Thing to Love

by Geoffrey Household

  He walked quickly down the noble central corridor of the Palace and turned left into a passage which led to the Little Salon. Heaven knew why it was called “Little” — probably because the main reception room of viceroys and Presidents had always been the great gallery over the main entrance. But the Little Salon was nearly as big. Its main windows faced the sea, looking down the steep glacis of the original fort: a slope which had defied the English pirates in its time and was now gay with sunk and hanging flower beds in the blue, yellow and white of the national flag of Guayanas.

  On the other side of the Salon a tracery of arches, their pillars delicate as the architect’s drawing, opened into the sixteenth-century patio which, it was said, surpassed its model: the courts of the Hospital of Santiago de Compostela. Doña Concha, solid in a solidly upholstered chair, formed — perhaps deliberately — the simple mass under one of the arches which was the only possible alternative to emptiness.

  Miro kissed her hand, and she left it in his a moment longer than she had ever done at their more formal meetings. He sat down by her side and began to amuse her, until she was ready to declare herself, with an account of Don Jesús-María’s after-lunch speech at the Citadel.

  “Good! And I hope he enjoys the next time you entertain him as much!” she said brusquely. “Now, Miro, we haven’t much time. This sending for you by the back stairs like a king’s mistress — you will have guessed that I don’t agree with my husband’s plans. Or Felicia will.”

  Miro had not guessed anything of the kind in so many words. Felicia perhaps had implied it.

  “I have a deep respect for your judgment, Doña Concha,” he said.

  That was true, though he recognized that he did not know her well. Her influence upon the political managers was direct; they were afraid of her and in self-protection had saddled her with the stock comedy character of the stout woman who bullies her smaller husband. But with the police and the armed forces she had never openly interfered. In that traditionally male world she either trusted her husband’s flair or allowed him, for the sake of his self-respect, to appear in complete command.

  “Thank you, Miro. But why I asked you to come is that I have great respect for yours — in military matters. Do you know what Gregorio wants you for?”

  “No sudden bad news, I hope.”

  “Gregorio has been persuaded by Faustino Ledesma that the Air Force alone could frighten Siete Dolores into surrender. Do you think it possible?”

  “I haven’t heard his plans, Doña Concha. My first impression is that it could.”

  “What is your frank opinion of Ledesma? Do you trust him?”

  “He seems to me to have few ideas outside his trade. I doubt if he is the sort of man to be carried away by the revelation of the blessed Saint Gil,” said Miro drily. “Ledesma would be better as Works Manager in an aircraft factory than commanding our Air Force. But that’s what we need — thoroughness on the technical side.”

  “Has it occurred to you that he hates you, Miro?”

  “Never!” exclaimed the general, amazed. “Why should he? We get on easily, and we are both — well, dedicated to our profession.”

  “That is why. If Miro Kucera didn’t exist, Ledesma would be the hero of all the young officers with modern ideas. He’s jealous!”

  “Sometimes I am, myself,” Miro replied easily. “I’d like a tactical Air Force under my own command. But Ledesma isn’t petty.”

  “If he was, would you ever see it?”

  “Me? Perhaps not. I like to give men credit for honorable motives, Doña Concha. I find that so often it creates them.”

  “It creates nothing at all but a higher standard of acting,” Concha replied sharply.

  “For war that may be enough.”

  “Well, for politics it isn’t. What men like you do create, Miro, is a higher standard of perfidy. Men like my husband keep it within decent bounds. If Faustino Ledesma goes over to Avellana, it will not be because he cares whether Avellana or Vidal is President. It will be because he thinks that Ledesma should be boss.”

  Miro doubted this reading of Ledesma’s character; the emphasis on jealousy was too typically feminine. But as a possibility it was far too dangerous to be ignored. If Ledesma’s squadrons took off from San Vicente and landed at Lérida, the Army would declare for Avellana. He remembered the words of Don Jesús-María: that the Army would welcome a position where San Vicente and Vidal could only accept defeat.

