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id="heading_id_60">Loyola’s Lesson</
>
I
The sad Indian tries to forget his troubles with fighting cocks. In dives and bars he whispers about Kid Santos’s injustice, cruelty, and magic powers. Saint Michael’s Dragon had given the Kid secret spells. He was an initiate. Yes, they were buddies! They’d done a deal! Generalito Banderas had said that bullets couldn’t harm him, a deal signed by Satan! Overshadowed by that invisible, vigilant presence, the coppery populace faced a religious destiny full of fear. Pure theological terror.
II
It was the changing of the guards in Saint-Martin of the Mostenses. The servile sweeney was soaping Tyrant’s face. Major del Valle stood to attention, motionless in the doorway. Tyrant had heard his report, his back turned, deadpan, with a knowing look. “Our Master Veguillas is an innocent soul. A good mopping-up exercise, Major del Valle! You deserve a medal.”
That insidious sarcasm didn’t augur well. The major sensed the angry quivering of his lips. He instinctively exchanged glances with the aides, who were skulking in the background, a pair of young Turks in glittering uniforms, aiguillettes, and plumes. The room was a large, airy cell, with a dusty red floor and pigeons nesting in the beams. Tyrant Banderas turned around, his mask lathered in shaving soap. The major stood stiffly to attention in the doorway, his hand by his temples. He had decided four drinks would give him the Dutch courage to present his report and now felt distressingly unreal. The faces present looked distant, hesitant. There was a hazy sensation of nightmarish unreality. Tyrant stared at him silently, pursing his lips, then gestured to his servant to go on shaving. Don Cruz, the barber, was a spindly, elderly Negro, monkey-faced under graying frizz. Born into slavery, he wore the bedraggled, crestfallen look of a whipped dog. The fawning sweeney tiptoed around Tyrant. “How are the blades, boss?”
“Fit to shave the dead.”
“But it’s English steel!”
“Don Cruz, that must mean they haven’t been properly sharpened.”
“Boss, the red-hot sun in these parts has made your skin too sensitive.”
The major stiffened in his military salute. Glancing at the little mirror opposite, Kid Santos saw the doorway and part of the room in distorted perspective. “I’m annoyed that Colonel de la Gándara has put himself outside the law. I’m so sorry to lose a friend. That hasty temper of his will be his ruin! I would like to have pardoned him, but our dear Master V has made it impossible. He’s a soft-bellied soul. He can’t bear upsets and he deserves a different sort of decoration: a cross with a pension. Major del Valle, prepare a summons for that ingenuous soul. By the way, why was the young student imprisoned?”
Standing to attention on the doorstep, Major del Valle tried to enlighten him. “We received a bad report and, well, that open window does not speak in his favor.”
The major’s voice has an opaque, mechanical ring, as if coming from miles away. Tyrant Banderas pursed his lips. “Nicely observed, especially since you were scared stiff at the sight of the roof below. And the boy’s family—what’s it like?”
“Son of the late Dr. Rosales.”
“Hmmm. Have his utopian revolutionary sympathies been fully investigated? We need the police department’s report. See to it, Major del Valle. Lieutenant Morcillo, issue orders for the immediate arrest of Colonel de la Gándara. Have the garrison commander dispatch forces to search the whole area. We must be quick. If we don’t catch the little colonel now, he’ll join the insurgents tomorrow. Lieutenant Valdivia, see if there’s a long line for today’s audiences.”
The fawning sweeney finished shaving Tyrant and helped him into his clerical frock coat. Like German automata the aides swung halfway around and marched out of the room from opposite sides. They sheathed their sabers and clicked their spurs. “Chop-chop!”
The sun glinted on Tyrant’s skull as he peered through the windowpanes. Bugles blared, and on the barren plot in front of the monastery, dragoons rode their horses round and round the mule-powered landau—a museum piece—that Kid Santos used for his state visits.
III
Tyrant Banderas scurried into the audience hall like a snoopy rat, buttoning up his clerical frock coat. “Salutem plurimam!”
Doña Rosita Pintado threw her shawl aside and hurled herself histrionically at the feet of Tyrant. “Generalito, what they’re doing to my little boy is not right!”
The wizened Indian mummy frowned. “Arise, Doña Rosita. An audience with the nation’s premier lawmaker is not a vaudeville show. What’s wrong with the son of the late, lamented Dr. Rosales? That formidable patriot would have been most valuable in maintaining order today! Doña Rosita, what’s your complaint?”
