V.

by Thomas Pynchon

  Before he knew it he’d been flanked by two policemen. “Your papers,” one of them said.

  Evan came aware, protesting automatically.

  “Those are our orders, cavaliere.” Evan caught a slight note of contempt in the “cavaliere.” He produced his passport; the guardie nodded together on seeing his name.

  “Would you mind telling me—” Evan began.

  They were sorry, they could give him no information. He would have to accompany them.

  “I demand to see the English Consul-General.”

  “But cavaliere, how do we know you are English? This passport could be forged. You may be from any country in the world. Even one we have never heard of.”

  Flesh began to crawl on the back of his neck. He had suddenly got the insane notion they were talking about Vheissu. “If your superiors can give a satisfactory explanation,” he said, “I am at your service.”

  “Certainly, cavaliere.” They walked across the square and around a corner to a waiting carriage. One of the policemen courteously relieved him of his umbrella and began to examine it closely. “Avanti,” cried the other, and away they galloped down the Borgo di Greci.

  V

  Earlier that day, the Venezuelan Consulate had been in an uproar. A coded message had come through from Rome at noon in the daily bag, warning of an upswing in revolutionary activities around Florence. Various of the local contacts had already reported a tall, mysterious figure in a wideawake hat lurking in the vicinity of the Consulate during the past few days.

  “Be reasonable,” urged Salazar, the Vice-Consul. “The worst we have to expect is a demonstration or two. What can they do? Break a few windows, trample the shrubbery.”

  “Bombs,” screamed Ratón, his chief. “Destruction, pillage, rape, chaos. They can take us over, stage a coup, set up a junta. What better place? They remember Garibaldi in this country. Look at Uruguay. They will have many allies. What do we have? You, myself, one cretin of a clerk and the charwoman.”

  The Vice-Consul opened his desk drawer and produced a bottle of Ruffina. “My dear Ratón,” he said, “calm yourself. This ogre in the flapping hat may be one of our own men, sent over from Caracas to keep an eye on us.” He poured the wine into two tumblers, handed one to Ratón. “Besides which the communiqué from Rome said nothing definite. It did not even mention this enigmatic person.”

  “He is in on it,” Ratón said, slurping wine. “I have inquired. I know his name and that his activities are shady and illegal. Do you know what he is called?” He hesitated dramatically. “The Gaucho.”

  “Gauchos are in Argentina,” Salazar observed soothingly. “And the name might also be a corruption of the French gauche. Perhaps he is left-handed.”

  “It is all we have to go on,” Ratón said obstinately. “It is the same continent, is it not?”

  Salazar sighed. “What is it you want to do?”

  “Enlist help from the government police here. What other course is there?”

  Salazar refilled the tumblers. “First,” he said, “international complications. There may be a question of jurisdiction. The grounds of this consulate are legally Venezuelan soil.”

  “We can have them place a cordon of guardie around us, outside the property,” Ratón said craftily. “That way they would be suppressing riot in Italian territory.”

  “Es posible,” the Vice-Consul shrugged. “But secondly, it might mean a loss of prestige with the higher echelons in Rome, in Caracas. We could easily make fools of ourselves, acting with such elaborate precautions on mere suspicion, mere whimsy.”

  “Whimsy!” shouted Ratón. “Have I not seen this sinister figure with my own eyes?” One side of his mustache was soaked with wine. He wrung it out irritably. “There is something afoot,” he went on, “something bigger than simple insurrection, bigger than a single country. The Foreign Office of this country has its eye on us. I cannot, of course, speak too indiscreetly, but I have been in this business longer than you, Salazar, and I tell you: we shall have much more to worry about than trampled bushes before this business is done.”

  “Of course,” Salazar said peevishly, “if I am no longer party to your confidences . . .”

  “You would not know. Perhaps they do not know at Rome. You will discover everything in due time. Soon enough,” he added darkly.

  “If it were only your job, I would say, fine: call in the Italians. Call in the English and the Germans too, for all I care. But if your glorious coup doesn’t materialize, I come out of it just as badly.”

