In the city first of all, and then throughout the province, it was bruited about that I had opposed the plan of the members of the Junta whereby the prisoners taken as hostage, including the bishop and the ex governor, were to be shot to death en masse. The families of the prisoners came to me seeking justice and protection.*3
Somellera and Cerda departed. Belgrano and Echevarría arrived. At less than a snail’s pace. Not as invaders this time, but on a mission of peace. This mission was well calculated, the Tacitus of Buenos Aires relates, to negotiate with a naive and suspicious people such as the Paraguayans, as strongly inclined to mistrust as it is easy to delude. On this mission Belgrano represented candor, good faith, loftiness of character. Vicente Anastasio Echevarría cleverness, knowledge of the ways of men and things, easy and persuasive eloquence. I saw in this jackanapes only a varicose, viperine tongue; I heard in him only the tumult of his outlandish ideas peeking out of his reptilian eyes. Belgrano, on the other hand, was a man of much greater worth than the description of him by the Tacit Brigadier. A transparent soul, that of this man unacquainted with evil, peeping out through the pupils of his clear blue eyes. A man of peace condemned to be different from what he was in the depths of his being.
The two emissaries not only did not complete or complement each other, as the Tacit Budgereegah maintains; they in fact got in each other’s way and canceled each other out. The situation of their country made it imperative for them to bring about a supposed reestablishment of concord with ours, the apple of discord of the extinct viceroyalty. It was not peace and genuine accord, however, that the successive governments of Buenos Aires were seeking. The truth was that the poor Porteños were having a very bad time of it. One government followed another in the vortex of anarchy. The one at dawn could not be certain that it would last till dark. Being in doubt, they kept their valises all packed and waiting at the door. Outside their borders things were not going any better. After the disaster of Huaqui, the Spaniards had again taken possession of Upper Peru. The Portuguese-Brazilians had occupied the Banda Oriental militarily. The royalist squadron controlled the rivers. Buenos Aires enjoyed, before Asunción, the pleasures of a blockade and isolation.
At this moment I don’t remember if it was Rivadavia the wooden-headed or Saavedra the great stone face who conceived the idea of sending General Belgrano and the shyster Echevarría with instructions to insist that Paraguay submit to the rule of Buenos Aires. Failing that, to attain at least the union of the two governments through a system of alliance. Always “union,” and any pretext would do! Annexation at any price! The Revolution in Paraguay had not been born to be a thing of mends and patches. I was the one who cut its brand-new swaddling clothes to measure.
Belgrano and Echevarría had to endure a long wait in the purgatory of Corrientes. Before their visit, on July 20, 1811, the Junta had sent to the Buenos Aires government whose turn had come round a note that firmly expressed the ends and objectives of our Revolution. I said that no Porteño would ever set foot in Paraguay again until Buenos Aires fully and expressly recognized its independence and sovereignty. End of August. The reply was held up deliberately. I deliberately prolonged the wait of the emissaries at the Gate to the South. I repeated the entire score of the note for the benefit of the Porteños. Once colonial domination has been abolished, the tenor of it went, the representation of supreme power devolves upon the Nation in its entirety. Each people then considers itself free and has the right to govern itself freely by itself. From this it follows that, inasmuch as the peoples have reassumed their original rights, they are all on equal terms with respect to each other and each one is entitled to look to its own preservation. A hard bone for the proud Porteños to swallow. There were other barbs in the note: Anyone who might imagine that it is Paraguay’s intention to abandon itself to an alien power and allow its fate to depend upon the sovereign will of another would be deluding himself. Were it to do so, it would have gained nothing, harvested no fruit of its sacrifice other than to trade one set of chains for another and change masters. By virtue of the very fact that Paraguay recognizes its right, it does not seek to do any other people the slightest injury, nor is it opposed to whatever is fair and just. It is firmly resolved to unite with that city and others in a confederation, not only to preserve a mutual friendship, good harmony, free commerce and communication, but also to found a society based on principles of justice, equity and equality, as a true Confederation of autonomous and sovereign States.
With the fishbone stuck fast in his gullet, Tacitus the Brigadier had no other recourse than to concede the fact: This was the first time that there had resounded in the history of the American continent the word Federation, so famous later in its civil wars, its constituent congresses, its future destinies. This celebrated note may be considered to be the first act of Confederation proposed in the Río de la Plata.
