Fanfare of trumpets . . . Champagne . . . Speeches of welcome which went on interminably. They condemned Avellana’s policy — which could be done convincingly only by an economist. They praised Fifth Division’s conduct of the campaign — which could be understood only by a professional soldier. They flattered Vidal with bubbles of froth which called up a clear image of the filthy mess of detergent in the streams below the washhouses of the suburbs. A better example for the enemy than poor Coca-Cola! Why spend money importing detergents when Guayanas made excellent soap?
He felt that he ought to be enjoying it all instead of dreaming behind an impassive face. This sort of thing was, after all, the soldier’s reward. Well, he preferred the reward in the eager eyes of ignorant fighting men like Corporal Menendez. Or did he? He remembered how often he had been exasperated by hero worship. No, the reward of the soldier was something like the General Salute flung out into the dusk of Cruzada by Rosalindo’s bugler.
He wished he could lie back with a drink in the Fonsagrada patio, and talk it all into a worse muddle still, suddenly illumined by one of his father-in-law’s unexpected shafts of light. There Juan was, wearing an air of distinguished innocence. As leader of the opposition in the Chamber — the liberal rump of it, which was too old and cautious to fight — he had every right to be present. Or, if he hadn’t, not a citizen of San Vicente would have the audacity to tell him so. They exchanged a distant bow, for a severe reserve had to be maintained.
It was his turn to reply on behalf of the Division. He insisted that it had fought with such chivalry as modern war allowed. So had the troops of Don Jesús-María de Hoyos y Alarcón; their cause was disastrously wrong, but Guayanas could be proud of the way they had defended it. Then convention demanded that he pour some fulsome rhetoric on Gregorio Vidal. He started to talk of the President as an administrator, was surprised by the sincerity of his own voice and warmed to his theme:
“You think of the soldier as a gallant, picturesque and fearless ruffian, and I have nothing against him if he is all that. But he must be more besides, for war is nothing but fast, effective and imaginative administration. In that field, most excellent and appreciated Don Gregorio, I am competent to give my judgment upon you. It is that you have led our beloved country into the twentieth century. If Avellana chooses to call it the twenty-first I have no objection. You have created an efficient corps of well-paid government servants to give you advice and to carry out your orders. Before you, our advice was worthless and our obedience to the clock. Don Gregorio, I return to you the thanks not only of your Fifth Division but of all your officials, civil and military, whom you have taught how to serve the State.”
When he had finished and stepped back, Miro was at last able to exchange a more intimate look with his father-in-law under cover of the applause. To his surprise Juan was clapping without a trace of irony. His raised eyebrows and a nod were honestly congratulating Miro on selecting for eulogy the one quality of Vidal’s which nobody could deny.
Concha, billowing and comradely, caught his arm.
“Miro, you are the most adorable man in the world. Gregorio needed just that for his self-confidence.”
“A soldier’s simplicity, Doña Concha. It’s the only face of Vidalismo which isn’t too complicated for me.”
The ceremonial guard marched off. Emerging from a flurry of handshakes and conversation, Miro was hypnotized for an instant by the empty steps. The dark stains on the ancient, porous stones were unmistakable. He looked round for Feli. She was engaged in fascinating the British consul general, that childhood friend who could be trusted to relay Juan’s affection to her and hers to Juan, though face to face there wouldn’t have been much sign of it. From where she was it was doubtful if she could see the stains.
Blood. A man of blood. More blood dripping from the rocks above the Cruzada road. But to all of them that had been acceptable and inevitable, putting a meaning into those questionable, regimental words honor and glory. There was no honor here, where a shattered girl had died.
He stared as Paco Salinas greeted him and returned the Spaniard’s salute without a smile.
“I warned you, Captain General.”
“Warned me? Warned me of what?”
“That I was going to descale the boilers.”
Miro looked into the worn mahogany face, so deeply and crudely chiseled that one couldn’t tell whether it was utterly inhuman or compassionate. It was impossible to turn away, impossible not to be impressed by this battered priest of nothingness.
“Paint, you said,” he answered coldly. “Do you have no quick driers in the Navy?”
“Hombre! You’re as bad as a North American! When they are neutral, it’s a crime to make war. When they are warlike, it’s a crime to be neutral. Suppose I had sailed up the Rio Jaquiri and shelled Cumana Junction?”
“Did they ask you to?”
“What comes in at the ears stays there. It is my business to teach Indians to tie knots. Let us examine this silver plate, which properly belongs to the Spanish government. They will think we are talking about combined operations. Do you know why I have had the shamelessness to address you?”
“In the hope that I will accept your half-apology, I suppose.”
“Half! I don’t offer you any apologies at all. It seemed to me an injustice that you should stare at stones. You are not accustomed to that sort of death. I am.”
“It was so needless, Paco.”
“A man is responsible for his conscience, not for its effects. Friend Miro, that was an act of chivalry and great courage.”
“I should have known they were children.”
“Don Quixote should have known they were windmills.”
“Most esteemed Paco, I don’t live alone in a world of fantasy!” Miro answered more cheerfully.
