It also does not apply to Françoise. You must know, Maman, that I am more convinced than when I last wrote to you that she has cancer. Her breasts are now more discoloured, deformed, and grotesque than ever. I cannot describe the obscenity that now disfigures her once beautiful form. I also believe that the cancer has spread to her kidneys, as she is beginning to urinate blood and she is permanently exhausted. She is as pale and insubstantial as a ghost in this country where everyone else is deep-roasted by the sun!
But there is nothing I can do! She believes only in ‘natural’ medicines and in her faith-healer back in Toulouse who cured her of migraines fifteen years ago. I have tried earnestly to persuade her to let me take her to a doctor in the capital, or even to her faith-healer in Toulouse, but she steadfastly refuses. Instead she has written to him to heal her from a distance, since she says that that is perfectly feasible. The man has sent me a bill for ten thousand francs already! As you know, Maman, my farm brings me in the equivalent of twenty francs a day, which makes me a very rich man by local standards, but a pauper by the standards of France. The fact is that I cannot possibly pay the man, quite apart from the sheer difficulty of going hundreds of kilometres to a town where I can actually arrange an international money order.
The hunter told me that the only cure for cancer that he knows is to eat a freshly-killed coral snake raw. Imagine! And you have to do it every week! These snakes are lethally venomous and people kill them on sight, so they are not as common as they once were. Nevertheless, I offered rewards for live coral snakes and I now have a couple of months’ supply in a large wooden crate. We killed the first one and Françoise did manage to eat it at great pain to her conscience, as she has now been a vegetarian for many years. She said it was not as vile as she had anticipated and the cancer did seem to retreat. However, she has refused to eat any more snakes as she says that she has to stick to her vegetarian principles, and to be honest, Maman, I think that really she wants to die.
After all, she only came out here to be with me on the rebound, so to speak, and we never found the kind of happiness we might have had the right to expect from a marriage. She misses not being able to do her pottery; I did build her a pottery recently but we cannot find any clay and we cannot possibly fuel a kiln either. She also finds the peasants unspeakably crude and venial. I got used to it long ago and adapted to it, and she does not like that either. Also the humidity of the rainy season reduces her to abject misery. To make matters worse a rift has come between us over matters of the body. I am so repelled, and she is so humiliated and ashamed by her condition that all marital congress ceased long ago, at about the time of her last miscarriage.
I wish I could end this letter with some happier news, but I am afraid that there is yet more bad news to come.
I have been visited by the guerrillas of the People’s Liberation Force. They arrived on Thursday night as we were all sitting out after dinner, and I have never seen a more ruffianly bunch. There were three of them in khaki with their shirts undone. They all had shaggy black beards and wild hair, and every one of them was draped with so much armament and ammunition that you would not think they could walk at all. However, they were surprisingly polite, which does not make their demands any more reasonable.
They gave me one week to deliver a quarter of a million dollars in cash to them! I could not possibly explain to you how shocked and astonished I was! I was so amazed that despite shivering with fear I could not help bursting out laughing; thus it was their turn to be surprised. I tried to explain to them that European origin does not automatically signify immense wealth, that I earned only a few pesos a day, and that my wife was too ill for me to leave her at all. When they saw her they at least believed me on that score. In the end they agreed that I should supply them with food now and again. I know this is absolutely wrong and that I should refuse to deal with them at all but in fact I have no choice. The police force here does not in any real sense exist; I had to bribe a magistrate to have a man who stole my donkey arrested, and it was sheer chance that the animal found its own way home over fifty kilometres. Nor can I go to the Army for protection; they are grossly incompetent and their presence would instantly ensure my death at the hands of the guerrillas. The Army have already indulged in two minor massacres near here and the local population would probably kill me if I invited it to come and protect us. Certainly they would not trade with me and I would lose fifteen years’ worth of trust and good will overnight. Also I am considerably more afraid of the Army than of the guerrillas, as the latter at least have some ideals and a lot more discipline. The guerrillas have a system of paper credits for everything they take, and promise to redeem them ‘after the victory’; the good thing about this is that you can use the credits as currency around here, so that if I am only supplying food I would actually make a decent profit, which would not be the case if I was giving them money.
