“Disgusting,” said Bambas-Quincy. “The male is one thing, the female another. A decent woman wouldn’t permit herself such thoughts.”
“Oh, but they do,” Jerome said playfully. “They do.” He waggled a thumb at the statue. “I’d like to have a dollar for every hot little virgin in town who learned her future from old Ajaxa here. Right, Blas?”
Blas was not happy at being drawn into the discussion. “Stupid girls,” he said with distaste. “What do they know?”
“Enough, after one look at this,” said Jerome. “Lucky girls. What they can’t learn from Grandmother’s pictures they learn here in one easy lesson.”
“We have a guest with us,” his father reminded him, “so please spare us your gutter humor. It is not very funny.”
“Ajaxa,” said Ben. “Was that his name? You mean that this was made from life?”
“More from legend,” said the curator. “According to the pagan Indians, Ajaxa was a chief of the Axoyacs who was hanged by the Spaniards. But he managed to survive so long on the gallows that the gods, in pity, put a knife into his hand, and he cut himself loose, a feat not imagined possible. In that way, he himself became something of a god to his people.”
“Then it’s entirely legendary.”
“But there’s truth behind all legends,” said Bambas-Quincy. “The Spaniards themselves recorded the event. They, on the other hand, attributed it to the miraculous intervention of St. Stephen of Xares. The record attests that his arms were distinctly seen to support the hanging man, and when the executioners would not release him, a knife suddenly appeared in his hand so that he could free himself.
“You see, Mr. Smith, I am an earnest student of this subject. That legend about a divine hand saving a hanged man is much older than one would imagine. In medieval times, a French prior, Gautier de Coincy, wrote a story about such an episode. That one concerned the Holy Mother of God and had a humorous note. The hanged man was a thief who always prayed for Mary’s assistance when he committed his crimes, and so, naturally, she came to help him in his time of need on the gallows. But there is no record of baptism for the savage Ajaxa, no indication he ever entered the Faith. My theory is that some witness to the scene—perhaps the hangman himself—pressed the blade into his hand simply as a means of greater torture. As my good friend observed, it was considered impossible for anyone to cut himself down once he was strangling on the rope. What better way of tormenting a dying man than to give him a means of salvation he could not use?”
“When did all this happen?” Ben asked.
“The deliverance of Ajaxa? In 1588. An easy date to remember, isn’t it?”
“And this statue was made around 1800. Well, your sculptor, your Domingo, had a magnificent imagination, I’ll say that for him. This piece looks as if he had been right on the scene.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Bambas-Quincy pleasantly, “he was. The miracle eventually became a ritual, Mr. Smith, and Domingo must have witnessed several such rituals. In two weeks you will see one, too. It’s the great event of the year in Santo Stefano. It’s held on the Victorica, the mountains where the Indians live. You will find it an utterly fascinating experience.”
“If you don’t faint during the performance,” remarked Jerome. “I hope you have a strong stomach. First time out is always hard on the stomach.”
“Performance?” said Ben. “You mean a re-enactment of Ajaxa’s happy adventure? Some sort of pageant?”
“Pageant, hell,” said Jerome. “It’s the real thing. We don’t have bullfighting in Santo Stefano, Mr. Smith, so this festival of the rope is our fiesta brava. Three or four Indians take turns on the gallows with a knife like this in their hands, and see how long they can hang themselves before they have to cut the rope. It’s a contest. The one who lasts the longest wins the prize.”
This subject was evidently to Blas’ taste. “Others can compete, too,” he said, the light of interest in his eyes. “Anyone can compete if the doctor gives his permission.”
Ben could see the writhing statue of Ajaxa come to life before him. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked, and then realized from the smiles around him how foolish the question was.
“Well,” said Adams, “I’ve never seen a festival without at least one death. A few years ago four men tried the rope and three of them died. Yes, you might say it’s a bit dangerous.”
“But that’s sheer barbarism,” Ben said. “Why does your government tolerate it?”