  “Don Gregorio believes that Ledesma is loyal?” he asked.

  “He hopes Ledesma is loyal. They like each other. And my husband made him and built up his Air Force for him.”

  “What’s the feeling among the air crews? What do the police report?”

  “That they are bitter against the United States. In God’s name why? Can anyone imagine Gregorio as a tool of Wall Street? Or is it the Pentagon they fear? I don’t know and no more do they. Gregorio is a patriot. His friendly relations with Washington are only a confidence trick. You know that we live on their money, Miro. They offer it partly from idealism. We take it partly with the intention to repay. Like you, we give each other credit for decent motives and put on an act for the audience. But all these clever young people have no patience with it. If Ledesma gave the lead, his officers would take off and land at Lérida. Think of something, Miro! And don’t come to me with the famous fairy tale that you have to obey orders!”

  “And if Don Gregorio is right?” asked Miro bluntly. “And if Ledesma is loyal? A fine mess I should land you in, supposing I arrested him or took over San Vicente Airfield! Doña Concha, you can’t expect me to act on my own.”

  The Presidenta looked down. When she raised her eyes again they were moist and appealing.

  “Miro, I have the custom of expressing myself strongly. As man to man. But I do not want you to forget I am a woman. Don’t be too hard and logical. I may be wrong. My husband may be wrong. We are neither of us great. We are human and able, and that’s all. For you, let me put what I want this way: in this conference with Faustino Ledesma try to form an opinion which does not depend on his character at all. You ought to be able to tell on military grounds whether his proposal is sincere or not.”

  “I could if Ledesma understood anything about war,” Miro replied. “But he doesn’t. He understands aircraft. It’s going to be difficult, Doña Concha.”

  “Don’t cross-examine him! Don’t destroy his enthusiasm if it really exists! But weigh the evidence.”

  “And what do I do if Don Gregorio believes in him and I do not?”

  “Miro, you were very annoyed with me just now when I said that your obedience was a fairy tale.”

  “Because I didn’t know what you meant. I think I do now.”

  “Hombre! I think you do, too. You have more principles than any of us, but you reserve the right to act on them in your own way. Do you obey Jesús-María? Would you obey Don Gregorio, your commander in chief, if he interfered with you in the field? What was your intrigue with Morote? Who ordered it and how did you succeed? Miro, my dear friend, it is our good luck that your code of honor compels you to support us, but don’t you sit here with the nice, innocent eyes of a Nazi general and tell me you only obey orders!”

  Miro laughed. He found himself liking this hearty woman. Felicia was right. Such a character must be capable of love, domineering perhaps but rich and deep. She could be trusted to keep a clear field for her little man while he thought out his political course and followed it with all his zig-zags and crookedness until in the end it formed a recognizably straight line.

  “I shall serve Don Gregorio as best I can,” he said.

  Her brilliant, slow smile showed that she appreciated the meaning beneath this outwardly solemn platitude.

  “Ten o’clock and you are always punctual, Miro,” she said, getting up. “Thank you — and thank Feli for me.”

  While he waited in the great corridor for Don Gregorio to receive him, Miro wondered why the devil she should thank Feli. It w
asn’t likely that Feli would suspect this tête-à-tête with the old dear as being anything but political. Old? Concha was a mere five years his senior. Miro rebuked himself. Because he had married a woman sixteen years younger than he was, he really had no right at all to go about thinking of himself as a dashing young major.

  His first impressions on entering the President’s study were of a worried Vidal and a quietly confident Ledesma. But then Ledesma always cultivated an appearance of extreme calm. Tall, dark and thin-lipped, he had something of the type of Avellana — but a very middle-class Avellana, lacking the warmth and gaiety of the estanciero. Miro always suspected that Faustino Ledesma had trained himself to his own conception of the leader — efficient, stern, imperturbable. Well, that was a fair enough ideal, but the infusion of a little more vitality wouldn’t do it any harm.

