The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts

by Louis de Bernières

  ‘So if we do not shoot the gringos,’ said Josef, ‘we can still shoot the officers?’

  ‘If you can tell who they are,’ replied Don Emmanuel, ‘but they have a reputation for leading from behind, and in any case, that too would be a mistake.’

  ‘And I suppose you will tell us why,’ interjected Hectoro, who was becoming impatient.

  ‘Yes, Hectoro, that too is simple. They are the sons of the oligarchy, that’s why. If you kill them alone, the oligarchy will mobilise every last centavo, every last soldier, every last policeman, and they will use the foulest and most desperate means against you. I advise you simply to wound them, in which case they will have to go home, they are heroes, and everyone is happy. Mama cries with joy over her returning son. If you kill him, she cries for revenge and threatens to withdraw her funds from the Conservative party unless drastic action is taken.’ Don Emmanuel laughed to himself. ‘Now may I make some suggestions?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Pedro. ‘But do not make any more jokes about testicles. All this is very serious.’

  ‘I think,’ said Don Emmanuel, ‘that you should find ways of making them miserable. Poison the water in the places where they drink. I have a dead steer I would be glad to lend you if you would like to immerse it in the Mula. Also, I advise you to piss and shit in the Mula as much as possible, below the village of course. Sell them meat and fruit with rat poison in it, just enough to make them vomit a lot. I think you should frighten them too. Most soldiers are afraid of the dark. I am sure you can think of something. Also I have done a little something for you myself. And I confess it has something to do with testicles.’ His eyes twinkled with amusement. The four men waited.

  ‘It concerns a pretty little whore in Chiriguana, called Felicidad.’

  ‘A very fine whore,’ said Hectoro.

  ‘Indeed. I discovered from the doctor in Chiriguana, at the clinic, that Felicidad has been to Barranquilla and has picked up a fine dose of the clap, and also a little touch of syphilis. I have given her four thousand pesos to wait two weeks before she has the injections, on one condition.’

  ‘Upon what condition, Don Emmanuel? I hope you are not playing with us!’ exclaimed Hectoro, who was still impatient, and was shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘Upon the condition that she enter into the Army camp all full of enthusiasm for the conquering heroes, and sleeps with as many officers and gringo advisers as she can manage. I think that within a month most of the officers and gringos will have pretty little chancres on their palomas, and possibly also in their mouths, and they will have pus dripping also from them. Within a month, when they urinate they will feel as though they are pissing broken glass, and I think they will withdraw rapidly to Valledupar to attend the military hospital.’

  The four men began to laugh, and Don Emmanuel broke into a happy grin. ‘I thought you would be pleased.’

  As they walked back to the village Hectoro said, ‘All the same, it will be difficult to resist the temptation to shoot a gringo.’

  ‘I think I will shoot just one, for the satisfaction,’ responded Misael.

  ‘And I will shoot just one officer, in the legs,’ said Pedro.

  ‘But,’ said Josef, ‘we still have one month at least of the Army, even if Don Emmanuel’s plan works. We have still got one month in which we will have to fight, and that is a very long time. I think we should take the fight to them so that they do not come to the village and destroy our homes and our fields. I think we should attack them first.’

  ‘I will go,’ said Pedro. ‘I am a hunter. I know many ways to kill and not to be seen, God forgive me for it. I will go to Chiriguana.’

  Thoughtfully, Hectoro said, ‘And I too will go to Chiriguana. I must go to the doctor in any case.’

  Misael looked concerned. ‘You are ill, Hectoro?’

  ‘Not yet, but I would like to be sure. I had a fine time last week, with Felicidad.’