“It does not tolerate it,” said Bambas-Quincy stiffly. “It supports it. You may not see eye to eye with us about it—at least, not yet—but it is a matter of cultural interest to our government. The Commission of Culture itself provides each festival a prize of ten thousand dollars Santo Stefano, which is more than two thousand dollars in your money, and that is an enormous fortune for these people. A prize worth risking one’s life for.”
“Not that they know what to do with it when they get it,” said Adams.
Bambas-Quincy shrugged. “With an Indian—” he said. “As for the barbarism of it, Mr. Smith, I only ask that you withhold final judgment until you have witnessed the event. It’s impossible to describe all its subtleties. Have you ever heard a great silence? Have you ever really been aware of a silence so intense that it seems ready to explode in you?”
“No.”
“Well, you will. You will be among thousands of people in a great amphitheater looking down at a man on a gallows. A man who will die before your eyes, if he misjudges his strength by the fraction of one second. That is all it takes. The whole act is a matter of seconds—thirty—forty at the most. And during that time you will hear a silence about you that is like a screaming in the ears. That alone is an experience not to be missed.”
Ben shook his head. “It may be a little too much of an experience.”
“How can it be too much of an experience?” said Bambas-Quincy in bewilderment. “One is not personally involved. He is merely the witness to a scene. He is watching a drama which would take place whether he were there or not.”
“I know,” Ben said. “Just the same, I think I’ll leave that particular drama to the Indians. It’s all theirs.”
“But it isn’t. You must understand, Mr. Smith, that we live among an accretion of cultures here. This ceremony belongs to all of us. The Indians created it as a ritual, the Spanish made it an art, and our North American ancestors, the New England men who settled here more than a hundred years ago, they helped make it a science. So we have a ceremony which contains part of each heritage. A truly national ceremony.”
“You mean that everyone is in favor of it?” Ben said. “No one at all objects to it?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or if it were not, it had been said wrongly. He had put it too sharply, too challengingly, and for a moment there was a distinct chill in the air.
Then the curator said to Bambas-Quincy, “You know there is opposition to it, Victor. You must admit that.”
“Very well, I admit that Father Bibieni is a fool and a troublemaker. But he is not the archbishop. The archbishop’s position is quite clear.”
“Father Bibieni presents him with a serious dilemma, Victor,” said the curator mildly. “And there are the other churches to consider, too. The Methodists and Baptists face the same dilemma. And there are political forces—”
“Fidelistas,” said Bambas-Quincy. “Scum.”
The curator nodded at Ben. “There is opposition,” he said. “But the truth is that it will change nothing. It would be dangerous to try. The Axoyacs are fanatic about this ceremony; they would never tolerate any interference with it. They once tore a man to pieces—literally tore him limb from limb—because he ran out to save his son who was dying on the gallows. No one is permitted to touch a hanging man until he has either cut himself free or is dead. You can see the fury that would be aroused if the ceremony itself were forbidden.”
“You can’t blame the Indians,” Jerome said. “It’s a dull life wh
en you’re an Indian. This just happens to be their way of making it lively.”
Blas looked shocked. “You make it sound like a game,” he protested. “It is not a game. It is an art. A great art.”
“It is,” said Bambas-Quincy. He smiled at Ben. “Blas is a wretched bookkeeper, but he is an expert about this art. When we are at the ceremony he will explain its complexities to you.”
“But that’s two weeks from now,” Ben said. “I expected to have our business settled and be gone by then.”
“There is very little business done here during El Niño, Mr. Smith. There is the festival and the ceremony, and then we’ll have all the time we need to discuss business. I was given to understand that you are not married, isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“So there is no wife waiting far away, is there? Or do you have some other attachment which makes demands on you?”
“Not especially.”
“Then there is no reason why you can’t enjoy your stay here to the full. You must meet my little family, you must see Santo Stefano itself. I am sure that you will find my daughter Elissa a charming guide. She will also find you most interesting. She has never been away from home and would be eager to learn about your part of the world.”
