The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts

by Louis de Bernières

  The General, still dressed in his peasant clothes, looking old and weary, was brought out into the clearing. The guerrilleros lounged about on the grass, some of them unashamedly dozing, and Remedios had her table brought out from her hut. She seated herself before it, cleared her throat portentously, and rapped the table with the butt of her revolver. ‘The Court will come to order,’ she said. ‘The Court is in session. Franco, you will speak first.’

  Franco arose, spat, and said, ‘The son of a whore commands the army in this area, and every one of us knows what that means. I shouldn’t need to tell you what has been happening around here, and it appears that the only one who pretends not to know is the commander. The army committed a massacre in Federico’s village, for example, just because they stopped the soldiers from raping a young girl, and, talking of rape . . .’ he turned furiously on the General . . .‘your soldiers even hold down the little boys and girls and sodomise them!’ The General winced.

  ‘In this department, to my certain knowledge,’ continued Franco, ‘the Army have ransacked fifteen villages, one of them twice. They have murdered teachers, doctors and priests. I also know that they run profiteering rackets with marijuana and cocaine, we all know this. They steal as they please, when they please, and they commit regular brutalities so often and so cruelly that ordinary peasants like us, and intellectuals like Remedios, and even priests like Garcia are forced to fly their homes and take up arms.’ He pointed his finger furiously at the General. ‘And this is the man who is responsible for all this! Is it not obvious that he should die?’

  The General was visibly agitated. Garcia spoke: ‘I think the General would like to say something.’

  With quiet dignity the General said, ‘I know nothing of all this. I have always taken this kind of talk as idle propaganda and I still think so. I would like to hear from you all these stories, however, and if I am released I will undertake honourably to repair these wrongs, if they exist, and bring to justice those who committed them. I reformed the police force in Valledupar, and I would do the same with my soldiers. Let me say, I have always acted on the information I have received. It is not my fault if I received misleading information, you cannot blame me for that. It would break my heart if I were obliged to begin to have to believe that the Army, which is my life, and which I love, could have done these things.’

  ‘But it is not just the Army!’ interrupted Franco, still furious. ‘You are governor of all Cesar. You want us to believe that you are honourable and decent, but look around you! I will tell you things that every peasant knows! There is no justice unless you are rich, for nothing can be done in law without bribing judges and magistrates, and before them, the police, if you can find them. All over this department officials will do nothing without bribes, and even then they are idle and evasive! Everywhere you look there is poverty! Why? Because local officials divert all public funds into their own pockets! It is a national scandal that lies heavily upon us with a weight of shame. Dishonesty is a way of life here, and you, General, are presiding over it! What can your decency and honour be worth before all of this? What can your life be worth?’

  ‘My life is worth nothing,’ replied the General. ‘I have toiled all my life for the motherland, and with God’s help I shall die toiling for it!’

  ‘You shall die because you have done nothing for it, strutting about in your fancy uniform, going to your dinner parties, writing books on butterflies while your people perish! You disgust me!’ Franco spoke with such scorn that when he had finished there was a long moment of silence.

  ‘Come now, Franco,’ said Garcia gently, ‘do you seriously expect the General to put right immediately four hundred years of custom? You know as I do, Franco, that this country was conquered by barbarians, greedy illiterates who destroyed ancient civilisations. Today we are governed by the families of those who descended from them, only they are not illiterate any more. In this country it has always been as you describe, a Christian country where God never shows his face, a country where He is ashamed to walk among us! All this is not the fault of the General. And who are you, Franco, to talk of justice? There is no justice even in this court! All of you want to see the General shot, and you will all say “guilty” when the time comes, even if you know in your hearts that he is a deluded innocent! Is that justice? In civilised countries one is tried by one’s equals. Which of us is equal to the General? He is a man of culture and honour, as all of us can see. According to the constitution of this country, which I admit is observed least frequently by the government, the General should be tried by a military court. Is this a military court? He should be tried by his equals. Are we generals? No, we are not.’

