Generalisimo? The people had seen it sooner than he. This promotion by yells was an inescapable fact. Like Ave Caesar. The rest of the ill-omened phrase was inescapable, too. In their enthusiasm for an ideal, these Spanish-Americans did not look forward, delaying until acceptance of death had become a point of honor.
Then they spotted his unobtrusive passing car and mobbed it. He had to stand up. The roar of the cheering was animal; but deeply human — some other association with Caesar there which he couldn’t place — was the after-lunch breath of hundreds which yawned at him garlic and spices and alcohol. It was of the country which had won his love, of his men, contented and well-fed, of the Fonsagrada patio raised to infinity, of the cool alleys of San Vicente, and please God it would someday be the smell of the Barracas too! His people approved of him. They approved of what they knew, and what of the agonies of the last weeks they guessed. By the blessed customs of his dear land, he was allowed to weep.
The crowd massed at the head of the Alameda, standing back with a conscious collective sense of symbolism so that he could leave his car and pass alone under the portico of the Chamber. He was pleased at the turnout of the single platoon on guard, purely and carefully ceremonial, at the open gates — there was a whole company which was far from ceremonial out of sight — and still more pleased with the intelligence of its subaltern. Out of the corners of his eyes, Miro had seen him give a quick, informal instruction. When the men had presented arms, they were allowed to cheer. And there was very properly no mention whatever of General or Generalisimo Kucera.
“Viva Vidal! Viva la legalidad!”
Miro had an impression that in another second they might start shouting “Down with the Army!” Well, all this would be fully audible at the Cabinet meeting. It seemed unnecessary to send Vidal any written note of reassurance. He contented himself with a verbal message that he was in the gallery.
It was a momentary shock to look down on the actual working of democracy after such manifestations of respect for it. So far as the people had a will at all, this — God help it! —was it. There below him were the heads, black and glossy or bald or gray, of Vidal’s majority. And if the people hadn’t really wanted them they could have thrown them out in spite of Vidal’s management of the elections.
As it was, the empty seats of the Avellanistas did not number more than fifty. Most were on the left. But it was curious that some should be on the extreme right — the traditional place of the landed interests. That was proof of Avellana’s claim that his movement was bigger than party affiliations. Yet there was that solid center, which certainly represented more than mere inertia. And just left of center were the Fonsagrada liberals, who had formerly given irregular support to Vidal and now abstained.
Juan Fonsagrada himself was up. He was at the top of his form: at his usual game of draining the value out of all emotions and convictions. It was astonishing to what heights his oratory could rise in the process of destroying all reasons for oratory.
Too much importance, he said, was being ascribed to a political maneuver familiar to them all. Whether the people expressed their will through the armed forces or at the polls, it was still their will. For who were those forces? The people! More so, perhaps, than they in that Chamber, bound, often against their will, by the chain of day-to-day politics, by their personal alliances, by the duty to preserve rather than the eagerness to reform. Young and virile, drawn from all classes, officers and men together, the armed forces, too, were the nation. . . .
Miro himself was carried away, and searching down a dozen blind alleys for the answer when he was saved from momentary confusion by an interruption from the center:
“Is a Fonsagrada forgetting that half the population do not serve in the armed forces?”
That checked Juan, but the only perceptible sign of it was his fencer’s half-smile as he parried the attack and made it appear impatient and premature. He must have changed the construction of the sentence already pouring from his lips, for he led straight and smoothly into his peroration. Since when had the lovely and loyal women of Guayanas not followed husband and father and son, in every heroism and every ideal?
He got clear away with it. The applause was triumphant. Nobody asked which of these relations the women were to follow or guardedly suggested that Felicia could hardly support her husband and father simultaneously.
But it was a triumph of rhetoric only. When Juan moved the adjournment he was voted down. The obedient ranks of the Vidalistas, though they must be convinced that for some years to come they would have to make their money outside politics, were not going to await events in the streets or the Ateneo until they had heard what hope the President had for them.
The debate went on. It was the turn of the extreme left now. The deputies as usual were equally sincere and incoherent. They disassociated the party from both Vidal and Avellana. They would wait. Well, that had been Morote’s line. It was comforting to Miro to have it confirmed.
“Fight it out and be damned! That’s what half of us said in Spain.”
Miro looked round. Captain Salinas was just behind him.
“And what happens then? ‘Major, those bastards aren’t cheering. Take ’em out and shoot a few’!”
“Which side is the Navy on, Paco?” Miro asked, half humorously.
“When there is a revolution, we are always repainting the engines. What a coincidence!”
Captain Salinas gestured towards the floor of the Chamber where nerves, exasperated by the left, were beginning to fray. In the gallery it was now possible to talk in a normal voice without interrupting the proceedings.
“Miro, we have known each other for years. That’s my excuse, though we are not intimate friends. If you are going to fight for democracy, don’t do it! It doubles your chances of being shot.”
“For democracy? No!”
“I cannot believe that it would be for Vidal.”
“And you, Paco — didn’t you fight for Azaña?”
“I was a little lieutenant. We are talking of the generalisimo.”
“What difference does it make? We’re professionals. If the State cannot count on us, what is the good of us?”
