Tryant Banderas

by Ramon del Valle-Inclan

  “And slotted in one!”

  “If the world was that messed up the holy saints would go straight to Hell!”

  “A cracking declaration, Doña Lupita. But isn’t your soul even a little bit troubled by having unleashed so much turmoil, so many bolts from the blue?”

  “Boss, don’t strike fear into my soul!”

  “Doña Lupita, you shudder, don’t you, at the thought of your responsibilities before eternity?”

  “I am praying for all I’m worth!”

  IV

  Tyrant Banderas looked out at the trail. “Chop-chop! Will whoever has the sharpest eyes please let me know whose troops those are that are heading this way. Isn’t the resplendent rider at the head of the pack the renowned Don Roque Cepeda?”

  Escorted by four Indian riders, Don Roque stopped at the other side of the fence by the gate. In the light of the setting sun, the horseman’s bronzed temples, golden sombrero, and silvery, sweating colt gave him the aura of a Romanesque saint. Tyrant Banderas adopted Quakerishly measured tones as he embarked on an absurd welcome: “So pleased to see you in this neck of the woods! It was Santos Banderas’s duty to consult with you with regard to a few pressing questions, of course, but my dear Don Roque, why have you put yourself to so much trouble? It was I, yours truly, who was under the obligation to visit you in your abode in order to offer my apologies and those of my entire government. Which is why I dispatched one of my aides to request an audience with you, and here you are, and it is so very kind of you to take this trouble when I, Santos Banderas, should really have been the one to have taken the initiative.”

  Don Roque dismounted and Tyrant hugged him warmly. They had a long, confidential exchange on the friars’ lookout bench, opposite the becalmed equatorial sea where the sun blazed a path as it flamed down through the western sky. “Chop-chop! So pleased to see you.”

  “Mr. President, sir, I didn’t want to join the campaign without first speaking to you. It is a question of courtesy and of my attachment to the republic. Mr. President, sir, your aide, my former colleague, Lauro Méndez, secretary for Foreign Affairs, came to visit me. Our conversation spurred me to take action, and I expect you, Mr. President, sir, are aware of the outcome.”

  “The honorable secretary acted incorrectly if he failed to inform you that he was acting under my instructions. Transparency is the name of my game. Don Roque, my friend, our independence as a nation is in danger, under siege from ambitious foreign powers. The honorable diplomatic corps—a thieves’ den of colonial interests—is shooting us in the back with the slanderous Note it is cabling everywhere. Malign agencies are being deployed by these foreign diplomats to defame the Republic of Santa Fe. The Yankees and Europeans are equally greedy for our rubber, mines, and oil. True patriots must look ahead to a time of deepest anguish. We may even face military intervention, and that’s why I wanted this audience with you. I want to propose a truce. Chop-chop!”

  “A truce?”

  “A truce until the international issues are resolved. You can set the conditions. I will begin by offering an amnesty to all political prisoners who didn’t take up arms.”

  Don Roque muttered, “Amnesty is the correct policy and one that I fully support. Many, however, were unjustly accused of conspiracy.”

  “Everybody will be amnestied.”

  “And will the election really be free? What about the secret police? Will they refrain from harassing the opposition parties and the voters?”

  “The election will be free and the law will be observed. What more can I say? I want peace for the country. I am offering you peace. Santos Banderas is not the vulgar power-hungry monster that dissidents like to caricature. I only want what is best for the republic. The happiest day in my life will be the day I, like Cincinnatus, can return to my farm in the outback. In a word, you and your friends will recover your freedom and the full exercise of your civil rights. As a loyal patriot, however, you must strive to return the revolution to the paths of legality. But if the people cast their ballots for you, I will be the first to respect their sovereign will. I admire your humanitarian ideals, Don Roque. I feel bitter that I am unable to share your optimism. Therein lies my tragedy as a ruler! You, a Creole from one of the best Creole families, dismiss Creole interests. While I, a plain Indian, lack any faith in the virtues and abilities of my race. You stand before me like a man who has seen the light; your touching faith in the destiny of indigenous peoples reminds me of Bartolomé de las Casas. You wish to scatter the shades that three hundred years of colonial rule has cast around the Indian soul. How admirable! There is nothing Santos Banderas would like more. Don Roque, after present circumstances have been successfully dealt with, defeat me, annihilate me, demonstrate the slumbering potential of my race through a victory that I will be the first to celebrate. Your victory will be a permanent victory for the Indians. From that day forth, they will hold sway over the destiny of our nation. Don Roque, go propagandize as freely as you like, work your miracle within the law, and, believe me, I will be the first to celebrate. Don Roque, I thank you for listening. Now will you please state any objections, as frankly as you wish. I don’t want you to give me your word now and then find you are unable to keep to it. Consult the leading lights among your allies. Offer them an olive branch from Santos Banderas.”