  “And then,” Ratón chuckled, “that idiot clerk can take over both our jobs.”

  Salazar was not mollified. “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “what sort of Consul-General he would make.”

  Ratón glowered. “I am still your superior.”

  “Very well then, your excellency—” spreading his hands hopelessly—“I await your orders.”

  “Contact the government police at once. Outline the situation, stress its urgency. Ask for a conference at their earliest possible convenience. Before sundown, that means.”

  “That is all?”

  “You might request that this Gaucho be put under apprehension.” Salazar did not answer. After a moment of glaring at the Ruffina bottle, Ratón turned and left the office. Salazar chewed on the end of his pen meditatively. It was midday. He gazed out the window, across the street at the Uffizi Gallery. He noticed clouds massing over the Arno. Perhaps there would be rain.

  They caught up with the Gaucho finally in the Uffizi. He’d been lounging against one wall of the Sala di Lorenzo Monaco, leering at the Birth of Venus. She was standing in half of what looked like a scungille shell; fat and blond, and the Gaucho, being a tedesco in spirit, appreciated this. But he didn’t understand what was going on in the rest of the picture. There seemed to be some dispute over whether or not she should be nude or draped: on the right a glassy-eyed lady built like a pear tried to cover her up with a blanket and on the left an irritated young man with wings tried to blow the blanket away while a girl wearing hardly anything twined around him, probably trying to coax him back to bed. While this curious crew wrangled, Venus stood gazing off into God knew where, covering up with her long tresses. No one seemed to be looking at anyone else. A confusing picture. The Gaucho had no idea why Signor Mantissa should want it, but it was none of the Gaucho’s affair. He scratched his head under the wideawake hat and turned with a still-tolerant smile to see four guardie heading into the gallery toward him. His first impulse was to run, his second to leap out a window. But he’d familiarized himself with the terrain and both impulses were checked almost immediately. “It is he,” one of the guardie announced; “Avanti!” The Gaucho stood his ground, cocking the hat aslant and putting his fists on his hips.

  They surrounded him and a tenente with a beard informed him that he must be placed under apprehension. It was regrettable, true, but doubtless he would be released within a few days. The tenente advised him to make no disturbance.

  “I could take all four of you,” the Gaucho said. His mind was racing, planning tactics, calculating angles of enfilade. Had il gran signore Mantissa blundered so extravagantly as to be arrested? Had there been a complaint from the Venezuelan Consulate? He must be calm and admit nothing until he saw how things lay. He was escorted along the “Ritratti diversi”; then two short rights into a long passageway. He didn’t remember it from Mantissa’s map. “Where does this lead?”

  “Over the Ponte Vecchio to the Pitti Gallery,” the tenente said. “It is for tourists. We are not going that far.” A perfect escape route. The idiot Mantissa! But halfway across the bridge they came out into the back room of a tobacconist’s. The police seemed familiar with this exit; not so good then, after all. Yet why all this secrecy? No city government was ever this cautious. It must therefore be the Venezuelan business. In the street w
as a closed landau, painted black. They hustled him in and started toward the right bank. He knew they wouldn’t head directly for their destination. They did not: once over the bridge the driver began to zigzag, run in circles, retrace his way. The Gaucho settled back, cadged a cigarette from the tenente, and surveyed the situation. If it were the Venezuelans, he was in trouble. He had come to Florence specifically to organize the Venezuelan colony, who were centered in the northeast part of the city, near Via Cavour. There were only a few hundred of them: they kept to themselves and worked either in the tobacco factory or at the Mercato Centrale, or as sutlers to the Fourth Army Corps, whose installations were nearby. In two months the Gaucho had squared them away into ranks and uniforms, under the collective title Figli di Machiavelli. Not that they had any particular fondness for authority; nor that they were, politically speaking, especially liberal or nationalistic; it was simply that they enjoyed a good riot now and again, and if martial organization and the aegis of Machiavelli could expedite things, so much the better. The Gaucho had been promising them a riot for two months now, but the time was not yet favorable: things were quiet in Caracas, with only a few small skirmishes going on in the jungles. He was waiting for a major incident, a stimulus to which he could provide a thunderous antiphonal response back across the Atlantic’s nave. It had been, after all, only two years since settlement of the boundary dispute with British Guiana, over which England and the United States nearly came to blows. His agents in Caracas kept reassuring him: the scene was being set, men were being armed, bribes given, it was only a matter of time. Apparently something had happened, or why should they be pulling him in? He had to figure out some way of getting a message to his lieutenant, Cuernacabrón. Their usual rendezvous was at Scheissvogel’s beer garden, in Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele. And there was still Mantissa and his Botticelli. Regrettable about that. It would have to wait till another night. . . .