“That from you! It’s the creed of a sergeant of police!” answered Captain Salinas drily. “Listen. For the sake of ideas, disobedience is not justified. There are so many ideas. For the sake of a man, it is. There are so few.”
“Then choose Avellana! He is very much a man.”
“It’s true that he has charm. He would run an excellent hotel. Avellana and Vidal are not worth a single corpse between them, Miro. And still less, their ideas. Look at those animals on the floor! The only calm one is your respected father-in-law, because he has no principles whatever. All the rest of them are losing their tempers, since they feel they ought to be sure of something and they aren’t.”
“Put it that I am on the side of the women!” said Miro shortly, and himself none too sure of his temper. “They have a right to a State which shall be as secure as the home.”
“Quiá! It wouldn’t please Vidal’s American friends if their State were only as secure as their homes. Miro, I beg you not to look for reasons. There are none. You will fight because you can’t help it.”
“Captain Salinas,” said Miro stiffly, “may I assure you that I am entirely free to do as I like?”
“Generalisimo, I have never known a man less free than you. And thank God for it, for you could be dictator this afternoon if you wished.”
“It’s true that I have to think . . .” began Miro more humbly.
“What’s true, amigo, is that you don’t! You are a man of honor. Why look for excuses? Out there” — he jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the unseen, faintly heard crowd massed at the head of the Alameda — “they don’t want any from you.”
“That’s as it may be,” said Miro shortly, who had heard enough of honor from himself and Avellana, and in his present black night of doubt disliked to be told that his behavior was pr
edictable. “Then what about yourself?”
“Me? I am a foreign expert. A trainer of seamen. I have no more to do with it than the harbormaster.”
An excellent excuse for surrender. The foreign expert. But even Avellana, he remembered, had refused to consider him that. Certainly Juan didn’t. He doubted if either ever thought of him as a first-generation immigrant — apart from trying to calculate how his reactions were likely to differ from their own. He had been so involved by Vidal in the political and military life of the country that he couldn’t be disentangled from it as if he were a Spaniard training seamen or an Italian building a dam or a North American adviser to the National Bank.
The representatives of the people were calming down. Some typical and respected voice of the Ateneo had taken control and imposed boredom. It was saying nothing very beautifully. It had turned the Chamber into a sleepy literary society. That was as good a way as another of wasting time peaceably until Vidal appeared.
At last a discreet messenger informed Miro that the President would like to see him. Captain Salinas looked up from the correction of a river chart with which he too was wasting time, and nodded.
“Always let them run for the frontier if they want to, Miro. It saves a lot of trouble in the end.”
Vidal, alone in the empty Cabinet Room, seemed nothing but beard and eyes. The last twelve hours had turned him from a Velázquez into an El Greco. He looked desperately tired, but not in the least likely to run. Paco Salinas underrated him.
“Well, my dear Miro, it is now you who will give me my orders. But let us be clear on one point. I will not resign. Whether it is you or Avellana, I shall be found in the Chamber when you come to fetch me.”
More rhetoric! Yet it would be in his character to make some such gesture provided there was a quick way out by the back door.
“In my opinion, Don Gregorio, you need not resign.”
“With the whole Army and Air Force against me? Miro, I cannot ask your Division to commit suicide.”
“Possibly you are not aware that the Air Force has only its training ammunition?”
“You mean — you mean all that confusion this morning was deliberate? You disobeyed?”
“If you put it like that — yes.”
“You knew what Ledesma intended?”
“No, not certainly. An insurance policy.”
Vidal stared at his master, or perhaps still servant? What he had intended had happened, though he had never envisaged it happening this way. The Citadel, Fifth Division and its commander — all had been created for what the military called limited objectives: to steady the police and the civil governors on course, to discourage foreign aggression and irresponsible political adventures. And here it was, a monstrous mass of steel out of its sheath, as unpredictable a symbol as — the image of a hilt compelled the comparison — as the Cross. The Chamber which he was about to address was no longer the State. Nor was he. Nor was Gil Avellana. Fifth Division was the State, and the streets of San Vicente knew it and cheered.
“Even so, Miro, without the Air Force the odds are ten to one against you.”
“Four to one if I move quickly. Our base is secure. San Vicente is with you, and Morote does not look like taking a hand.”
“Then I am not beaten?”
“That is for you to tell me, Don Gregorio. You are commander in chief. I await your orders. Am I to obey Jesús-María?”
“No! No, Miro! But what can you do?”
“I’ll tell you first what I cannot do. I cannot occupy Siete Dolores. I cannot even defend San Vicente, without appalling bloodshed. But I can attack.”
“With any chance of success?”
“Of military success, a very good chance.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to let Jesús-María and Ledesma break themselves against the Citadel?” the President asked. “You have assured me again and again that it is impregnable.”
“Against foreign attack it is. But in civil war the defense is politically impossible. The siege of the Citadel must be based on San Vicente. How long will the civil population support you when my barrage comes down on the suburbs and I counterattack in the ruins?”
“We do not want that kind of war, amigo.”
“There is only one kind of war. And it is most merciful when it is most swift.”