  He greeted the marshal of the Air Force with the full respect due to his high rank. Vidal watched with approval, his viceregal little beard judiciously tilted.

  “And now, friends,” he said with the politician’s geniality which in him was entirely natural, “in my office everyone is equal, and especially in these days when, God knows, the country needs us. Can you guess why we have disturbed your evening, Miro?”

  “No, Don Gregorio. But I am very glad to see the marshal. I have not had a chance since I was ill of expressing my deep regret. If I were faced with that situation again, I should let the helicopter go.”

  “They are very expensive,” said Ledesma shortly, and added with more courtesy: “But you were within your rights, General. And the pilot had to suffer for his folly.”

  “The devil! Miro had no time to think,” said Vidal. “Put it that it was a demonstration of force! It is now a question of another such demonstration. If Avellana sees that his position is hopeless he must surrender — and then all at peace! I do not want vengeance. Exile for the leaders until they learn to behave themselves. And for Twelfth Cavalry Division a little discipline. Some honorable resignations — no reprisals. I can safely leave all that to Jesús-María. Now, Miro, in battle what is the decisive arm? The Air! What would you do if you had the whole Air Force of Guayanas against you?”

  “Run like hell for the nearest forest,” said Miro and watched Ledesma answer with a chilly smile in which were complacency and a slight contempt for the poor defenseless forces of the flat earth.

  “And on civilians the effect is still greater,” Don Gregorio went on. “The inhabitants of Vergara, the civil administration, the police — imagine their consternation when the squadrons of the legal government are roaring and diving overhead! Wouldn’t it be the end of this folly?”

  “You know them better than I do,” Miro replied. “But I think they would grab all available sheets and start spelling out Viva Vidal in the plaza.”

  “And that service Marshal Ledesma has consented to do for his country!”

  “Are you likely to meet any opposition?” Miro asked Ledesma. “What’s on Lérida Airfield?”

  “Nothing but commercial planes and the helicopters of the forest service.”

  “You are too military, Miro,” said the President. “There will be no bombing, no machine-gunning of helpless citizens. It is to be a demonstration by all the five squadrons in service. All of them! That is my decision! Faustino has been very frank. Some of his officers are Avellanistas and cannot be trusted. If he left them at San Vicente with their aircraft they might take off on their own. Two rival fleets in the clouds? No, no! No, no!”

  “That is most unlikely, Don Gregorio!” Ledesma smiled. “Let us not exaggerate. No, it is a question of morale. General Kucera will agree with me. Suppose he was not sure of some of the units of the Division, he would never leave them behind in the Citadel. He would lead them out with the rest and trust to the sense of unity to bring them to their senses.”

  That was reasonable enough, and Miro cordially agreed.

  “There will be a heavy bill for fuel,” he said, “but it’s worth it. What do you want from the garrison, Marshal? Shall I have a company standing by?”

  “Unnecessary. There will be no trouble at the airfield.”

  Miro congratulated him. That was the first answer which seemed at all suspicious. If he himself had been in Ledesma’s position he would have liked a few reliable troops within easy striking distance. But the marshal was a proud man; it could well be a point of honor with him to trust to his own powers of leadership. In any case Doña Concha was right. The vital decision must be based on military facts, not character.

  “Anything else? Ammunition?”

  “War establishment. I shall make an exercise of it.”

  Vidal signed and handed to the garrison commander his authority to deliver from the Citadel cannon and machine-gun belts for Guayanas’s two squadrons of fighters, and bombloads for the three bomber squadrons.

  “Have you nothing on the ground?” Miro asked. “I am thinking of transport.”

  “Nothing but bombs and ammunition for the two training flights,” Ledesma answered.

  “And when are we to be ready for your trucks?”