  20

  * * *

  THE INNOCENTS

  AURELIO AROSE JUST before dawn and put on his clothes. He stirred the embers of the previous night’s fire and added to it a little dry grass. When that flared up he added bark and twigs, and very soon the delicious smell of frying cassava was wafting out over the clearing and into the trees. In the woods the animals were stirring, and their calls reminded him with a pang of how Parlanchina had once delighted him with her impersonations. He stood in the doorway of the hut and looked out over to the mound where the girl lay in peace; ‘Good morning, my sweet one,’ he said, and he heard her chattering gaily and saw her striding towards him. ‘Buena’ dia’, Papacito,’ said Parlanchina, and she kissed him on the cheek before she disappeared, her long hair swaying. Before she went into the trees she looked over her shoulder and smiled gently.

  Aurelio always saw Parlanchina at this time of the morning, and usually they spoke a few words together. Once she had come to him when he stood by the river waiting to spear a fish; she had touched him on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Tell me your real name.’

  Aurelio had turned to see her laughing at him, and he had reached out to her. She touched his fingers to her cheeks, and kissed them, and she had laughed again and said, ‘I know your real name, now, anyway. But to me you are always Papacito, and I will not say your name in case anyone hears.’

  ‘Parlanchina . . .’ he had begun to say, but she had touched her finger to his lips and had faded away. It always filled him with the most exquisite sadness when she left him. He had wanted to ask her if the cat was still with her.

  Carmen stirred in her hammock. ‘Querido, why are you doing my work? It is for me to make breakfast. You should not change the order of our lives, it brings bad luck.’

  Aurelio turned and walked over to her hammock. He looked into her sleepy eyes and laughed ironically. ‘The order of our lives is changed already.’

  ‘Have you spoken with Gwubba?’ asked Carmen.

  ‘We have spoken.’

  ‘Why do I not see her? Why does she not speak with me?’

  ‘It is always so,’ said Aurelio. ‘A son appears to his mother and a daughter to her father. If we had had a son, he would have come to you and I would have seen nothing. And besides, I am an Indian. Spirits appear naturally to us. To your kind they must be summoned by spells, and the white man refuses to see them anyway.’

  Carmen reflected a moment. ‘I am sad that I do not see her. Aurelio?’

  ‘Carmencita?’

  ‘How do I find my real name if I have never known it?’

  ‘You do not need one,’ replied Aurelio. ‘You are not an Indian. Your afterworld is not the same.’

  ‘And if I want to be with you?’

  ‘Then,’ said Aurelio, ‘someone must tell you your real name. But I cannot; I do not know it.’

  ‘Gwubba was not an Indian,’ said Carmen, ‘and she had a real name.’

  ‘You will have yours, if you want it,’ said Aurelio.

  They squatted in the gentle light of the dawn and ate the cassava in silence. Then, without a word, Aurelio stood up and walked off to find the path where Parlanchina had met her brutal death. When he reached the path she was waiting for him, tall and beautiful, and in her arms she bore the cat. She smiled at her father and put the cat down. It strolled away, its tail waving in the undergrowth. Fondly, Aurelio watched it disappear. ‘Are you coming with me?’ asked Aurelio.

  ‘No, Papacito. I am staying to watch.’

  Aurelio stood on the path a second, gathering his energy and purpose for the long walk into the cordillera, and then he strode off, keeping a sharp eye open for any new mines with their tell-tale triple antennae. He tried mostly to keep to the side of the path.

  Four hours later he walked with dignity into the centre of the camp and sat down. The guerrilleros gathered around him, astonished by his effrontery, mesmerised by his exotic appearance, and curious about what he was doing. Aurelio was engaged in dropping coca leaves and snail shells into the neck of his gourd. With the skill of many y
ears of habit he rapidly crushed and pounded them with deft movements of the pestle, and then he stuck the pestle into his mouth and looked up at the men and women who surrounded him, some pointing their weapons. ‘I would speak with the woman who is your leader.’

  The warriors looked at each other, surprised.

  ‘How do you know our leader is a woman?’ demanded Franco. ‘Are you a spy?’

  ‘I do not know the word,’ replied Aurelio. ‘I have eyes.’

  ‘How do you know we are here?’ asked Federico, who had always believed that the encampment was a secret to all the world.