  ‘Remedios is our general, and we are all soldiers,’ replied Franco. ‘And the constitution means nothing, as we all know. I am talking not about what justice is in the law books which no one reads, I am talking about the justice of the heart, which we can all read.

  ‘And also, I want to say something else which is important to us. This dog Fuerte is a member of the government, appointed to direct the affairs of this department, without even being elected! Our government is the puppet of a foreign power . . . after all, where does the money come from? Who regulates the trade? We know who it is who does these things! Listen to my reasons. Our government works for foreigners, Fuerte works for the government, and therefore Fuerte works for foreigners. He works not for us, not for his motherland, but for the gringos. And what is the name of a military man who works for foreigners? It is “traitor”. And what is the penalty for traitors? It is death!’

  Many of the guerrillas were pleased with this speech. ‘Bravo!’ called one of them. ‘To death,’ called another. General Fuerte signalled to Remedios that he wished to speak, and she nodded. Wearily he spoke.

  ‘You are mistaken. I have never worked for the Americans. It is the Americans who work for us. They give us money, more money than you can imagine, and they help us to build roads and bridges and hospitals that we could not otherwise build. I have been to America, many times, and I find people who are rich, generous, friendly, hospitable, decent and honest. The Americans are not our enemies, they are our friends. Powerful friends. This country would not run at all without their help.’

  Remedios spoke. ‘I too have been to America, when I was a student. I saw things in the poor parts of American cities that make the favelas look civilised.’

  ‘The judge is not supposed to give evidence or venture opinions,’ said Garcia.

  Remedios shot him a withering look, ‘I rule that my evidence is necessary and relevant.’

  Franco said, ‘But what is the price we pay for this “help”?’ He spoke the word with the utmost sarcasm, and spat afterwards. ‘Sure, the gringonchos invest money, lots of it, but where are the profits? Where do they go? Do they go to the workers they employ? No, they do not. Do they stay in this country? No. So what happens? They take everything from us, and nothing is returned. They are leaving us naked. How else do they “help”?’ He spat again. ‘They train our soldiers to kill those of us who want things to be fair. I have heard this, that the gringos have a camp where they train our soldiers how to resist torture. Why do they do this? Do the guerrilleros torture soldiers? No. So what happens? In fact our soldiers learn from the gringos how to be torturers, because they are told by the gringos about the many varieties of it. And why do they give us so much brotherly “help”? So we learn to depend on it, and then they can control us like a father controls a little boy. Our government and our oligarchy behave to the gringos like I used to to my mother when I wanted a piece of panela!’ He put on a baby voice, whining and cute, ‘Mamacita, mamacita, gimme some panela, please mamacita, I promise I’ll be good!’ The guerrilleros laughed, and General Fuerte smiled. ‘There is a little truth in your words,’ he said, ‘but it is better for the gringo to pay a hundred pesos a day to a hundred workers in a mine they have opened, than for one hundred men to earn nothing a day from a mine that has never been opened because no one
thought of looking for one.’

  ‘Our government opens no mines because they sell all concessions abroad,’ rejoined Franco, ‘to get money. And why do they need money? Why do they have no money to open mines? Because all profits go abroad so that gringos can sit in the shade all day and grow huge backsides!’ The men laughed; gringos were famous for their fat backsides.

  ‘I want to speak,’ said one of them. Remedios nodded her permission.

  ‘I have a cousin in Bolivia. He works in the mines and he earns almost nothing, and he is dying from diseases of the lungs. He breathes like an old dog and he is thirty years old. He is poor because if they put up the price of tin, everything will be made of plastic instead. The foreigners catch us in such traps and we are poor forever.’

  Remedios rapped her table with the butt of her revolver. ‘This court has wandered far from the point, which is whether or not the General is guilty of crimes against civilisation. It is growing very hot, and we have talked a long time. I think it is time we came to a conclusion before we melt into lard. Do you have anything more to say, Franco?’

  Franco shook his head. ‘I am tired of speaking. I have said everything.’

  ‘And you, Garcia, what do you say?’