  “The right hour to panic Vergara is about three in the afternoon,” Vidal said. “Faustino will take off at two, the day after tomorrow. But there must be no movement till dawn of any sort, nothing at all to arouse suspicion. Then I will close the roads between San Vicente Airfield and the Citadel except for military traffic. Police will not be allowed back into town. All telephone calls must be authorized by you or Faustino personally. During the morning San Vicente will get rumors, and no more. But does it give you both enough time?”

  Ledesma shook his head doubtfully but made no open objection.

  “I can do it at our end,” Miro said. “All Air Force stores are marked with the numbers of the flights. If you send your transport in by the old road and the North Gate we will organize a one-way system and get them away at once by the San Vicente gate and the new road to the airfield. The surfacing is not quite finished, but it will do. Start the convoy, say, an hour before first light. The return stream will be coming on the field at dawn, and you should be able to arm at least three squadrons simultaneously.”

  Ledesma thanked him warmly and with a shade of surprise. The general’s mind raced at top speed over the possibilities. If he had been in Vidal’s place, he too would have jumped at the chance of such a demonstration in force. Siete Dolores would surrender, and the Army would have no temptation at all to declare for Avellana. Vidal’s decision was understandable and a mere garrison commander had no conceivable reason to interfere with it.

  But now Ledesma was talking of difficulties which might arise on the return of the squadrons to San Vicente! Why bring that up? Weren’t these minor questions of replenishment of stocks of fuel, of leave, of runways, wholly outside Vidal’s competence? The President had already said twice “But as you wish, my dear Faustino.”

  Why bring up these details unless to convince them both that the return of the squadrons was certain? But neither he nor Don Gregorio had shown any sign that they needed convincing. Guilty conscience? Assume for a moment that Ledesma meant to land at Lérida. What followed?

  First, that the plot would be very difficult to keep secret. Knowledge of it must be strictly limited to the ranks of squadron leader and above. That was enough. Air Force discipline was good. Flight commanders and air crews would obey.

  But what of the ground staff and mechanics? At Lérida there was only the small ground staff of the civil aviation companies, and they couldn’t handle the jet fighters, let alone the whole Air Force. He knew that. It was in mobilization orders. Ground crews to Lérida.

  Therefore, Ledesma must plan for the servicing of his planes. Therefore, he would have to fly out at least a skeleton ground staff. How? As soon as he started to march mechanics into the bombers, Vidal would know it.

  Very well, then. That move must be the absolute last. The fighters and the other two squadrons of bombers must be already in the air, out of reach of the guns of the
Citadel. The third squadron then quickly lifted the essential ground staff instead of bombs.

  “Order of loading?” Miro asked.

  “The fighter squadrons first.”

  “And if there is a hitch, and we have not time to arm all squadrons, what am I to leave till last?”

  “Condor Squadron,” replied Ledesma promptly.

  Well, that fitted. Condor Squadron still had old Dakotas, admirably suited for troop-carrying. Carancho and Caudón were fast jets. Curious. Surely you would start the slowest squadron first, if you wanted them all to be over Vergara together; and surely you wouldn’t keep your fighters stooging around and using up fuel while the bombers took off? Miro risked a discreet question.

  “As I have said already, General,” Ledesma answered, putting him in his place, “this is an exercise as well as a demonstration. I wish to provide fighter cover for the airfield while Carancho, Caudón and Condor take off.”

  Perfectly reasonable. But again Ledesma’s character came in. This exercise was going to be extremely expensive — quite as expensive as a helicopter — yet he was notorious for saving money on training and fuel, and spending his economies on replacement and re-equipment of aircraft.

  Three or four little pointers, plus that able woman’s doubts . . . And not one of them strong enough to lay before the President. Very well, then, he would live up to Doña Concha’s opinion of him, and act without orders. It wouldn’t make the least difference to the devastating effect of the squadrons swooping on Vergara, if Ledesma was really loyal. But if he wasn’t, and meant to land his whole force at Lérida, that force wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming as he and Avellana thought.