“Generalito, they took my boy off to prison this morning!”
“Doña Rosita, under what circumstances was he arrested?”
“Major del Valle was in hot pursuit of a fugitive.”
“Had you given him shelter?”
“Of course not. It was your buddy Domiciano.”
“My buddy Domiciano! Doña Rosita, you mean to say Colonel Domiciano de la Gándara?”
“You’re a tyrant for correct titles!”
“Doña Rosita, the premier lawmaker of this land has no buddies. And how was it that little Colonel de la Gándara was visiting you at such an unlikely hour?”
“It went by like a flash, General! He ran in from the street and flew out the window without a single word.”
“And how was it that it happened to be your house, Doña Rosita, that he chose?”
“Generalito, fate rules our lives. How should I know?”
“By the same token, you must wait to know your boy’s fate. Which will be determined, of course, according to the laws of nature. My dear Madame Doña Rosita, I’m so very obliged to you for your visit. It’s been such a pleasure to see you and recall those old times when the late, lamented Laurencio Rosales was courting you. I’ll always remember you riding in that procession at Rancho el Talapachi! Console yourself that individually we have no power to alter our fate: yes, there’s next to nothing we can do.”
“Generalito, don’t speak in riddles!”
“Just consider this for a second. Colonel de la Gándara escapes the law by jumping out of a window. Thus he opens a case that we have no choice now but to investigate. And that’s where we stand. Madame Doña Rosita, let us agree that in this world we are merely rebellious children, walking with hands tied, forever subject to time’s lash. But how is it, as I asked, that Colonel de la Gándara chose your house? Doña Rosita, I apologize for not giving you a longer audience. Be assured that justice will be done. And in the last instance, fate calls the shots! Be seeing you!”
Stiff as an iron rod he stepped back, gesturing sharply to an aide who stood to attention in the doorway. “That’s it for today. We’re off to Santa Mónica!”
IV
The sun’s flame lit up the rugged stretch of roof terraces, a battlement blazing above the harbor’s curve. Sinister in storms and lulls between storms, the vast equatorial sea lay still in sheets of light from closest quay to remotest horizon. Barbicans and ramparts reflected the rough hand of military geometry like bulldogs transmuted into mathematical formula. In the parade-ground bandstand a raucous combo of virtuosos entertained a local crowd. The strident brass was an insult to the silent desolation of a sky tortured by light. The rabble of blanketed Indians, skulking on sidewalks and along arcades or thronging the steps of churches and monasteries, genuflected to the passing Tyrant. The frock-coated mummy gave an amused wave. “Chop-chop! They look so submissive and yet it’s impossible to govern them! Scholars are absolutely right when they tell us that Spanish individualism has eradicated the Indian’s primitive communism. That’s why we long for dictators. Creole dictators, apathetic natives, half-breed crooks, colonial theocracy! These are commonplaces that Yankee industrialists and European diplomats employ to put us down. They back the buccaneers of revolution so as to destroy our values and acquire our mines, railways, and customs taxes...Let’s give them a real scare. We’ll release the future president of the republic from prison with full honors!”
The generalito’s ivories flashed a feigned smile. His aides nodded with military precision. With imperious glints and martial clatter, an escort of dragoons surrounded the landau. The rabble moved aside for fear of being trampled, and suddenly the street became an empty, silent, forlorn space. On the edge of the sidewalk, the shabby Indian in blanket and palm-frond hat knelt and waved religious crosses. Clapping and cheering enthusiastically, pool players peered over the balcony of the Spanish casino. The frocked mummy responded as decorously as a Quaker, raising his silk hat while his aides gave a military salute.
V
The Fortress of Santa Mónica rose above the luminous seashore like a melodrama in stone. The reserve corps stood at attention by the postern gate. Not a single wrinkle creased Tyrant’s Indian mask as Colonel Irineo Castañon, Peg Leg, came forward to greet him. Tyrant’s expression was carved in hard ridges like an obsidian idol’s. “Where’s Don Roque Cepeda?”
“Cell number three.”
“I hope that distinguished patrician and his colleagues have been treated with consideration. Political opposition within the framework of the law merits all due respect from the institutions of the state. The rigor of the law must be applied to armed insurgents. From now on be sure to abide by these guidelines. It is our wish to meet the candidate of the opposition for the presidency of the republic. Colonel Castañon, at ease.”