  ‘Companeros,’ said Garcia, ‘there are two questions. One is whether General Fuerte is responsible for what has happened in this department, and the other is whether it is his fault. He is the governor, and so he is responsible. But I do not think it is his fault. If he did not know what was happening, it cannot be his fault, and so he is innocent.’

  ‘It is his fault because he should have known!’ blurted Franco angrily. ‘And how do we know that he did not know? We have only his word, which is worth nothing because he is afraid of death.’

  General Fuerte could not contain himself. ‘I? I afraid of death! Senora Remedios, I will with your permission take your gun and blow my own brains out and you will see that I have not feared to tell the truth because I fear death! Give me your gun!’

  Remedios stood up slowly and hesitantly handed him the gun, butt first. The General took it and looked at it. He passed it from one hand to the other, as though weighing it.

  ‘This is a military pistol,’ he said, looking up at Remedios. ‘I suppose the original owner is dead.’

  Remedios smiled, ‘No, he left it behind when he ran away.’

  The General smiled gently and looked around him, as if to say farewell to the world and all its pain and beauty. He glanced up at the sun. ‘It is a fine day to die,’ he said, ‘I am very glad it is not raining.’

  He raised the pistol and pointed it towards the roof of Remedios’ hut. The men, as of one mind, raised their weapons and aimed them at him, all thinking that he was about to try to shoot his way out. The General smiled gently again, closed his eyes, and placed the gun against his temple. He stood there for a few seconds, and the men watched in horrified fascination as his finger slowly took up first pressure. Then his eyes opened suddenly and he said, ‘Forgive me, I have forgotten to make confession. I wish to confess to Father Garcia, I cannot die an unhallowed death.’

  Everyone was both relieved and annoyed. ‘Garcia,’ snapped Remedios, ‘confess him, but be quick, before the sun kills all of us.’

  On his knees, the General said, ‘Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I have thought and done evil things . . .’

  ‘Under the circumstances, I think you can spare the details,’ said Garcia, and with his finger he made the sign of the cross upon the forehead of the General. ‘Absolvo te. Go my child and sin no more.’ He bent down and whispered in the General’s ear, ‘Stay there.’

  He walked off purposefully towards his hut, and the General remained kneeling in the sun, his head bowed. A moment later Garcia reappeared with a maize tortilla, a tin mug, and a bottle. He made the sign of the cross with his index finger and forefinger over the tortilla, muttered some words, and broke a little piece off. He placed it softly on the General’s tongue. ‘The body of Christ, which is given for you. Eat this in remembrance of me.’ The General withdrew his tongue and swallowed the bread with difficulty. Some of the men crossed themselves.

  Garcia poured some cane rum from the bottle into the tin mug, and blessed it with the sign of the cross. He tipped the mug against the General’s lips and said, ‘The blood of Christ which was shed for you. Drink this in remembrance of me.’ Again, some of the men crossed themselves. Garcia placed his hand a little above the General’s head, and the General distinctly felt a kind of healing warmth come from it. Garcia prayed a moment, and then looked down at the General. ‘Die in peace,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ The General rose to his feet and placed them firmly apart. Once more he closed his eyes and slowly raised the weapon to his temple. Firmly he took up first pressure, and Garcia signalled frantically to Remedios that she should stop him. She shook her head vehemently.

  General Fuerte pulled the trigger, remembering his training all those years ago. ‘Squeeze, don’t snatch! Squeeze, don’t snatch!’ He remembered the little corporal who had drilled them in weapons training. ‘This is the hammer, this is the chamber, this is the breech-block. The weapon must be kept scrupulously clean or it may jam or the barrel may burst and blow your balls off. I shall inspect your weapons every day, and if they are not as clean as a nun’s underwear I shall blow your balls off myself!’

  The General’s soul was already halfway out of his body when it jerked back again. Nothing had happened, except for a click. He looked at the gun in puzzlement, and flicked back the release catch. As the men burst out of their silence into wondering chatter, he opened the gun and looked into the revolving chamber.

