“Aside from that,” Ben said, “don’t you think it’s more than a little blasphemous to bet on a ceremony like this? And more than a little coldblooded?”
“Why? The Indians themselves are the greatest gamblers on it, and they are far from blasphemous. Their feeling is that to wager on a man is to show their faith in him as a god. If he fails to prove himself a god, they suffer with him. It is quite a religious feeling.”
“And what’s their feeling about Chapin? What kind of night is he reported to have spent?”
“I am told that he slept deeply and has showed no fear. Also he commands a certain respect because he is the protégé of Luis. Yet there is little confidence in his chance of winning. Of acquitting himself well, perhaps, but not of winning. The favorite is León Chicamayo who last year lost the prize by a matter of only two seconds. Juan Chicamayo and Pablo Huanu Blanco are regarded as his strongest rivals. David Chapin and Miguel Tercero are given odds of twenty to one against them. The prejudice against Miguel is understandable. His father and grandfather both died on the gallows, and aficionados believe this will weaken his spirit.”
“Who are you betting on?” Penelope asked.
“The favorite, of course,” said Blas. “Always the favorite. Why would I bet on anyone else?”
It was a three-sided conversation, Elissa taking no part in it at all. Nor did the other couple make any effort to penetrate her reserve. This disturbed Ben at first. After all, you didn’t start by forcing your company on someone and then make it worse by disregarding her existence. Then he reflected that these people had known Elissa long before he did, knew her well enough, at least, to behave in her presence very much as she would want them to. Watching her behind the wheel of the car, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her face expressionless, he decided that this was the way she wanted it. Strange, how easily she could remove herself from the world around her. And how pleasant to know that he was the one part of that world who always had access to her.
The arena lay a mile beyond Chicamayo. At first glimpse it was a distinct disappointment to Ben. Here was the lodestone that had drawn this multitude from every part of the country, a high concrete wall, gray and uninspired, with ticket windows and turnstiled gates, very much like any stadium back home. And a parking lot where the youthful attendants had the same brash manner, the same flagrant contempt for the customer as their opposite numbers in New York as they raced cars into position with a snarling of gears and a screaming of brakes. And the venders again, always the venders, with their baskets of refrescos and cigarettes and souvenirs. Only the Indians added an exotic note. All seemed to be wearing the utmost in Axoyac finery, the men in brightly colored shirts, and breeches tied with a ribbon below the knee, the women revealing layer on layer of petticoat beneath their long skirts, and all, men and women alike, in striped and tasseled shawls and the tall Axoyac hat of woven straw, every hat looking as if it had been freshly manufactured the day before for this occasion. There were children in droves, too, dressed like miniatures of their fathers and mothers, following in convoy behind their parents like a string of solemn ducklings, and here and there an infant, usually sound asleep, strapped to the carrying board on its mother’s back.
It was an extraordinarily peaceful and orderly crowd; it led Ben to wonder about the number of police surrounding the arena wall. Squad cars were parked everywhere, uniformed men seated in them or leaning against them watchfully. The Civil Guard was conspicuous by its numbers, too. Wearing steel helmets painted the national colors of blue and gold, carrying bamboo rods, side-arms strapped to their hips, they seemed to be everywhere in sight. When Ben commented on this, Blas shrugged the remark away. “There have been incidents in the past, and one wishes to make sure there will be no repetition of them, that is all. The ceremony is an emotional affair. Such a display by the police and Civil Guard means that emotions will be kept in restraint.”
“I hope they remember that at the next football match I attend,” Penelope remarked severely. “I went with Mummy and Daddy to that game in Port Buchanan last month when Santo Stefano played Peru, and it wound up in a most fearful riot. Absolutely terrifying.”
“True,” said Blas, “because the public is intensely partisan about these international matches. Even the police are infected with that partisanship. It is different here. At the festival they can be trusted to do their duty vigorously.”