Paraguay thus freely offered the Porteños this idea that could resolve all its problems at one stroke. It projected, for all of America, before any other people, the form of its future destiny.
The Junta sent a dispatch to Belgrano, stranded in San Juan de Vera de las Siete Corrientes: We solemnly assure the honorable envoy that it is only the necessity of a complete and happy conclusion of past differences that impels the Junta to prolong this forced halt in his journey until his government understands and adheres to our sincere proposals and our sacred pledges, which are and ought to be identical. We also solemnly profess a sincere friendship, deference, and loyalty toward our brother peoples; generous valor against armed enemies; contempt and punishment for traitors. These are the sentiments of the Paraguayan people and of its Government, one and the same as those they expect and await on the part of Buenos Aires. In this regard, the honorable envoy may be certain that the moment we have received a favorable reply from his government, we shall take particular satisfaction in facilitating the journey of the mission and its arrival in this city.
[(In the margin): The catfish of Takuary had turned into a prickly bone. The fish is born of a thorn. The monkey of a coconut. Man of the monkey. The shadow of Christopher Columbus’s egg wheels round and round above the Land of Fire. The shadow is not more difficult than the egg. The shadow flees before itself. Everything eventually gets to where it’s going. Merely to be on the way is already to be arriving.]
The reply from Buenos Aires came crawling back. It accepted unconditionally everything that had been demanded of it, and gave its solemn word to do even more than had been required of it. The plenipotentiaries arrived. As they stood in the prow of the boat, the sun set their splendid regalia afire in the spring morning. Magnificent reception. The twenty leading families at the top of the cliffs. Thousands of curious humble folk deafening the air as they banged away on their drums, big and small, as at festive bullfights in black and mulatto encampments.
The assembled Junta bade them welcome amid cannon salvos and rifle volleys. General Belgrano stepped forward toward the officers. After exchanging a military salute, the ex adversaries of Takuary gave each other a lingering embrace, murmuring furtive messages in each other’s ears. Amid the cries of the multitude we set out for Government House in the ex carriage of the governors. A broken rim obliged us to bow to each other at each turn of the wheel. Rigadoon of nodding heads and smiles. On passing through the Plaza de Armas, the newly arrived visitors saw the gibbets. Skinny starved canines were licking the bloodstains of the storekeeper and Velazco’s groom. Echevarría turned and with a wicked gleam in his eye asked me: Are these stage props for the reception? I disliked that man’s face the moment he made his entrance upon the scene. Amalgam of pedantic schoolmaster and black bird of tribunals. A plain chicken done up in fancy dress. A monocular chicken. Any creature of the animal kingdom except a man to be trusted. No, doctor, this was the setting for another performance. The thing is that in Paraguay time is so hard-pressed that it slows way down, mixing up facts, shuffling things about, misplacing them. Fortune is born
here every morning and by noon it’s already an old lady, according to an old saying that’s new and true all over again each day. You see that over there. No. It no longer exists. It has become an apparition. I see, I see, the chicken-plenipotentiary said, half-closing his one eye. Exhausted by a terrible mental effort, he wiped his crest with a particolored handkerchief. The general, very sparing of words, very serious, nodded at each thump of the wheel.
* * *
—
There comes forth from the souvenir-pen another reception that I shall offer the envoy from Brazil, fifteen years later. I can allow myself the luxury of mixing up the facts without confusing them. I thus save myself time, paper, ink, and the trouble of searching through almanacs, calendars, dusting shelf lists. I don’t write history. I make it. I can remake it as I please, adjusting, stressing, enriching its meaning and truth. In the history written by publicans and pharisees, they invest their lies at compound interest. Dates to them are sacred. Particularly if they are erroneous. To those rodents, error consists precisely of gnawing holes in documented truth. They turn into rivals of moths and rats. As for this perpetual-circular, the order of the facts does not alter the product of the factors.