  He looked at Remedios reproachfully. ‘It is empty. You have put me through all this for nothing. Why did you do this?’

  ‘I am not a barbarian, and I have no wish to see anyone blow their own head off.’ She smiled. ‘Also, I am not an idiot, I’m not the kind of fool who bangs a loaded revolver on the table with the barrel pointing straight at myself, nor would I hand it loaded to a prisoner. Kindly credit me with a little intelligence.’

  The General smiled wryly, and Remedios took the gun back from him and banged it on the table. ‘I want you all to go and sit in the shade somewhere and discuss whether the verdict is guilty or not guilty. You will come back here after siesta and tell the court your decision. Do not forget to appoint a foreman.’

  The men trooped off to the shade of a huge caracolee tree and fell into hot discussion. General Fuerte turned to Garcia as the priest led him back to the hut that served as his very insecure prison. ‘That cane rum tasted foul. I nearly choked.’

  Garcia smiled. ‘The taste of blood is not good either, my friend. Remember it was blood you drank.’

  ‘It was sweet to be about to die,’ replied the General. ‘I will always remember that.’

  When the court reconvened the General was brought out again. ‘What is your decision?’ demanded Remedios from the foreman, an ex-tractor-driver from Asuncion.

  ‘We decided sort-of-guilty and sort-of-not-guilty,’ he said, grinning with embarrassment and scratching his head.

  Remedios raised her eyes to heaven and tapped her fingers on the table. ‘That is not helpful,’ she enunciated slowly, emphasising the ‘not’.

  ‘It is our decision,’ said the foreman, more bravely. ‘He is sort of guilty and also sort of not guilty, so that had to be our verdict. But we don’t want you to shoot him. Tiene cojones. We don’t want a man who is brave to die like a dog.’

  ‘In that case,’ announced Remedios, ‘I will pass sentence.’ She turned to look at the General, who had listened to the foreman with one eyebrow raised. ‘General Fuerte, you have been found “sort of guilty” and also “sort of not guilty”. For the “sort of not guilty” I disallow a capital sentence. For the “sort of guilty” I sentence you to be detained by us until I think what to do with you. The court is finished. We have to prepare for the return of Gloria, Tomas, Rafael and Gonzago wit
h another captive. The General will have company.’

  Remedios indicated to two men to return her desk and chair to her hut, and then she turned to the General and approached him. ‘What do you think of the verdict, General? It is not one you would hear in a “real” court, is it?’

  The General smiled and passed his hand above his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But maybe they are right. I realise that I have done nothing wrong. I have always done my best, with good conscience. If I am guilty it is because I have not done enough.’

  ‘Know thyself,’ said Remedios, placing her hand on his shoulder.

  The General laughed ironically; ‘I do not think I will ever have the opportunity to do enough, anyway.’

  ‘I might ransom you,’ said Remedios.

  16

  * * *

  DONA CONSTANZA RECEIVES AN UNWELCOME SURPRISE

  AT THE SAME that General Fuerte was being tried for crimes against civilisation, and at the same time that Comandante, or rather Colonel (as he was now) Figueras was setting out with a battalion of men from Valledupar, four guerrilleros from Remedios’ group were descending from the mountains with a very special mission, and Dona Constanza was again reading her three-year-old copy of Vogue. For all of these people the heat was stupendously oppressive and all conversation was restricted to the repetition of a single phrase, ‘Ay, el calor!’ The four guerrilleros hurried from the shade of one tree to the next and from one stream to another for a drink. The soldiers jolted along in the back of the lorries, their heads hanging miserably, their foreheads cascading with sweat. It ran down their arms and into the mechanisms of their M.16s; it ran prickling and tingling from their crotches down into their boots; it formed crosses on their backs which grew into soaking dark sodden patches on their shirts, which then dried into salt about the edges; it ran down from their hair into their eyes so that there was not one of them who did not squint against the stinging and shake their head and blink. When the lorries stopped for the men to urinate, the urine was the darkest yellow and pungent, and some found they had no water left in them with which to micturate.