  Imbecile!

  Wasn’t the Venezuelan Consulate located only some fifty meters from the Uffizi? If there were a demonstration in progress, the guardie would have their hands full; might not even hear the bomb go off. A diversionary feint! Mantissa, Cesare and the fat blonde would all get away cleanly. He might even escort them to their rendezvous under the bridge: as instigator it wouldn’t be prudent to remain at the scene of the riot for very long.

  This was all assuming, of course, that he could talk his way out of whatever charges the police would try to press, or, failing that, escape. But the essential thing right now was to get word to Cuernacabrón. He felt the carriage begin to slacken speed. One of the guardie produced a silk handkerchief, doubled and redoubled it, and bound it over the Gaucho’s eyes. The landau bounced to a halt. The tenente took his arm and led him through a courtyard, in a doorway, around a few corners, down a flight of stairs. “In here,” ordered the tenente.

  “May I ask a favor,” the Gaucho said, feigning embarrassment. “With all the wine I have drunk today, I have not had the chance—That is, if I am to answer your questions honestly and amiably, I should feel more at ease if—”

  “All right,” the tenente growled. “Angelo, you keep an eye on him.” The Gaucho smiled his thanks. He trailed down the hall after Angelo, who opened the door for him. “May I remove this?” he asked. “After all, un gabinetto è un gabinetto.”

  “Quite true,” the guardia said. “And the windows are opaque. Go ahead.”

  “Mille grazie.” The Gaucho removed his blindfold and was surprised to find himself in an elaborate W.C. There were even stalls. Only the Americans and the English could be so fastidious about plumbing. And the hallway outside, he remembered, had smelled of ink, paper and sealing wax; a consulate, surely. Both the American and the British consuls had their headquarters in Via Tornabuoni, so he knew that he was roughly three blocks west of Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele. Scheissvogel’s was almost within calling distance.

  “Hurry up,” Angelo said.

  “Are you going to watch?” the Gaucho asked, indignant. “Can’t I have a little privacy? I am still a citizen of Florence. This was a republic once.” Without waiting for a reply he entered a stall and shut the door behind him. “How do you expect me to escape?” he called jovially from inside. “Flush myself and swim away down the Arno?” While urinating he removed his collar and tie, scribbled a note to Cuernacabrón on the back of the collar, reflected that occasionally the fox had his uses as well as the lion, replaced collar, tie and blindfold and stepped out.

  “You decided to wear it after all,” Angelo said.

  “Testing my marksmanship.” They both laughed. The tenente had stationed the other two guardie outside the door. “The man lacks charity,” mused the Gaucho as they steered him back down the hall.

  Soon he was in a private office, seated on a hard wooden chair. “Take the blindfold off,” ordered a voice with an English accent. A wizened man, going bald, blinked at him across a desk.

  “You are the Gaucho,” he said.

  “We can speak English if you like,” the Gaucho said. Three of the guardie had withdrawn. The tenente and three plainclothesmen who looked to the Gaucho like state police stood ranged about the walls.

  “You are perceptive,” the balding man said.

  The Gaucho decided to give at least the appearance of honesty. All the inglesi he knew seemed to have a fetish about playing cricket. “I am,” he admitted. “Enough to know what this place is, your excellency.”

  The balding man smiled wistfully. “I am not the Consul-General,” he said. “That is Major Percy Chapman, and he is occupied with other matters.”