On August 26, 1825, Antonio Manoel Correia da Cámara,*4 envoy of the Empire of Brazil, is conveyed to Government House in the same carriage in which I am riding with Belgrano. I naturally do not accompany him. The district commander suffices for such a task. A battalion from the regiment of mestizos and mulattoes escorts him. The maximum honor I can offer this fine-feathered fool who has made so bold as to omit the title of Republic, to which our country is rightfully entitled, in his request to enter Paraguay. I am observing him from the window of my study. Bunches of heads are milling about in the empty spaces along the main street. The populace rushes to the corners as the gold-braided visitor, jingling with decorations, passes by. From the carriage the friend of Sultan Bazajet ceremoniously waves his plumed hat. Flag of truce negotiations. The hordes of people push and shove each other to get a closer look at the imperial envoy. There are no loud cheers or acclamations. Curiosity blunted by instinctive apathy. I know what is behind it. Red shadows. The common horde cannot help but see in the Man-who-comes-from-afar the Brazilian kambá:*5 descendant of marauding bandeirantes, arsonists, thieves, slave traders, rapists, throat-slitters. The broken wheel rim decapitates him with each thud. The greetings fall in the dust. When the trumpet of the escort falls silent, angry buzz of boos and jeers can be heard. Muffled catcalls: Kambá! Kambá! Kambá-tepotí! How different from the welcome given Belgrano!
I have arranged not to receive Correia yet. Let him wait a while longer. I do not extend my hand hastily. I want to have a very good idea of what it is the empire wants, what it is that its scatterbrained strawman is prepared to hand me in exchange. Let him be taken to his lodgings. From the black carriage a white hand agleam with sparks reaches out, waving the plumed hat to right and left in greeting. The crowd observes the spectacle, forming part of it without participating in it. From deep within the black calash, the Man-who-comes-from-afar advances, surrounded by the atmosphere of his carnival in Rio. Useless theater. Tinseled trappings, propped up by the non-visible. He is preceded by a shaking shindy of black batuque*6 dancers wearing necklaces. Tumblers, capoeiras*7 brandishing their clubs stained red. Not enough. Not red enough. Not as red as real blood. Perhaps it suffices to simulate it beneath the marginal sun of Brazil, to the west of Africa. The incendiary sun of Asunción is another matter. Continually beating straight down, splitting stone. The glare bares, betrays, bleaches out the treasures of this cardboard carnival. Blurs the dancing girls, the capoeiras. The white hand against the black lacquer of the carriage clutching the ibis of the hat. Royal-heron. Bird-of-Paradise. Alchemical buttons. Colored sequins. Wear more if you like. Pile on as much as you please. To me it will be mere theater. To me the imperial envoy is just another messenger boy. An empty-headed suitor come to seek my hand. But I don’t give my hand away to anyone.
* * *
—
At times the carriage in which I accompany Belgrano and the carriage bearing Correia pair off. They advance backwards, rolling along together for a stretch. Unite. Form a single carriage. We are all going along together, ceremoniously saluting each other at each hard jolt. The break in the wheel rim forces agreement upon us as we nod in concert. Each one firmly says no while appearing to say yes at every second and fractions thereof.
* * *
—
Buenos Aires has sent Belgrano to negotiate a union or an alliance with Paraguay. The Empire of Brazil has sent Correia to negotiate an alliance, but not union with Paraguay.*8
Antonio Manoel Correia da Cámara descends from the carriage in front of the accommodations reserved for him. The figure of the typical Brazilian macaque stands out against the whiteness of the wall. I study it from my window. Unknown animal: lion in front, ant behind, pudenda inverted. Leopard, more pard than leo. Illusory human form. Its most amazing particularity, however, lies in the fact that when the sun strikes it, it casts the shadow of a human being and not that of its bestial figure. Through the spyglass I observe this monster that the Empire is sending me as a messenger. Pasted to his mouth, a fixed enamel smile. Gleaming gold tooth. Platinumed wig down to his shoulders. Eyes half-closed, scrutinizing his surroundings with the cautious duplicity of the mulatto.*9 He is one of those who see the grain of sand first. Then the house. The Brazilian-Portuguese, this sly trickster, is here to build a house on sand, even though he hasn’t come yet. Or perhaps he’s already come and gone back where he came from. No. He’s here, since I see him. The past comes to life again in the object-holder of the memory-lens. What a splendid plumed hat!, I hear the secretary of the Treasury murmur at my side. Get to work, Benítez, and leave off your quips and cranks and wanton wiles.