However, Françoise and I are terrified that they might decide to kidnap the children now that they know where we are. Recently they (a different group, I hear) kidnapped Constanza Evans for a ransom of half a million dollars, and her tenants celebrated for three days amid scenes of the most indescribable lewdness and exaggerated revelry. I know she was a bad landlord but it just goes to show that one cannot automatically count on the loyalty of one’s workforce.
Therefore Françoise and I decided to send Jean, Pierre, and Marie to stay indefinitely with friends in the capital. At first they refused to go at all. They are real country children and the thought of being away from their beloved horses, dogs and cats, and not being able to swim in the river or tease the alligators (I always tell them not to) caused a lot of tears and protests. I did my best to explain to them that they were in great danger, but that made them even more reluctant to go, in case anything happened to Françoise and me. Eventually Marie donned the mantle of eldest child and agreed to go, so then the other two also gave in, and I took them away last week. The train took two days, and the journey was just appalling. The tracks are so roughly laid that they have to import especially sprung seats to make travelling bearable. Consequently you bounce up and down like some demented trampolinist and ordinary behaviour is impossible. At first the children thought it was hilarious and were acting like idiots trying to bounce even higher, but then they were all sick more or less at once and we could not find anyone to clear it up so it just lay there and stank until somebody’s dog came along and ate it, at which point I was sick as well. We lived on arepas and I hope that they are not now as constipated as I am.
There was also, Maman, a dreadful accident on the train. You know how the girls here always ape American fashions? Well, there was a mulatta girl on the train in high heels and I suspect she had had too many beers – we all had, in the effort to cool off-and she fell out of the side of the train. It seems that the train lurched just as she was passing from one carriage to the next, and she toppled over sideways on her heels. There is no concertina there to stop you falling out, so out she fell. The train stopped and went backwards, and they carried her into our carriage.
I do not, Maman, have the words to describe the horror of the scene. She had lost all the flesh down the left side of her body by ricocheting along the stones of the embankment, and we could clearly see all her bones. There was blood dripping from her body, but we could do nothing for her as there were no hospitals for hundreds of kilometres and no such thing as an ambulance or a telephone with which to summon one. She would not lose consciousness and all she did was lie there crying silently for two hours until she died. When that happened we were all thankful on her behalf, but there ensued at least another two hours’ worth of weeping and hysterical wailing on the part of everyone in the carriage. You would think we had all known her for years, although all we knew was that she was called Maria. The children were very badly shaken, and they had no tears left with which to wish me farewell.
The farm now seems like a mortuary; when I got back everything was silent and still, and I realised it wa
s because the children were not here, shouting and fooling about and squabbling amongst themselves. I went into their room and I sat on Pierre’s bed and wept with the sorrow of it all.
Maman, I feel as empty as a cave and as desolate as a desert. When I first came to this country I was brimming with optimism and energy, and I was determined to carve myself a good life after that fracas I caused in France. Back then at least this country had some semblance of democracy, before the violence, and there was a little culture to be found to remind me of home. One could actually go to the capital and hear a fine orchestra, or see a good play, or stroll down an avenue without getting mauled on all sides by begging lepers. There was some prosperity then, but now there is two hundred per cent inflation and it appears that all money goes to pay interest on foreign debts. Nowadays the government just strips its assets and everything goes to ruin. Honestly, Maman, you would not believe what a mess everything is, it makes me sick to the heart, you cannot buy the most elementary necessities, and even my plans to mechanise the farm have had to be shelved because although you can buy the machinery from the Casa Inglesa for preposterous sums, you simply cannot buy spare parts anywhere. The people here have developed an incredible ability to improvise with almost nothing and the only way the peasants keep going is by cultivating cocaine and marijuana, which has made everyone dishonest. The prostitutes (forgive me for mentioning them) become younger and younger, and everyone lives in fear of assault and robbery.