  Don Roque gave him a look of such serenely ingenuous sincerity that it was impossible to miss his qualms. “A truce!”

  “A truce. A hallowed union. Don Roque, let us defend the independence of the fatherland.”

  Tyrant Banderas waved his arms pathetically. He could hear his cronies in the twilit garden mocking and teasing Master Veguillas.

  V

  Don Roque cantered off into the distance waving his handkerchief. From behind the gate, Kid Santos waved his top hat in return. Horse and rider were soon hidden in fields of tall maize, though the arm and handkerchief continued to wave, “Chop-chop! A pigeon!”

  The mummy went on joking and grimacing and drooling poison. He looked at the old camp follower who, seated between the coffeepot and the grindstone and encircled by her flounces, was telling her rosary beads, horrified at the prospect of a night of holy terror. She stood up at a sign from Tyrant. “Generalito, the world’s tangled ways may lead the holiest of men to the cauldrons of Hell.”

  “My dear, you really should amputate that Cleopatra’s nose of yours.”

  “If that would really sort out this world, I’d go snub-nosed tonight.”

  “A skirmish over four glasses on your table opened a door for Lucifer to step in. Consider our now disgraced melodious friend, charged with treachery! He’ll probably be sentenced to death!”

  “And was the smashing of my glassware really to blame?”

  “Future historians will have to figure that one out. Master Veguillas, bid goodbye to this old camp follower. Forgive her. Show your generosity of spirit. Put your cloak on, and astonish these jokers with your magnanimity.”

  “Juvenal and Jonathan Swift!”

  The mummy grinned sourly in whitey’s direction. “Illustrious Don Celestino, it’s up to you to get me some mileage out of this. Neither Juvenal nor Jonathan Swift: Santos Banderas. The wonder of these southern shores. Chop-chop!”

  Book Two

  <

  id="heading_id_65">The Terrace at the Club
  >

  I

  Dr. Carlos Esparza, the minister for Uruguay, assumed a worldly air as, tongue-in-cheek, he listened to the confidences of his close colleague, Dr. Aníbal Roncali, the minister for Ecuador. They were dining at the Rifle Club. “The Baron of Benicarlés has created a very trying situation. You know the brilliant track record I have established as a seducer of women, and that I’ve got no reason to be afraid of gossip. However, the minister for Spain continues to behave in a most inappropriate fashion. The way he titters! The glances he gives me!”

  “Sure, buddy. That’s called passion.”

  Bald, shortsighted, and refined, Dr. Esparza ja
mmed his tortoise-shell monocle into an eye socket. Dr. Aníbal Roncali stared, unsure whether to grin or look mortified. “You’re kidding.”

  The minister for Uruguay apologized with a sarcastic sweep of the hand.

  “Aníbal, it looks like you’re hand in glove with the Baron of Benicarlés. That could spark a diplomatic row, not to mention complaints from the mother country!”

  The minister for Ecuador gestured impatiently, fluttering his curls. “You continue to jest.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I haven’t the slightest.”

  “I assume you’re not about to accept the post of secretary to the grand project you were so eloquently describing the other night?”

  “No doubt.”

  “All because of your jackassing it around...!”

  “Spare me wordplay, please.”

  “No pun intended. Yes, I’m sure it would be a great opportunity for you, and you just can’t think of any reasons to refuse. The eagle and its eaglets opening their wings to take heroic flight. What a blithe spirit you! What a lover of the lyre!”

  “Dear Doctor, will you please stop kidding around.”