“You are too logical, Miro,” said Vidal with a delicately patronizing gesture of two white fingers. “You see the world as blocks of men with neat edges to them. In politics one is not limited by fuel dumps and roads and railways. My conscience is clear. A cacique — well, perhaps I am that, for it is essential to good government. One cannot have long-term plans upset by irresponsibility. There has to be some discipline in the elections. But I have the love of the people. No one can say I am a dictator.”
Miro hoped that his impatience did not show. The little man had to be allowed to chatter after spending hours trying to put some guts into his ministers.
“But I have the right to make a gesture,” Vidal went on. “It need not come to heavy fighting. You must avoid it. You must sit still and let them attack.”
“In that case the numbers of the enemy must be decisive, and I can only surrender.”
But Vidal was too busy avoiding the issue to accept so uncompromising a statement.
“Not the enemy, Miro. I beg you not to call them the enemy. The Army must be brought quietly to see that revolution is out of date, that it is a department of State like any other.”
“In Guayanas? The Army of Guayanas?” Miro exclaimed.
“And what the devil is exceptional about it?” asked Don Gregorio, frantically changing his ground. “Except for the United States and the Northern democracies I cannot think of a single country where the Army does not enter politics. No doubt there are, but we should need to send for the librarian. At least we Latin Americans do not pretend to be shocked. We have a sense of reality. What I intended was to create an example. An example for all. In revolution a first victory is enough. But you tell me I cannot have it.”
“I told you nothing of the sort. It is all I can offer you. The effective strength of the — of the Captain General is three divisions, plus the two cavalry divisions. In spite of the odds, I propose to take the offensive with Fifth Division, less the skeleton of a garrison which I must leave in the Citadel. The fighting will be of — shall I say? — modern intensity. Because of that, I believe I can win. If I do, are you sure it will end the revolution?”
“Quite sure, Miro.”
“Then may I have your authority for the immediate move of the Division to Cumana?”
“Yes. Yes, if you think it best. I give you full powers, Miro,” Vidal exclaimed with growing enthusiasm. “The Chamber shall vote them tonight. What else do you want at once?”
“Very little except the orders which I shall submit to you for signature. The Division is up to War Establishment. The expense will come afterwards.”
“We are defending democracy. We shall get all the financial help we ask from the United States.”
“Again I hope so. But that is your business, Don Gregorio. By the way, are the railwaymen Avellanistas?”
“No servant of the State is Avellanista, Miro,” the President replied superbly. “I demand efficiency and I pay well for it.”
“If I required a railway accident in the Quebradas Pass could you guarantee it?”
“Twelfth Cavalry Division is holding the Pass.”
“That is why. Sabotage by my own men would be very difficult, and I must be sure.”
“Naturally I have my agents in Siete Dolores.”
“Don Gregorio, a situation might arise when Twelfth Division is tempted to leave its position at the top of the Pass and advance on Cumana. If I then wanted the Quebradas Pass blocked, so that they could not send any considerable force back into Siete Dolores for at least a day, could you do it?”
“An accident, you said, Miro? An empty train might be allowed to run downhill. With luck it could even be der
ailed to block the road as well. At a price, and with an escape route open for the careless railwaymen, of course. Communication is the difficulty. If I know you, you will want this at a precise moment, not before or after.”
“You will be in continuous communication with my Headquarters, wherever it is. Your order to your agent in Quebradas — Well, it is my impression that station staff are invariably listening to San Vicente radio. Perhaps a tune, perhaps a prearranged sentence?”
“I will consult my own security police, Miro. It is extraordinary how useful they become when the normal processes of law cannot be followed.”
The President spoke almost with surprise. Miro had never before realized how deep was his dislike of any brutality in government. By the creation of Fifth Division he was caught in a paradox. Efficiency, honesty, discipline — bring those to birth and you had such power in your hands that you could do without all the nastiness of a police state. But if that power were challenged, there could be more bloodshed in five minutes than in five years of jails and firing squads.
CHAPTER X
[December 5]
THE CITADEL WAS DARK. The parade ground, which normally was cheerful as a town plaza — surrounded by the lighted windows of the messes and liberally decorated by colored bulbs wherever there was a party or some little exhibition to which the commander desired to draw attention — had become a desert, shapeless except for a dim range of low hillocks on the south side where the last of the Air Force trucks were still coming in. The blackout was an exercise and a stern reminder. Divisional Headquarters did not consider there was any risk of Ledesma wasting his small store of bombs in order to scar the concrete of the Citadel. On the other hand, one could never be quite sure in Guayanas what sublime act of folly might not be committed in a moment of pride and anger.
Miro Kucera left his office, followed by Captain Irala with a bundle of rolled maps, and walked to the football pavilion along the western avenue where the palms, very young and bare under the melancholy swaying of the lights in the breeze from the Pacific, seemed suddenly to have grown up and to be providing cover. The pavilion was an isolated building where absolute security could be assured. He had announced only a quarter of an hour earlier that it was there the conference would be held. Since then the Provost Company had furnished it, blacked-out the windows, disconnected the telephone and posted a close ring of sentries out of earshot of the building.
Thing to Love Page 17