“You don’t? Only because you have made so many of us share it. Good! I will not detain you longer. They will all watch the salute I am about to give you, Captain General. But between ourselves it has nothing to do with the uniform.”
Miro was thankful when he could leave the Palace for his essential round of visits to the Ministries. Half Roman triumph, half a conventional State cocktail party, the unreality of it had forced him into unprofitable thought about first principles, which were no business of his at all — beyond those private principles which Paco Salinas seemed to think infectious. Once closeted again with heads of departments and committee chairmen, he slipped back, relaxed, into the life which had been his before attempted revolution and campaign. Finance, prisoners-of-war, military support for the civil administration of Siete Dolores, fuel imports, compensation, hospitals — they were all normal, healthy problems, the more interesting for being discussed at a higher level than he had experienced while merely commanding the San Vicente Garrison.
At last he was alone with Vidal, reporting what had been settled, asking for a decision where there had been conflict. He felt the restfulness in this exquisitely paneled office at the axle of the dynamo. The Palace was irresistible. Its sheer beauty must often have tempered the natural bent of the politicians — influencing the Dictator Orduñez to mercy for example, or Juan de Fonsagrada to . . . well, say arithmetic. Besides the trim of his beard, what had it given to Vidal? A sense of balance, perhaps, of solid historical ground under his groping toes while he performed his breakneck, corruptly brilliant, immensely valuable administrative feats.
“To have done with war, Miro! To have done! That must be our objective in spite of all this preparation. It is seldom that I agree with Avellana, but when he says that a decision is never military . . .”
“It can be decisive for a very long time. Ask the Czechs and the Poles! And in Spain?”
“In Europe. Perhaps. But here, I sometimes wonder if we have not been — how shall I put it? — too European.”
“With only one division I could be nothing else.”
“Understood! Understood! But I feel that if only necessities were not so brutal, that if only
the situation were more fluid . . .”
“It’s fluid enough, Don Gregorio,” said Miro bluntly. “As far as our military problem goes I can confine operations to the llanos. Meanwhile you have Morote, Don Jesús-María and Juan de Fonsagrada to play with.”
“What terms of surrender would you recommend?”
“No reprisals. Armistice at an agreed line. Free elections throughout the country.”
“Impossible, dear Miro! How can I release our prisoners? It would start all over again.”
“The Army would obey Don Jesús-María. If you could arrange anything, I would gladly retire.”
“No, Miro! No, no, no! Our pacification must be thorough and done at leisure. I cannot believe the difficulties are so great.”
It was a pity, Miro thought, that Don Gregorio had not himself come to power by revolution. He was perturbed by the whole business, and inconsistent. Any of his predecessors around the walls, viceroys and Presidents, would have seen the value of striking hard and fast. But the cunning which had conceived the Citadel and Fifth Division as a humane alternative to a police State was all at sea when the bluff was called. The President had never wanted to use his creation. In face of violence, his self-confidence began to leak away. A serious leak it could be, for Doña Concha had impulsively spoken of restoring it.
“I never said the difficulties were great, Don Gregorio. Obviously if Avellana stays in Los Venados, behind the rivers, it will be hard to get at him. But his supply problem is even worse than my own. Eventually his troops will starve. He must know that. And so I think that Pedro Valdés, who seems,” Miro added sarcastically, “to be a student of the art of war on paper, will try to operate with strong, self-sufficient Commando columns. His raids and threats of raids will compel me to use similar groups — but much faster and with overwhelming fire power. Wherever I find a concentration of the enemy, I destroy him. But if he uses the country cleverly, it may be troublesome to find and pin down a cloud of horsemen. To end this campaign quickly and decisively all I need is a small tactical Air Force. We have the planes. How many men can we recruit in Guayanas to fly them?”
“The jets? None.”
“And propellor planes?”
“Sixty-three,” Vidal replied promptly, “according to the licenses, current and elapsed.”
Miro wondered if there were any other medium-sized Latin-American state where such an exact figure could be promptly produced on demand.
“Nineteen are employed by the internal airlines. I cannot very well close them down at a moment when it is essential that governors and police should be in close touch with me. Of the rest some twenty would fly any planes we gave them straight to Avellana. I flatter myself, dear Miro, that it would be from misguided loyalty to the Air Force rather than active dislike of me. We can omit a further thirteen who are of middle age and would need refresher courses. That leaves eleven whom I can offer you — five estancieros who fly their own aircraft and fortunately are bitterly opposed to Avellana, and six pilots who fly for my more prosperous commercial friends. If they cannot fly the Air Force Dakotas, at least they can use their private aircraft for reconnaissance.”
“It is not enough — and without lengthy training could I trust their reports?”
“But Avellana, Miro, has nothing.”
“Avellana has little or no fuel to spare and cannot get more. But he has all the pilots we have not interned. Given two or three old propellor fighters which can land and take off on grass, he can shoot us out of the sky. Let us say they are secretly purchased and then stolen — officially — from a foreign airfield. Don Gregorio, I suggest that you should recruit some volunteers abroad. There are plenty of young fools who only want pay, a plane and a machine gun in order to be fulfilled.”