  “Then I would guess,” the Gaucho guessed, “that you are from the English Foreign Office. Cooperating with Italian police.”

  “Possibly. Since you seem to be of the inner circle in this matter, I presume you know why you have been brought here.”

  The possibility of a private arrangement with this man suddenly seemed plausible. He nodded.

  “And we can talk honestly.”

  The Gaucho nodded again, grinning.

  “Then let us start,” the balding man said, “by your telling me all you know about Vheissu.”

  The Gaucho tugged perplexedly at one ear. Perhaps he had miscalculated, after all. “Venezuela, you mean?”

  “I thought we had agreed not to fence. I said Vheissu.”

  All at once the Gaucho, for the first time since the jungles, felt afraid. When he answered it was with an insolence that rang hollow even to himself. “I know nothing about Vheissu,” he said.

  The balding man sighed. “Very well.” He shuffled papers around on the desk for a moment. “Let us get down to the loathsome business of interrogation.” He signaled to the three policemen, who closed swiftly in a triangle around the Gaucho.

  VI

  When old Goldolphin awoke it was to a wash of red sunset through the window. It was a minute or two till he remembered where he was. His eyes flickered from the darkening ceiling to a flowered bouffant dress hanging on the door of the armoire, to a confusion of brushes, vials and jars on the dressing table, and then he remembered that this was the girl, Victoria’s, room. She had brought him here to rest for a while. He sat up on the bed, peering about the room nervously. He knew he was in the Savoy, on the eastern side of the Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele. But where had she gone? She had said she would stay, keep watch over him, see that no harm came. Now she had disappeared. He looked at his watch, twisting the dial to catch the failing sunlight. He’d been asleep only an hour or so. She had wasted little time in leaving. He arose, walked to the window, stood gazing out over the square, watching the sun go down. The thought struck him that she might after all be one of the enemy. He turned furiously, dashed across the room, twisted the doorknob. The door was locked. Damn the weakness, this compulsion to beg shrift of any random passer-by! He felt betrayal welling up around him, eager to drown, to destroy. He had stepped int
o the confessional and found himself instead in an oubliette. He crossed swiftly to the dressing table, looking for something to force the door, and discovered a message, neatly indited on scented note paper, for him:

  If you value your well-being as much as I do, please do not try to leave. Understand that I believe you and want to help you in your terrible need. I have gone to inform the British Consulate of what you have told me. I have had personal experience with them before; I know the Foreign Office to be highly capable and discreet. I shall return shortly after dark.

  He balled the paper up in his fist, flung it across the room. Even taking a Christian view of the situation, even assuming her intentions were well-meant and that she was not leagued with those who watched the cafés, informing Chapman was a fatal error. He could not afford to have the F.O. in on this. He sank down on the bed, head hung, hands clasped tightly between his knees. Remorse and a numb impotence: they had been jolly chums, riding arrogant on his epaulets like guardian angels for fifteen years. “It was not my fault,” he protested aloud to the empty room, as if the mother-of-pearl brushes, the lace and dimity, the delicate vessels of scent would somehow find tongue and rally round him. “I was not meant to leave those mountains alive. That poor civilian engineer, dropped out of human sight; Pike-Leeming, incurable and insensate in a home in Wales; and Hugh Godolphin . . .” He arose, walked to the dressing table, stood staring at his face in the mirror. “He will only be a matter of time.” A few yards of calico lay on the table, near them a pair of pinking shears. The girl seemed to be serious about her dressmaking scheme (she’d been quite honest with him about her past, not moved by his own confessional spirit so much as wanting to give him some token to prepare the way toward a mutual trustfulness. He hadn’t been shocked by her disclosure of the affair with Goodfellow in Cairo. He thought it unfortunate: it seemed to have given her some quaint and romantic views about espionage). He picked up the shears, turned them over in his hands. They were long and glittering. The ripple edges would make a nasty wound. He raised his eyes to those of his reflection with an inquiring look. The reflection smiled dolefully. “No,” he said aloud. “Not yet.”