And yet I still feel, ma chère Maman, how glorious this country is, and how romantic. Even the moon is four times the size of that of France, and the birds and butterflies are indescribably beautiful and joyously coloured. The people too are brightly arrayed and seemingly always laughing and delighted. The soil is fertile and we even have emeralds and oil, but it seems nothing ever comes of it. People here help each other out for nothing, and yet no official will ever move a finger without a bribe – isn’t that a contradiction? They love all mankind, these people, but kill each other with not a moment’s thought!
I think, all in all, that it will break my heart when I have to leave, as one day I will surely have to. I love it here, so much, and I have put fifteen years of toil and sweat into improving my portion of it. I have even managed to continue to love Françoise, who has never forgiven me for not being Jean-Michel, and who has often made me unhappy. I detest the thought that I may have to leave her body in this soil. If she dies, Maman, as I know in my bones she will soon – no, don’t click your tongue and reproach me for being morbid! – I am resolved to sell everything I have – but who would buy this land in what is becoming a war zone? – and return to France with the coffin. This country which I have grown to love, and even, God knows how, to respect, is causing me too much grief and I cannot bear its cruelty much longer. When I die, Maman, I hope that although my body rest in France, my heart be buried here.
I do not know if you will get this letter. You cannot buy stamps here any more and so you have to give the letter and some money to buy stamps with to the train driver when the train passes through Chiriguana. In these straitened times I do not know if I can rely on his honesty.
I give you many kisses and always remember you.
Your son,
Antoine.
P.S. I have just heard an explosion. I wonder what it is?
18
* * *
THE PEOPLE’S LIBERATION FORCE CONFOUNDS THE PEOPLE’S VANGUARD AND THE NATIONAL ARMY IN ONE STROKE
ON THURSDAY 14TH MARCH, a very weary campesino, covered with pale dust and sweating prodigiously, arrived on his mule at the secret encampment of the People’s Liberation Force, which was situated in a small valley accessible only through a narrow defile, which was heavily guarded at all times.
On either side of the valley rose sheer walls of rock; the guerrillas had, by observing the local wild goats, worked out how it was possible for them to leave the valley by ascent if necessary, in the complete confidence that any pursuers would not be able to follow them. In the event of any incursion by the Army into the valley, the guerrillas planned to pick them off from above, having blown up the passage through the defile, for which purpose they had strategically placed two barrels of dynamite. This dynamite they had bought from the government Inspectorate of Mines by posing as gold prospectors. They had produced a document showing proof of ownership of the ‘find’, drawn up by a guerrilla who had once been a lawyer, and had offered the official five per cent of profits for life in return for plentiful supplies of free dynamite. Generally they used the dynamite for blowing holes in banks so that they could use the money for paying off the ‘five per cent of profits’ to the official, but the remainder they used for the revolution.
The People’s Liberation Force were mainly a demolition group, whereas, for example, the People’s Vanguard were mainly an ambushing group, the People’s Liberation Front dealt mostly with kidnapping, the Popular Action Front specialised in blackmail and extortion, and the Revolutionary Socialists in assassinating important people. The People’s Liberation Force probably chose their particular speciality because it was one of the safest; there is, after all, very little danger in planting bombs and then retreating to a safe distance. They apparently never perceived that you cannot help alleviate the plight of the masses by destroying the infrastructure built up painfully slowly for their benefit on what little national wealth remained. But however paradoxical their behaviour, what happened to them was simply according to a general rule that applies to all mankind. This rule is that people always think that if they are very expert at something, that thing must therefore be extremely important. The People’s Liberation Force were expert with explosives, and therefore they thought that what they did was crucial.