“It must not be said that I am in power only because of foreign volunteers, Miro. And since Avellana has no fuel, are they essential?”
“As you wish, but the campaign will be longer.”
“At an even pace, Miro. At an even pace. Always plenty of time for common sense to triumph. Tanks can do everything that horses can.”
“No, ours can’t swim. I shall need more bridging equipment. Can you get that from the United States without embarrassment?”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“Ammunition for the Shermans. I will give you the specifications. We may be able to recover some from the wreck of the Santa María. But it was loaded as deck cargo, to be discharged first at Viera. I hear that Valdés threw most of it overboard.”
The President made a note.
“Will you stop to a simple dinner with us, dear Miro?”
“Many thanks, Don Gregorio, but I have only an hour to spend with Feli before I start back to Cumana.”
It was inhuman, Gregorio Vidal thought when the door was shut, inhuman! Work? Well, nobody appreciated industry more than he did. But this single-minded devotion to scientific slaughter! Miro should have marched the Division, like any other triumphant general, back through a cheering San Vicente to the Citadel, and allowed the life of the State to be resumed. Avellana could bluster as much as he liked, but his starving troopers would soon see the virtues of Vidalismo. All this insistence on speed was unnecessary. The large, genial face of the Captain General, the powerful body, those eyes like his own damned guns, all aroused a faint resentment just as they used to.
Vidal preened his coat and beard, and strolled under the delicate arches of the patio across to the Little Salon. It had known enough soldiers in its time, he supposed, tramping brutally round the colonnade while they waited for the Head of Government to receive them. He wondered if Miro had ever even noticed the beauty which he served. Why should he? He was an instrument picked for a special purpose. One did not use scissors to paint a picture, or a paintbrush to trim one’s beard.
Concha was sitting by the great window, looking out to sea in the last of the dusk.
“You are pleased with your day, Gregorio?” she asked.
“It has gone smoothly, very smoothly. That is the most I could hope for it.”
“What I should hope for it would be that Miro’s movements to the north are smooth, and everyone else in a turmoil trying to give him what he wants.”
“My dear, you appreciate everything but administration,” Vidal answered with his most courtly smile.
“Gregorio, I know very well that you could make an excellent government office out of a chicken run. I often think you have. But when you tell me in a moment of crisis that everything has gone smoothly, I suspect that you have paid a large sum of money to a publicity agent in order that he shall tranquillize us all with the very latest jargon recommended by a crook psychiatrist.”
“You are ridiculous, Concha. Fifth Division has no need of propaganda. And the Avellanistas will be starving in a month.”
“They won’t! Just very tired of horse and beef.”
“Miro assures me that his fire power is overwhelming and that we need have no fear at all.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“I? Nothing! Nothing! It is time for dinner, Concha. Would you be so good as to summon the mayordomo?”
“If a force of cavalry all gallop off in a circle, how many can be shot by a tank in the middle?”
“My dear, although I do not understand military technicalities, the answer seems to me to depend upon an equation involving the speed of the horses and the traverse and effective range of the guns. But I cannot believe that your theoretical question corresponds to any possible position in reality.”
“Well, so long as ‘going smoothly’ doesn’t mean that you tried to tell Miro how to fight a war. He is obsessed by the idea that it is his duty to obey politicians.”
“Would you like to see him dictator? The fact is, Concha, that he fascinates you.”
“I don’t deny it, but I fear I must languish in secret, Gregorio. A woman with a bottom as broad as mine cannot possibly compete with Felicia.”
“That is a remark in very bad
taste, Conchita. It is true we are alone, but . . .”
“But the presence of servants is reassuring.”
“Chica, now let us be sensible! Give me your opinions when I am not so tired. Let us resume the duties of our office — for those duties exist wherever there are watching eyes — confident in the gallantry of our defenders, raising our glasses together to Fifth Division and to the victorious advance of Rosalindo Chaves as he rolls inexorably across the heart of our dear country.”
“Rosalindo Chaves ought to be galloping with the llaneros.”
“What things you say, Conchita!”
“I can imagine him with two Vidalista babies on the end of his lance.”
“The lance, Concha? The lance!” her husband exclaimed in agitation. “That in this day and age —”
“Gregorio, lances are used for pricking the rumps of cattle. Tell me any conceivable circumstances in which you are likely to meet one. And if you did, it would be no more painful than the nervous indigestion you always make such a fuss about.”
“If I were with my troops —”
“Which is the last place Miro would want you.”
“He has forced this on me!”
“Has he? We could have gone off in the helicopter.”
“That was impossible, Concha. And very dangerous indeed.”
“You could have resigned when Ledesma declared for Avellana.”
“But Miro told me he would win.”
“So he has, and so he will — if you’re not just content with smooth administration.”
“I shall go to the United States. If this is not over in a month, I shall speak in person to the United Nations!”
“What a nightmare, Gregorio! I see a force of Ethiopians officered by Eskimos engaging the llaneros and Fifth Division at the same time — and the terrace of the Ateneo full of earnest North Americans trying to persuade themselves that we are human. But it might be a useful last card, and you would play it impressively. Don’t tell me that I never give you a compliment!”
Thing to Love Page 27