(In the private notebook)
I am the final judge. I can decide how things will go. Contrive the facts. Invent the events. I could prevent wars, invasions, pillages, devastations. Decipher those bloody hieroglyphs that no one can decipher. To consult the Sphinx is to risk being devoured by it without being able to unveil its secret. Guess it and I devour you. They are coming. Nobody walks about simply because he wants to and because he has two legs. We glide along in a time that is also bumping along on a broken wheel rim. The two carriages roll along together in opposite directions. Half going forward, half backward. They separate. They graze each other. Their axles creak. They draw farther and farther apart. Time is full of cracks. It leaks everywhere. Scene without a break. At times I have the sensation that I have been seeing all of this forever. Or that I’ve come back after a long absence. To resume the viewing of what has already happened. It may also be that nothing has really happened except in this image-writing that goes on weaving its hallucinations on paper. What is entirely visible is never seen entirely. It always offers something else that must be looked at further. One never sees the end of it. In any event the club is mine…I mean this pen with the memory-lens imbedded in the pommel.
This is a cylindrical pen of the sort manufactured by prisoners serving life sentences in order to pay for their food. It is evident that this object is not a product of the unaided imagination of the prisoner, but was made according to precise instructions. It is of white ivory, a material not available to prisoners. The upper end is shaped like a small spatula: it bears an inscription blurred by traces of years and years of nibbling. “What’s the use of one tooth biting on another?” was one of El Supremo’s favorite expressions. “To blur inscriptions by the super-imposition of other more visible, though more secret, ones,” He himself would have answered himself. The lower part of the pen ends in an inkstained metal plate, alveolated in form, and integumented. Mounted in the hollow of the cylindrical tube, scarcely larger than a very bright point, is the memory-lens that turns it into a most unusual instrument with two different yet coordinated functions: writing while at the same time visualizing th
e forms of another language composed exclusively of images, of optical metaphors, so to speak. This projection is produced by means of orifices along the shaft of the pen, which lets in the flood of images in the manner of a microscopic camera obscura. A device on the inside, probably a combination of mirrors, causes the images to be projected in their normal position, not inverted, in the spaces between the lines, amplifying them and endowing them with movement, in the same fashion as what is today known as a cinematographic projection. I believe that at one time the pen must also have possessed a third function: reproducing the phonic space of writing, the sound-text of the visual images; which could have been the spoken time of those words without forms, of those forms without words, that allowed El Supremo to conjoin the three texts in a fourth intemporal dimension turning around the axis of an undifferentiated point between the origin and the extinction of the writing; that thin shadow between tomorrow and death. Trace of invisible ink that nonetheless triumphs over the word, over time, over death itself. El Supremo was extremely fond of constructing (he himself speaks of the squint of his fancy) such contrivances as the little mother-of-pearl club, the meteoric-rifles, the flowerpots-that-listen, the infinitesimal calculus abaci fashioned from coconut seeds, the flying-messengers, looms able to weave even curls of smoke (“the cheapest wool in the world”), and many more inventions that are spoken of elsewhere.
Unfortunately the sensitive mechanism of the memory-pen is partially broken, so that today it writes only with very thick strokes that tear the paper, effacing words as it writes them, endlessly projecting the same mute images stripped of their sonorous space. They appear on the paper with a sharp break in the middle, like rods submerged in a liquid; the upper half entirely black, so that if they are figures of persons they give the impression of being hooded. Shapes without faces, without eyes. The other half beneath the line of the surface of the liquid is diluted, forming a range of watery grays. Patches of colors, once vivid no matter what their tone, with each and every point of a dazzlingly bright visibility, grow fainter and fainter as they scatter in all directions, all equally motionless. An optical phenomenon that could only be defined as frozen movement in absolute stillness. I am certain that beneath the lactescent, kaolinic water, the images retain their original colors. What must turn them gray to the point of invisibility is the blindingly bright light that most probably still persists in them. No acid, no water can burn them, extinguish them. The alternate possibility is that they have turned the other way around, thus showing the necessarily dark side of the light. I am also certain that the images retain underwater, or whatever that gray plasma may be, their voices, their sounds, their spoken space. I am certain. But I am unable to prove it.
I the Supreme Page 27