Ben was bewildered by his own emotions. The prospects were not altogether unpleasant, but at their far end stood the statue and the grisly scene it promised. The thought of that scene, the casual attitude of everyone around him toward it, these churned his stomach to an acute revulsion. Yet, beneath the revulsion was a growing fascination. To be there, to see it—good God, he suddenly thought, I’m no better than any of them!
“Well?” said Bambas-Quincy.
“Since you insist—” said Ben.
They said good-bye to the curator on the steps of the museum. The liquid sunlight poured down, the motor traffic roared around the plaza, an Indian woman with a wrinkled, toothless face, the basket slung around her neck filled with cigarette packs, laboriously climbed three steps of the building and then turned and went her way when Blas sternly shook his head at her.
“Ah,” the curator said, “your countrymen. Our other visitors from the United States.”
Ben followed his eyes, and across the street he saw a strange procession passing. It moved very slowly, and was led by a short, stout man, hatless, so that his bald head gleamed in the sun. The young woman who accompanied him, talking to him intently, was a tall blonde whose tight, short-skirted dress did little to conceal the pleasant motion of her haunches as she moved, and she walked barefoot, carrying a pair of shoes in her hand.
A few paces behind them walked a man in shirtsleeves, solitary, alone in a crowded world, hands clasped behind his back, eyes downcast. And allowing the same nice distance behind him followed half a dozen youths who, one and all, wore identical tight blue dungarees and black, turtle-neck sweaters. Their faces were solemn, they addressed each other gravely and nodded with deliberation at what was said, and occasionally they looked with contempt on the crowded world around them.
“Who are they?” Ben asked.
“The one in the middle,” the curator said, “that one who walks with his hands behind his back, is David Chapin, the artist. You know about his work, of course.”
“I don’t know much about his work,” Ben said, “but I know about him. He gets enough publicity back home. What’s he doing here?”
“I wonder,” the curator said, frowning, and Jerome said, “We all wonder.”
“He’s been here two months,” said Bambas-Quincy. “Enough to draw the nadaistas like flies. Look at them.”
“Our local beatniks,” Jerome explained. “Down with everything except David Chapin. They seem to feel about him the way the Indians feel about Ajaxa.”
“Who are the others?” Ben asked.
“His wife and his agent,” Jerome answered. “If you’re around long enough you’ll probably meet them. They turn up everywhere. Unpleasant people, I’m sorry to say, and I don’t even know if Chapin’s painting excuses them. I’ll settle for Picasso. I’m not quite ready for the kind of lunacy Chapin smears on canvas.”
The curator sighed. “He may have a great talent, he may have none. The world moves so fast today, it is hard to keep up.”
“Then let the world slow down,” said Bambas-Quincy.
3
His name, it turned out, was Blas Miralanda. He was twenty-five, the same age as Mr. Jerome. Mr. Jerome Bambas-Quincy, that is. In fact, he was an old friend of Mr. Jerome. They had gone to school together until college, but then Mr. Jerome had gone to Stanford University in the United States while he had to go to work in Santo Stefano.
“Unfortunately,” said Blas, “I am very poor, although I am of good family.”
It was the third day Ben had spent sightseeing in his company; of good family was by now a familiar phrase. It was, Ben saw, a polite way of defining social position on this tight little isle. If a name was hyphenated, there was no need for any such definition; its position was assured. But there were certain unhyphenated names also to be honored, and to these Blas automatically applied the magic phrase.
There were other clues to the social order. One was the business of referring to an employer by his given name, prefixed by the formal Mister. Thus the elder Bambas-Quincy was Mr. Victor; and his son, the day he had entered Stanford while Blas went off to learn a trade, became Mr. Jerome. Below them were people who were somewhat less than royalty. People Blas knew named Taliaferro and Salazar who worked in offices and belonged to the sports club. And at the bottom of the pile were the Indians who were first names and no more.