The colonel swiveled around, his hand raised to his cap in salute, his peg leg describing a stiff half circle through the air. He stopped and hopped and rasped bellicosely at the flunky with a bunch of keys: “Don Trinidad, you go!”
Don Trinidad trotted off, only delayed by his bunions. Bolts and hinges creaked. Once the spiked steel door opened, he cantered away, keys clinking and tinkling. A sprightly fellow, he bounced and pirouetted (in beat-up deluxe patent leathers), while Colonel Irineo Castañon marked time. Tap! Tap! The tripping rhythm of his peg leg echoed through the vaults and galleries. Tap! Tap! Foxy and sanctimonious, Tyrant, surrounded by grinning aides, wrinkled his lips. Colonel Alcaide panted breathlessly. “Cell number three!”
On the threshold, Tyrant Banderas doffed his hat in greeting and peered inside looking for Don Roque. The entire prison was standing around the door, silent and on tenterhooks. Accustomed now to the cell’s dim light, Tyrant strode between the two rows of hammocks. He clung to his ancient rituals, deferentially greeting the circle around Don Roque. “My dear sir, Don Roque, I have only just been informed of your detention in this fortress. I deplore this situation! Please do me the honor of believing that it is none of my doing. Santos Banderas has great regard for such an esteemed member of the republic as yourself, and our ideological differences may not be as irreducible as you suppose, my dear Don Roque. Though you purport to be my adversary in politics, you act at all times like one who is conscious of his civic duties. You participate in the primaries. Your battles are conducted within the charter of the constitution. My rule has been renowned for the severe rulings issued by our judges against provocateurs who take up arms and act outside the law. I shall always be merciless against such tin-pot warriors who are keen only to spark foreign intervention, but I shall always respect and even commend that opposition which operates strictly according to the laws of the land. Don Roque, that’s where you come in. Right off I want to say that I fully acknowledge your patriotism and appreciate the generous intentions behind your campaign to imbue the indigenous race with civic spirit. This matter needs to be debated, but for the moment I wish merely to offer my apologies for this regrettable police error by which a good man has, as Horace puts it, come to dignify the prison house of vice and of corruption.“
Silent and incredulous, Don Roque’s friends had circled around. Now Don Roque broke into a smile, a rustic saint’s smile that rippled gently over his bronze face. “General, sir, excuse me for being blunt. When I listen to you I think I must be listening to the Serpent in Genesis.”
The expression in his eyes and his rippling smile and wrinkles looked so honest and innocent they gave his less than approving comment a benevolent tone. The furrows in Tyrant Banderas’s green grimace froze in place. “Don Roque, I wasn’t expecting such an insinuation. I only wanted to offer my loyal friendship and shake your hand, but as you believe me to be insincere, I can only reiterate my apologies.”
He bid farewell with a sweep of his top hat and, flanked by his aides, headed for the door.
VI
Master Veguillas jumped down between the double row of hammocks, whimpering grotesquely, “Croak! Croak!”
The mummy pursed his lips. “Idiot!”
“Croak! Croak!”
“Don’t clown.”
“Croak! Croak!”
“Your japing isn’t exactly amusing right now.”
“Croak! Croak!”
“I’ll have to kick you out of my way. With the toe of my boot!”
“Croak! Croak!”
Master V pulled in his guayabera and hopped on his haunches, whimpering, his face bloated, his eyes imploring.
“You’re embarrassing! That froggy chorus doesn’t make up for your crimes.”
“My Generalito is a mine of magnetic contradictions.”
Tyrant Banderas kicked him with the toe of his boot in front of the guard, who was presenting arms in the doorway. “I’ll give you a jester’s jingle-jangle hat.”
“Why bother, my Generalito!”
“So you can take yourself and it to Saint Peter. Get a move on. I’ll give you a ride in my carriage to the Mostenses. I don’t want you going into the next world with any bad feelings for Santos Banderas. Come, let us converse, since the day will soon come when all conversation must cease. You may receive a death sentence, Master V. Why did you behave like such a skunk? Who persuaded you to divulge the president’s decisions? What motivated these objectionable acts? Who are your accomplices? Do me the honor of climbing into my carriage. Sit next to me. You haven’t been formally indicted by the court as yet. Far be it from me to anticipate your delinquency.”