  “Lyrical, sentimental, sensitive, sensible!” proclaimed Rubén Darío, the swan from Nicaragua. “And that’s why you’ll never drive a wedge between the minister for Spain’s diplomatic initiatives and his flirting.”

  “Let’s be serious, Doctor. What is your opinion of Sir Jonnes’s suggestion?”

  “It’s a first step.”

  “And what do you perceive will be the effect of the Note?”

  “Qui lo sá! The Note may open the way for other Notes...It depends on the president’s response. Sir Jonnes is so very affable and evangelical that all he requests is that the West Company Limited be compensated at the cost of twenty million. As so often, a viper lurks among the sweet-smelling violets of humanitarian sentiment.”

  “No doubt the Note is a way of testing the waters. But how will the general react? Will the government agree to the compensation?”

  “Unfortunately, this America of ours continues to be a colony of Europe...On this occasion, however, the government of Santa Fe is not going to allow its arm to be twisted. The government is quite aware that the ideals of the revolution are in direct conflict with the monopolies these companies enjoy. Tyrant Banderas is not going to die from a diplomatic goring. Selfish Creoles, landowners, and foreign investors are coming together to prop him up. In the end, the government could refuse compensation, confident that the great powers are not going to support radical revolutionaries. The emancipation of the Indian is of course inevitable. It would be unwise to shut one’s eyes to that. But something may be inevitable and still not be imminent. Death is inevitable, but our lives are devoted to keeping it at bay. The diplomatic corps acts reasonably when it defends the existence of these old and, yes, now declining political entities. We’re the crutches of geezers who mean to hang on for eternity like those philosophers of old.”

  The breeze rippled the draperies and the blue curtain of the marina, illuminated by the opalescent lanterns on masts, glistened in the deep distant darkness.

  II

  The minister for Ecuador and the minister for Uruguay walked onto the terrace in a billowing cloud of cigar smoke. When he saw them, Tu-Lag-Thi, the Japanese minister, sat up in his bamboo rocking chair and greeted them with the feigned affability of Oriental diplomats. He was savoring his frothy coffee and his gold-rimmed glasses lay open on an English newspaper. The Latin American ministers went over to him. Bows, smiles, the whole solemn charade of nods and handshakes and French chitchat. The servant, a vacuous mulatto forever attentive to every diplomatic demand, dragged over two rocking chairs. Dr. Roncali set his curls a-dancing and launched into gushing oratory, singing the praises of the beauty of the night, the moon, and the sea. Tu-Lag-Thi, the Japanese minister, listened, scowling darkly, his face drawn. His lips framed his gleaming dentures like purple welts. His slant eyes shone with malign suspicion. An admirer of everything exotic and novel, Dr. Esparza commented, “Nighttime in Japan must be wonderful!”

  “Oh! Undoubtedly! And tonight is not without a certain Japanese cachet!”

  Tu-Lag-Thi’s voice sounded as flat as an out-of-tune piano and his movements were as stiff as a windup doll with rusty springs, an unholy inner life of coiled wire. He grimaced a dark, affected smile: “My dear colleagues, earlier on I was unable to solicit your opinions. How important do you believe the Note to be?”

  “It’s a first step!”

  Dr. Esparza qualified his words with an ambiguous smile. The Japanese minister continued: “One understood it as such, naturally. Will the diplomatic corps remain in accord? Where is this all going? The English minister is driven by humanitarian imperatives, but his generosity may be checked. None of the foreign colonies has any sympathy with revolutionary ideas. The Spanish colony, so numerous, so influential, and in every way so tightly linked to the Creole class, is frankly hostile to the agrarian reforms of the Zamalpoa Plan. At this very moment—according to my inside information—the Spanish colony is preparing to affirm its allegiance to the government of the republic. Perhaps in the end Honorable Sir Scott will find himself the lone supporter of his humanitarian campaign.”

  Dr. Carlos Esparza’s myopic eyes twinkled maliciously. “My dear colleague, it’s all too obvious diplomacy is not born of the Gospels.”