As they approached the main gate, however, Ben saw that there were times when a policeman’s duties might sadly perplex him. Outside the gate a small, funereal procession was moving back and forth. It was led by a robed priest, a bony little man with a sallow, dyspeptic face and the tight lips and blazing eyes of a fanatic. This, Ben surmised, must be the notorious Father Bibieni. Everything about him answered to familiar description. He carried a large wooden cross overhead, he walked slowly, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and behind him trailed a scant dozen followers. A younger priest, an acolyte perhaps, with a somewhat embarrassed expression, carried a framed picture of Our Lady of Xares, and there followed a few women in deep mourning, among them a couple of Indian women, only their eyes revealed over concealing shawls. Last came several young men, obviously tense and defiant, bearing upraised placards on which slogans in Spanish had been clumsily lettered.
“They say,” Blas translated with distaste, “the festival of the rope is mortal sin. Also, not Ajaxa but Christ, not the gallows but the Cross. Scandalous how that priest defies the church. That is Father Bibieni, you know. An incorrigible troublemaker. One might pity him for his madness if he were not so arrogant about it. He invites trouble. He would be delighted to have the police assault him now so that he could be a martyr like Saint Stephen himself. Aha, but they know his tricks. They refuse to fall into the trap he has set for them.”
More than that, Ben saw, they had the annoying duty of standing as a buffer between the priest and some onlookers who seemed willing enough to offer him martyrdom. A cluster of Young Nationalists jeered, shouted imprecations, and occasionally tossed pebbles and clods of dirt into the line of march. Other spectators encouraged them, shook fists at the procession, and harangued the police about it. The police remained deaf to all this and held their places stoically while the procession moved back and forth. Their manner indicated that much as they might sympathize with the pro-festival forces, they had a job to do and there was going to be no nonsense about it.
At the gate Blas produced four tickets of admission, and Ben learned for the first time that not only was there a charge for admission, but that it ran high. He had been under the impression that the ceremony, like the festivities in the streets of Port Buchanan, was free to the public. It was curiously disillusioning to have Blas survey the mob in the arena from his vantage point inside the gate and announce with satisfaction that the take would undoubtedly break all records.
“At least a hundred thousand dollars,” he stated. “That is magnificent, especially since there is no outstanding contestant like Luis to draw the crowd.”
“What happens to all that money?” Ben asked. “I thought that this was a project of the Commission of Culture.”
“It is. The commission will use part of the money to maintain the festival. The rest is donated to the church for its charities. It is the largest contribution the church receives each year. Without it there would be desperate need of funds to support the poor and helpless. Now if you follow me, we will find our places. The locations are excellent. Mr. Victor himself has provided them.”
The arena was designed like a Greek amphitheater. The seating area was a semicircle hacked out of a steep rise, and it looked down on a clearing of naked ground surrounded by the lofty concrete wall which, gray outside, blazed with color within. The color was from advertising posters that covered the wall from one end to the other, and Ben needed no help in translating their messages. Smoke Conquistadores. Smoke Hermanos Cigarillos. Drink Golden Sword Beer. Travel Aerovias Santo Stefano. There was even an advertisement for the
Santa Cruz store on the Paseo de James Monroe. A young man wearing a suit presumably purveyed by that store was being worshipped by a blonde girl in a gown that revealed most of her implausible breasts. Very likely, Ben thought, Santa Cruz had selected the model for that picture himself. It was one department of his business that he would certainly take an interest in.
And all this color, this garish commercialism, was the background for an object which stood in the center of the cleared ground. A gallows, sprouting from the earth like some terrible plant. It was smaller than Ben had imagined it would be, but no less horrifying for that. Naked, skeletal, unpainted, it drew the eye in a way all the bright posters could not.