“That Luis,” Blas said. “He was the only one who ever won twice at the festival of the rope, and today he is a beggar.”
Nor was there any snobbery in this. There was, Ben saw, no need for it. Santo Stefano defined its terms so explicitly that no matter what rung of the ladder you stood on, you rested there securely. No one would try to push past you; you would not try to push past anyone else. A class consciousness as solid and serene as this was an invincible shield against snobbery. It is the butler, jealous of his prerogatives, who is the snob, not the Duke.
It made Blas easy to get along with. There was in him no malice, no envy, no thought of bewailing his own hard lot. His father had been the best of men but totally improvident, so God had delivered his family to poverty. Who could question the work of God?
“But you have a job,” Ben said. “It must offer some opportunities for promotion—for making more money.”
Blas shrugged. “If one depended on that—But naturally there are other means to be considered. Other opportunities.”
“Such as?”
“One gets married. I am of good family. I have much to offer a young lady, also of good family, whose father may be rich. My uncle was a poor man but he married well, and today he is on the Santo Stefano delegation to the United Nations. You must meet him when you return to New York. I will write and tell him about you.”
“I’ll be glad to meet him. Still, you can see the advantage of having a company like mine in business here. There’d be good jobs for a lot of men like you. And a real chance of advancement. You could probably wind up as an executive in an office of your own if you wanted to.”
“For that one needs a certain temperament. I am not sure I have such a temperament Also,” Blas pointed out, “your company is not yet in business here. Some time in the future it may be, or it may not be. And believe me, there is nothing wrong with a marriage of convenience. It is most often a very happy arrangement. Fifty—no, sixty years ago, the family Bambas-Quincy had nothing; they were as poor as I am now. Then Mr. Roberto, the grandfather of Mr. Jerome, went to the continent on business for a friend—”
“Europe?”
“No, the continent.” Blas waved a hand in the direction of the South American coast, two hundred miles away. “He went on a commission for a friend to Buenos Aires, and there he met and married this rich lady. That was Mrs.
Carlotta, whom you will soon meet. All the money was hers, but together they used it very well here. And, from what I have heard, it was a good marriage in all respects. I know myself that when he died ten years ago she was inconsolable. She still wears her mourning.”
“Married sixty years ago,” Ben said. “She must be a very old woman.”
“She looks a hundred. Also, I understand, she was a remarkably ugly woman, although of good family. Of one of the best families in Argentina, in fact. Yet, she is most impressive. She still has the—” Blas tapped a finger on his forehead, groping for the word “—the spark. You can see it in her eyes. She pretends she cannot hear or understand, and then suddenly she says something which shows she understood all along. It can be very surprising.” He laughed. “I have been surprised by her more than once.”
“Does she live with the family?”
Blas raised his eyebrows. “Of course. It is her family. But most of the time she lives in their big house on the Victorica. In the mountains, that is. The doctor said that at her age it was better to be away from the city. Also it is very near to the festival, and she always goes to the festival. She was the first woman to ever see the hangings, except for the Indian women. Until she came here it was not thought proper for a woman to see them. Especially, because when a man put his rope on the gallows he was naked. Now he is required to wear an antia—you know, a little covering there—so it is all right.”
“But he can’t make the kind of manly display Ajaxa did.”
“Well,” Blas said seriously, “underneath the antia he might. But no one would see it, and that is the important thing.” There was no joking with Blas about his subject, Ben had learned. And considering the nature of the subject, who could say he was wrong? It was a subject that produced strange and not entirely admirable feelings in the flesh. Once you found yourself in a discussion of it, it was hard to turn away from. “There is a doctor here in Port Buchanan who has made it his life’s work to learn the physiology of the hangings,” Blas said. “Dr. Felix Mola. He is a good friend of Mr. Victor, so we will be able to meet him, and then you can ask any questions you want. He is very well-informed. Of course, he would be, because the festivals provide him with such excellent material at first hand.”
The Panama Portrait Page 4