Their little valley in the mountains was densely wooded and well watered, and the guerrillas lived a life of Arcadian simplicity and leisure, only venturing forth when one of them had a good idea about what to blow up next. The old campesino on the mule, who was their ‘eyes’ in Valledupar, had arrived with an excellent idea, and he went with it straight to the commander of the group, who was known appropriately as ‘El Golpe’.
El Golpe had once been a Montonero guerrilla in Argentina, but had left when General Videla’s campaign of terror had got out of even Videla’s control, and anyone who even looked left wing was ‘disappeared’. El Golpe had seen for himself how futile it is to attempt, as a guerrilla, to confront a highly disciplined, numerous, ruthless, and fanatical enemy, and he had therefore come to this country to wage war on a more vulnerable enemy – one that was numerous, ruthless, fanatical, undisciplined and incompetent. El Golpe was proud of the fact that he looked very like Ernesto Guevara, with his gentle eyes and black beard that would never grow as abundantly as Fidel’s, and there was something about this similarity to Che that inspired in his men a warm respect and fierce devotion. Most of them tried to imitate his Italianate Argentinian accent and his fluid gait.
What the campesino told El Golpe was that a soldier in a bar had been heard saying that he and his battalion were going to Chiriguana to suppress a local rebellion and were intending to encamp on the savannah on the northern side of the Mula. As the peasant said, ‘Chiriguana is not far to go from here, and there must be something you can blow up.’ El Golpe immediately realised what that ‘something’ was, and went off to find two of his most expert demolishers.
He found them sitting side by side on the river bank with their feet in the water, involved in an earnest conversation about aphrodisiacs. ‘I tell you,’ one of them was saying, ‘she gave me no rest for a month . . .’
‘In my case it was two months, and I came near to death.’
‘You two,’ interrupted El Golpe, coming up from behind and placing a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘I have a little job for you.’ And he explained carefully what it was. That evening they loaded a donkey with dynamite and set out through the defile.
‘Buena suerte!’ called the guard.
‘We need no luck,�
� replied one of the men, ‘this one’s simple.’
‘Well, good luck anyway. If you find a willing girl, give her one for me!’
‘No, my friend, I would not wish to infect her with one of your diseases.’
‘May she give you one of hers, then!’
At about the same time Gonzago, Rafael and Tomas were setting off with General Fuerte’s burra, Maria, to collect Don Hugh’s ransom money, which was due to be deposited the next day. The plan was that they should lie in wait in the scrub near the bridge in order to observe all movement for several hours both before and after Don Hugh left the money. In this way they could ensure that they were not going to walk into an ambush, and they would be able to see Don Hugh coming and going and make sure that he was unaccompanied.
They arrived just before dawn and selected a good spot in which to conceal themselves, with a clear view of the bridge and the road that crossed it.
The bridge was a simple ferro-concrete structure of the cheapest and most serviceable kind. It arched at either end and was supported by four concrete pillars, evenly spaced at intervals, which were set on piles sunk into the river bed. It had been built in the first place by a United Nations Team as part of a long-forgotten development aid project, and its original function had been to prevent the loss of vehicles incurred by foolhardy lorry-drivers attempting to ford the river during the floods brought on by the rainy season. Before the road from Valledupar to the capital was opened, the bridge had been on the main commercial arterial route from the sea-ports, and during the floods commerce had almost always come to a halt. But now it had fallen from its former glory and its users were mainly local people on foot or on horseback; and consequently it was in a very poor state of repair. The tarmac had been squashed up sideways by vehicles passing over it during the midday heat, and was badly oroken up. The original designers had not catered for the stupendous humidity and heat of the region so that now, twenty-five neglected years after its construction, the concrete was soggy and flaky, and huge lumps of it had fallen off into the river below. Additionally, the fierce current of the Mula, which in full spate was capable of carrying large stones hurtling along with it, had largely eroded the arches and pillars. Any heavy vehicles which had passed that way in recent times usually chose to ford the river as in former times, rather than risk the bridge, and, as in former times, the river now contained the rusty hulks of partly salvaged and pirated lorries.
The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts Page 15