“You will observe our official timing clock,” Blas said, and Ben, following the direction of his finger, took notice of the clock mounted high above the arena wall. “It is a magnificent instrument. It was manufactured in Germany, and is accurate to the thousandth part of a second. While it will record the passage of time up to sixty seconds, that is, of course, excessive. To be timekeeper is an honor reserved for the Commissioner of Culture himself, but many years ago, before the installation of this mechanically perfect instrument, it was a most dubious honor. It is different today. When the contestant releases himself entirely to the rope, the hand of the clock is set in motion by electric impulse. When he cuts himself free and his feet touch the ground, the hand is stopped. No one would dream of challenging the evidence he sees with his own eyes. Our scientific advancement today is truly marvelous, is it not?”
“Oh, look,” said Penelope. “It’s moving!”
The slender black line of the clock’s hand was indeed moving. In a series of staccato pulsations, inexorable as a heartbeat, it was making a revolution around the dial.
“I do have the strangest feeling,” Penelope said, and Ben saw that she was suddenly very pale. She looked around with wondering eyes. “How awful. I believe I’m going to be sick.”
“No, no,” said Blas helplessly, “it is nothing, Miss Kipp. They are only testing the clock.” But it was Elissa who produced a small silver flask from her purse and uncapped it. “Here,” she ordered Penelope. “Drink this. A long drink. That’s right. Now do you feel better?”
Penelope choked and gasped. “Yes, thank you. Much better. I seem to have settled down inside. I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what could have happened to me.”
“Something you ate, no doubt,” Ben said.
“Perhaps it was. Oh, you’re joking, aren’t you?”
“It is hardly a joke to be ill,” Blas observed with a reproving look at Ben. “Now, if I may assist you, Miss Kipp?” He placed an arm under Penelope’s and steered her along the crowded aisle that way, her weight bearing him down awkwardly.
As they followed at a distance, Ben said to Elissa, “I’m glad to know you can talk. Do you realize those were the first words you’ve spoken since we left the house. Why? Were you annoyed because of the company?”
“No. She’s a very nice little girl, and Blas is so pompous that he is almost amusing. Have you watched his method of courting her? It is quite comical. It reminds one of a fat little bird puffing out his chest to impress the female.”
“Courting her?”
“Of course. It would be a splendid match for him, and considering everything, not a bad one for her.”
“But the last time I met her, Virgilio Barruguete seemed to be the man she was interested in.”
“Yes, she has had an infatuation for him since she was a child, but that is true of most women who know him. However, Virgilio is an incurable bachelor. I believe Penelope has now arrived at the age where she understands that fully.”
“How about you? Were you ever infatuated with him?”
“Never. I have always found him rather distasteful. He is excessively addicted to the hunt, to the festival, to anything involving physical heroics. Have you ever read any of his stories? Well, some day you must. They are beautifully written, but they are so insistent on the glories of masculinity that they make one suspect his. Be careful. He is standing right there, and he would hardly relish hearing this discussion.”
Barruguete was one of many paying court to the dragon in the wheelchair. They stood before the box she sat in, her family grouped around her, and they exuded an almost palpable air of servility. When Elissa approached they made room for her to lean over the railing of the box and press a dutiful kiss on her grandmother’s proffered forehead. “Dear Grand-mama,” murmured Elissa.
“Querida niña.” The wrinkled head draped in a black lace mantilla weaved back and forth. “And the young man? Where is the young man? Ah, there he is. Why do you hide, young man? Come here.”
When the baleful old eyes met his, Ben could have sworn that for a moment there was the light of mockery in them. Then the light was veiled by drooping lids. “There is a norteamericano in the festival. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know of him? Is he strong? Is he brave? Can he defeat the Indians?”
“If you mean, would I bet on him—no, I wouldn’t.”
That was what she had wanted to hear. Like a good gambler she was prepared to hedge her bets but preferred not to. She nodded in satisfaction and made a gesture of dismissal. “We shall see. Now you must attend my child. You will sit there with her among the aficionados. Soon it will begin.”