  Tu-Lag-Thi mewled mournfully in response: “Japan believes that the Rights of Man take priority over the interests of any of its citizens resident here. But in our mutual exchange of confidences, or rather indiscretions, I cannot hide that I view the moral support some of our colleagues have offered to the laudable sentiments of the English minister with great pessimism. Nor as a man of honor can I credit the insinuations and slanders published by the dailies that are in tight with the government of the republic. The West Company! How abominable!”

  Tu-Lag-Thi’s final truculent blast wound down to a lisping hiss as he flashed an obsequious Asiatic grin. Dr. Aníbal Roncali stroked his mustache while his quavering lips came up with an emotion-laden paragraph. He spoke with tremendous nervous energy, working his black curls into a frenzy, until they stood up straight like lizards’ tails: “Dr. Banderas cannot order the liquor shops to shut their doors. If he does, there will be riots. These fiestas are bacchanalia for half-breeds and bums!”

  III

  Echoes from the fair floated in on the breeze. Strings of toy lanterns danced along the street. At the far end a merry-go-round went round and round, lights blinking, creating a strident, hysterical clatter that hypnotized the cats crouched on the eaves. The wind hummed and performed acrobatic feats with the toy lanterns that swung back and forth in time, and the street winked. In the distance, the shadowy fortress of Saint-Martin of the Mostenses loomed up through the luminous haze.

  Book Three

  <

  id="heading_id_66">A Time for Buffoons
  >

  I

  Tyrant Banderas, at the window, pointed his telescope at the city of Santa Fe. “What delightful illuminations! They’re so pretty, aren’t they!”

  Cronies and hangers-on gathered around the steps to the stars. The green grimace perched at the top. “The people cannot be denied their bread and circuses. The illuminations are so pretty!”

  Muffled shots reached them on a sea breeze from Santa Mónica. “Liberated from pernicious propaganda, the people mean well! And discipline does them good!”

  The circle of buddies expanded. Tyrant’s utterances held them rooted to the spot.

  II

  Tyrant Banderas descended from his pinnacle, entered the circle of aides and hangers-on, and extracted Master Veguillas with a tweak of the ear. “We would like to hear your froggy concert one last time. How’s your throat? Need to gargle?”

  The band of toadies lapped up this broadside and laughed grotesquely. Nachito was stunned. “How can you expect a corpse to be tuneful?”

  “Ho
w very wrong of you not to placate your judges with a ditty! Sirs, this good old friend appears before you accused of treason. Had his trickery gone undiscovered, he might have sunk the lot of you. You will recall how last night, speaking in confidence, I informed you that I intended to bring Colonel Domiciano de la Gándara to justice in light of his subversive activities. And these words, meant only for the ears of Santos Banderas’s closest friends, these words were divulged. Advise me now what the proper punishment should be for this divulger of secrets. The witnesses for the defense have been summoned and, should you agree, will now make their statements. Master V himself has stated that a sleepwalking courtesan, having been hypnotized by one Dr. Polish, succeeded in divining his thoughts. We appear to be embroiled in an episode from a novel by Alexandre Dumas! This literally entrancing doctor who endows flophouse strumpets with prophetic powers must be a descendant of Joseph Bálsamo who has fallen on hard times. Do you remember the novel? A fascinating feuilleton! And we are living it out in the flesh! Take a look: our Master Veguillas rivals the genius of the mulatto Dumas! Now he will tell us where it was he and the rebel Domiciano de la Gándara intended to escape to.”

  Nachito whimpered. “All we did was chat on the way out of the establishment.”

  “You were both plastered?”

  “Boss, it was the fiesta! The whole of Santa Fe was drunk! That joker suddenly panicked while we were chatting and rushed across the street into a house. Some poor soul happened to open the door. I reacted like an idiot, flapping my ears like a frightened llama.

  “Could you describe the establishment where you had gone to carouse?”

  “Generalito, don’t make me blush. It’s far too profane a spot to mention here in this audience chamber. I’m red with embarrassment in the presence of your noble patrician self.”

  “Answer the question. What dive was it that you went to with Colonel de la Gándara, and what did you confide to him in said place? Master V, you knew an arrest warrant had been issued. Drunkenly, you let some word escape that alerted him—and allowed him to escape.”