  ‘I live in the jungle below,’ said Aurelio. ‘I have always known. I have something important to tell the woman. I have something that all of you should know, if you would live.’

  Federico ran off to fetch Remedios, who came more out of curiosity than a sense of urgency. ‘Here is the woman,’ said Aurelio, and gravely he stood up and faced her. ‘I have news, if you would save your life.’

  Remedios sensed that it behoved her to listen with respect to this old man with the wispy beard and the outlandish costume of a foreign Indian. ‘Speak,’ she said, and put her hands on her hips as she listened.

  ‘The soldiers have hidden sudden-death-by-thunder on the path you take through the jungle when you go to the savannah. You must make another path.’

  ‘Sudden-death-by-thunder?’ asked Remedios. ‘What is that?’

  ‘They are dishes,’ said Aurelio, ‘that are hidden in the ground. When the feet press upon them the legs and the body are flayed and broken. You must make another path.’

  ‘He means mines,’ said Garcia, shocked. ‘They have planted mines!’

  ‘Mines,’ repeated Aurelio slowly. ‘Is that another name?’

  Remedios nodded. ‘Sudden-death-by-thunder is a better name. We thank you for telling us. Why did you tell us?’

  ‘My daughter liked you,’ said Aurelio. ‘She used to watch you. She was killed by the sudden-death-by-thunder. I did not wish the same for you: also . . .’ added Aurelio, ‘I have planned death for the soldiers on that path and you should walk another way.’

  ‘You have planned death?’ asked Remedios.

  ‘Yes,’ said Aurelio, ‘I have planned death.’

  ‘I see,’ Remedios said. ‘But if they come back they will step on their own mines. They will not come back.’

  ‘They come back,’ said Aurelio, ‘to see who they have killed. They mark by each dish with a secret mark, and they do not step on them. The animals do not die because my daughter watches over them, but you will die if you cannot see her.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ said Garcia. ‘I thought you said she was killed?’

  ‘She was killed,’ said Aurelio patiently. ‘Why do I have to say everything twice? Her spirit watches.’

  Gonzago and Tomaso crossed themselves fervently.

  ‘Old man,’ said Remedios, ‘will you be with us, if you hate the soldiers?’

  ‘I have a life to live,’ said Aurelio, shaking his head, ‘but I will watch for you, and I will watch over you. My daughter and I wili watch over you.’

  ‘Thank you, old man,’ said Remedios.

  ‘My name is Aurelio,’ he said as he walked away, his dignity as solid and impressive as it had been when he had arrived.

  ‘This means,’ said Remedios, ‘that the army have an idea where we are.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Gloria de Escobal. ‘It would be just like them to put mines in any old place and just hope they get someone.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Remedios, ‘we will think of moving camp. I think there is a risk.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Garcia, ‘I like it here.’

  ‘You would not like it when the helicopters come in and carpet us with napalm,’ said Remedios. ‘I remember how my companeros died in my former group.’ She shuddered. ‘Their screams as they ran burning I shall remember all my life. It sticks and it cannot be shaken off. If you beat it with your hands, your hands burn also. It is the worst form of death. God help me, when I die, may I do so cleanly, by blood and not by fire.’

  ‘By God’s grace,’ said Gloria, ‘you shall die in your bed, beloved of the nation, long after the victory.’

  Remedios smiled sadly. ‘It hurts to think what one has thrown away.’ She walked off slowly to her hut, and Garcia watched her go: ‘Blessings on you, Remedios,’ he said.

  Aurelio arrived home just before sunset, as he had planned. He first went to the compound and opened the gate wide. The dogs gathered around, whining and barking in expectation of food. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I give you freedom to roam and live in peace, nobly. If you are hungry or sick or when it is time to die, I shall welcome you and I shall care for you. I shall listen for you in the forest. Beware of the path and heed Parlanchina when she warns you away.’