Too soon or not soon enough, Ben thought, as he sat uneasily between Blas and Virgilio Barruguete. In the row before him were Penelope, Elissa, and Barruguete’s partner for the afternoon, a pallid, bony girl with no visible charms whatsoever. That was the first row of the amphitheater. Before it was only the aisle, a waist-high barrier, and then, no more than fifty feet away, the waiting gallows. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun shone brightly, and the shadow of the gallows stretched before it pitch-black in the unrelieved light. Ben tried to keep his eyes fixed on anything but that angular framework, but its lure was irresistible.
To his hard luck, Blas interpreted this as the natural curiosity of the novitiate. He kept up a running commentary on the art of the rope in much the way a guide would address a busload of tourists traveling through unfamiliar territory. It was, Ben decided, all a matter of conditioning. The child is father to the man, and if the sight of a matador spouting blood as the bull gores him, or of a prizefighter battered and senseless on the canvas is natural to the child, it will hardly make the man feel queasy. In all fairness then, there was no reason why someone brought up from childhood to admire the aesthetics of strangulation by a rope should regard it as anything but light entertainment.
The arena had been loud with a turbulent clamor of voices. The clamor suddenly diminished to an excited hum. “The musicians,” said Blas, pointing. “And the priests.”
A group of Indians had entered the cleared ground from some opening beneath the barrier. Four of them, masked in grotesque effigies of animal heads and bearing trays before them, walked slowly toward the gallows. The rest, carrying drums and reed fifes, dispersed themselves along the barrier and squatted in their places out of sight.
The music started with a sharp tick-tockety-tick of drums, and Barruguete held up a finger at the sound. “The turtle shells,” he said. “Now listen.”
One by one, the other drums entered the chorus on progressively deeper notes. They wove a pattern of rhythm through and around each other, merged into thunderous unanimity for a few beats, moved apart again to retrace the pattern.
“A fugue of drums,” said Barruguete. “Turtle shell, gourd, and the bass of wood and goatskin. Marvelous, is it not? The shore, the fields, and the forest pulsate together in a counterpoint. And now the melodic line drawn by reeds from the deepest jungle.”
The reeds wailed in unison. They drew a thin line which rose and fell, writhed and coiled sinuously in the still air.
“I know that,” Penelope said. “It was a popular song just before I went off to school in England. I have a record of the hotel band playing it.” She turned her head u
p, eyes closed, and sang pianissimo in dreamy recollection, “Sweetheart, I yearn for you, burn for you—”
“Oh, please,” said Barruguete. He sounded in acute pain. “Not that, dear girl. It is an obscenity. And this is not the dance floor of the hotel.”
Penelope blushed furiously. “I’m so sorry. It was stupid of me, wasn’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Barruguete kindly. “The commercialization of a primitive art is, in a way, a tribute to it, although a disgusting one. It was not your fault that you were first introduced to that art in its corrupt form. But now observe the priestly rites at the foot of the gallows. There is an art you will not find elsewhere.”
Using colored powders from their trays, the masked priests were busily tracing a pattern in the ground around the gallows post. They worked quickly and accurately, their fingers flickering, the multicolored design leaping into form as one watched.
Barruguete leaned confidingly toward Ben. “It is the symbol of Ajaxa,” he said in a low voice. “A merging of two symbols actually—the noose and the serpent. I am no student of Freud, but to me the symbolism of the noose is as strikingly sexual as that of the serpent. Where the serpent is the male symbol, however, the noose is distinctly female. It also bears a curious relationship to the umbilical cord, does it not? In a way, this coil attached to our belly or neck, this female principle, exists to both nurture and strangle us. In either case, it must be ruthlessly severed, or we die. Fascinating, how the primitive mind can seize on these subtleties and render them into art. Or is it an unconscious process, do you think?”
“To know that,” Ben said, “you’d have to get inside the primitive mind, wouldn’t you?”
“Which is as unlikely,” said Barruguete sadly, “as the adult entering the mind of a child. Believe me, as a writer I have faced that problem. It is impossible to solve.”
The Panama Portrait Page 21