night of great change. Quatrone is very eager.”
“Just what’s going on in the city?” I asked as we resumed our places at the table. Despite my apparent interest, the outside world, even with the constant intrusion of soldiers, seemed unreal to me, or at least not as real as Señora Puccini, who was even then filling the colonel’s glass with wine. Schwab’s dishes had been cleared away and Carrera was sitting in his place.
“It remains a confusion,” said Carrera, holding his wine glass up to one of the candles. “Did you know that General Colecchia was murdered this afternoon?”
“Not the minister of the interior!” said Dalakis.
Even though Dalakis’s response struck me as exaggerated (what other General Colecchia was there?), we were all surprised. There were men in the government one thought of as secure from attack. Always they traveled with an armed escort and were rarely observed in public. Colecchia was one of these. We would only see him on television or when his armed caravan passed rapidly from one part of the city to another.
“What happened?” asked Pacheco.
“He was blown up, or rather his car was blown up and he was inside it. You see, the air force or part of the air force has mutinied in an attempt to overthrow the government. Some army regiments have joined with them, which is neither here nor there, since basically they have been defeated. But arms have also been distributed through the labor unions and they have taken the opportunity to make a little rebellion. They’ve been responsible for this constant shooting. I’m told t
here’re also students involved.” He paused to sip his wine, and gave Pacheco a small but appreciative nod.
“We heard some of this from Schwab,” said Malgiolio. “But he implied it was very inconsequential.”
“Schwab was here?” asked Carrera in a voice that seemed more attentive.
“We were schoolboys together, all of us,” continued Malgiolio. “Schwab was to have come earlier but was delayed. He stopped to pay his respects.” It was clear that Malgiolio was proud of the connection.
Carrera carefully set his wine glass back on the white tablecloth. “He is a man with many enemies,” he said.
“But what’s going on in this neighborhood?” asked Dalakis. “Why can’t we go home?”
“There is no way you can leave this house while the curfew is in effect,” said Carrera. “All I know is that we’ve been dealing with snipers and street barricades, most of it pretty minor, but until we can finish with these air force regiments we can’t quite wipe up the rest. Even as I say this, I’m partly guessing, because communications are poor.”
It turned out that Carrera didn’t know much. His own responsibility was this sector of the city, which he and his men had tried to close off, but the result was they knew little about what was happening elsewhere. Because of the mutinous regiments little trust was put in radio communications. Indeed, the military airways seemed crowded with specious orders, claims and counterclaims so that no one knew whom to believe. Several runners had been sent out to other sectors but they hadn’t returned.
Dalakis found all this shocking but I felt that his sympathy for the army had been dulled by the abuses of Captain Quatrone, although I’m sure he would have apologized for Quatrone as well if he hadn’t been afraid of infuriating Pacheco. As for Malgiolio, his anxiety grew increasingly apparent. From his earlier position that any kind of trouble could only create opportunities for someone like himself, he had retreated to a dull fear for his own life. Pacheco, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He smoked his constant cigarettes and gave only half an ear to what Carrera was saying. It upset him that innocent people had to suffer but as for who ruled the country, he was the sort of person who believed that all the generals, army, air force, or whatever, were cut from the same cloth, while if the labor leaders turned out successful, then that just meant another sort of idiot in power.
The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Page 18