  He turned and walked to the door of the hut, leaving open the gate. The dogs milled around, confused by the want of food, the open gate, and the change of routine. Then one of them, who was to be their first leader, picked up a scent in the air and was off across the clearing, nose to the ground. One by one the others followed, except for an old weary bitch who plodded over to her master and placed her wet muzzle in his hand. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘old friend, you may stay.’ She settled on the ground at his feet and fell asleep. From that time on the dogs came and went as they pleased, and Aurelio became their uncle rather than their father and mother.

  When the dogs had gone Aurelio fetched his machete and went out to cut several straight stakes. These he divided into three piles. Of one of the piles he made two frameworks. On the pile of shorter stakes he fashioned sharp spikes which he hardened in the fire. Then he did the same with the larger stakes. The smaller stakes he lashed to the two frameworks. He fashioned the springs from twisted hide and flexible wood, and then he set the release catch. He prodded it with a piece of wood and the contraption sprang up as he had intended. Then he made another one. He took a spade and a machete and the pile of long stakes tied in a bundle on his back, and on the path he dug two deep pits. The stakes he set in the ground at the bottom, and then he cut twigs with the machete and laid them across the top of the pits. On top of these he scattered leaves from the forest floor. Beside each pit he left a secret mark, as the soldiers had done with the mines. Then he returned home and fetched the two contraptions. For these he scooped shallow pits, and again covered them with leaves. When he had finished he sat down to rest, and to suck coca from his pestle. Then, at the beginning of the series of traps, mines and pits, and also at the end, he urinated across the path. Every day he returned with a gourd of his urine collected in the previous twenty-four hours and sprinkled it in the same places. In this way he ensured that all animals, scenting humans, would avoid the dangers of that section of the path.

  Remedios and her group moved out of the huts and went two valleys away to a place more inaccessible but nearer to Chiriguana. There they built their own brush huts in the trees. They were careful to make no tell-tale clearings that could be seen from the air, and they became more professional about stealth and concealment. Only Aurelio, and perhaps Parlanchina, knew where they had gone.

  After their hurried departure the Indians, who had never really deserted their village, moved straight back in to resume their ancient, unhurried, and peaceful life, remote from the people and the civilisation they feared and despised. Once more little naked children ran in the clearing and women suckled babies at their breasts leaning against doorways. Once more old men chewed coca in the shade, and young ones cultivated bananas and cassava on the terraces.

  And then, as it had to, the day prophesied by Remedios arrived. The aerial photographs taken by a foreign spy-plane in the upper atmosphere had clearly revealed activity, and the mountain rangers had observed the People’s Vanguard through powerful binoculars from a neighbouring peak.

  Two weeks after the People’s Vanguard had moved out and the Indians had moved back in, the Indians heard a rumbling and a rhythmic whir
ring in the distance. They had seen helicopters before – did not the Army often crash them in the mountains? Were not those pilots human sacrifices that the white men made to their gods? The Indians came out of their huts and stood in the clearing to watch the helicopters pass.

  The first gunship to appear over the roof of the trees was flying so low that they thought it was going to crash, and they started to run. Two rockets streaked from the tubes beside the fuselage, and simultaneously machine-gunners opened up from either side through the open doors. The rockets exploded in a cataclysm of molten shards of metal, the machine-guns yammered and rattled, and the terrified and mutilated people on the ground either lay twisted in their death-throes, or crawled desperately, dragging their broken and bleeding limbs. No one made it to safety. The women and children keened and screamed in their fearful agonies, and the men, conscious even in the presence of an apocalypse of their proud stoic tradition, bit back their anguish and moaned softly. One of their number raised his bow to fire back in defiance, but he was enveloped in flame, as were they all, as the napalm cluster from the second gunship fell hungrily among them. They rose and fell and thrashed, these burning people, their eyes melting in their sockets, their bones calcining as their blood boiled amongst the obscenely ballooning blisters. Some of them fought to wipe away the adhesive chemical of hell, and flailed and writhed, or staggered drunkenly, convulsed with the delirium of their incandescent excruciation.