Dance of the Dwarfs (9 page)

Mario was quite calm and unaffected. He said that not a soul had visited the estancia but Pedro and the llaneros who were after him.

“When did your master last go to Santa Eulalia?”

“On Tuesday.”

“And before that?”

Mario genuinely could not remember. Owing to anxiety over the lack of water and then the arrival of Chucha, I had not been in Santa Eulalia since the guitar-playing evening. He said that the last time the government canoe called he had gone himself to meet it.

“What for?”

I was relieved that Mario offered no unnecessary information. He just said that he had gone to fetch our stores.

“Did you send off any letters?”

“Yes, many.”

I interrupted to point out that it was unlikely any of them could have reached Bogotá yet. I was poked in the belly with a machine pistol and told to shut up.

Teresa came next. Since she never left the estancia, she merely confirmed what Mario had said. If he had claimed to have visited the sun, she would have backed him up. The Cuban disregarded her mumblings and tried Chucha.

“Where do you come from?”

“I am Peruvian.”

“And what do you do here?”

“I am a servant.”

“Do you sleep with the master?”

“Of course.”

“Why of course?”

“Because I like to.”

This reply was too simple for the Cuban. I translated his snort of disapproval to mean that any little Indian would feel affection for any capitalist lecher who was kind to her.

“How did you get here?”

“By the Canoe.”

“Who paid your passage?”

“Captain Valera,” she answered proudly.

She thought all these chaps with guns must belong to the same incomprehensible, ungentle society and that Valera's name would command respect. Her entire conception of politics is that one should avoid policemen. They shut you in gaol until you consent to pull your skirts up.

The Cuban dismissed them all to the kitchen and started to undo his pistol holster. I was not impressed—or managed to persuade myself that I was not. The fellow was irresponsible, but presumably part of a chain of command. I thought it wise to remind him of it.

“I admit that Valera is a friend of mine,” I said. “But so, I hope, is the gentleman who accompanied you on your last visit.”

“You knew what was planned.”

“I guessed it and told you so frankly, but I could not know time and place. A little logic, friend! Pedro said nothing, but let us assume he did. Then what is the only way I could pass the information on? Through Pedro! So why bring me in at all?”

“It would do me good to shoot you,” he said.

I replied that it was quite safe to shoot me, that my servants would run away and my body would not be found for weeks. He should not be selfish, however. Someone else might like to interrogate me and have the pleasure of shooting me afterwards.

“I shall report to my headquarters,” he said, “and then come back to fetch you.”

To that I could only answer that I should be delighted to see him at any time, and would he and his party like a few vegetables for their journey?

To my astonishment he accepted them, saying that I was very different from other Anglo-Saxons.

“On the contrary, I am a typical Anglo-Saxon,” I said. “The Americans are not. They are no more Anglo-Saxon than Filipinos are Spanish. A revolutionary should not confound national origins with language.”

When they had driven away I was left gasping at myself. Insolence combined with extreme courtesy is just the sort of quality which in the French Revolution would have sent an aristocrat to the guillotine next morning. But I am neither aristocrat, landowner or capitalist, and my courtesy is only a flower upon the normal, upcountry manners of Argentina. It makes them stop and scratch their heads. Also it emphasizes the superiority of the classless scientist, and that is what they want to believe. Marching together under the Workers' Flag we shall reform society. Balls from the thoughts of Mao, or vice versa. I shall go and give Chucha a bath.

[
April 18, Monday
]

I am fully occupied by Chucha who wants to be taught to ride and to write. Writing is just a matter of practice. She recognizes the letters and their phonetic values, but cannot imitate them. I can find an exact parallel from personal experience. I know the difference between Estrellera's forearm and Tesoro's, but I'm damned if I can draw it.

Samuel's system of primary education was to teach her words or syllables, not individual letters. The reason seems to have been that they had a couple of books—half a
Don Quixote
and a handbook of butterflies—but seldom any paper. I do not wish to discuss Samuel more than I must. I salute him from a distance. One of his sources of income was the capture and mounting of butterflies. But Chucha, to his credit, was not for sale.

I am getting her used to Pichón before we start on the elementary aids. Today I took her over the creek, up the west side of the marshes and then across to the forest at a gentle canter. She was so occupied by staying on—or rather by her own pride in staying on without difficulty—that we were only half a mile from the trees before she realized it and squeaked.

I dismounted at once in the shade of a palm—partly because I had already decoyed her nearer to the forest than I thought possible, partly because her blowing hair and the green
chiripá
were sending me crazy. When I lifted her down from Pichón, I found that she was just as impatient. After that first mutual explosion I took the sheepskin off Tesoro and made her more comfortable while the horses grazed.

It was a good moment to reinforce her growing confidence. I asked her as she lay in my arms why she was so afraid of Mario's ridiculous duendes.

“I am not afraid of anything with you,” she said.

She is not. I wonder what her mental picture of me really is. That remark from a civilized woman would mean nothing. A charming, trivial erotic response. But Chucha means it as sincerely as a child of five. I am number two to God. Fortunately I cannot disillusion her. I write “fortunately” because I do not know whether I should or I shouldn't.

When we had remounted I took her at her word, and we rode back along the forest: a motionless face of brilliant, light green until the sun disappeared behind the cloud of the treetops and the continual death of plants became as obvious as the abounding life. It was the same forest that she knew and no more remarkable when seen from a horse than from her rivers. Monotony after monotony, and always safe so long as a man can carry his food and find enough water.

She promised that she would not worry so long as I took Tesoro with me on my explorations of the botanical frontier. It is curious that she should realize his watchdog qualities when she does not yet recognize exactly how he shows anxiety. He was on edge all the time and fighting my hands, but I was able to pass off his nervousness as greed. I said that he wanted to go closer and see what was edible among such a luscious variety of green stuff. In fact he was set on bolting for the brown llano. He strongly dislikes the forest and is inclined to shy at nothing—which makes him as poor a guardian as a watchdog which barks at everything.

This evening's ride has cleared the way. I have two objects in wanting to spend whole days in the forest. One is to see if there is any evidence at all of the little hunters. Since I have little woodcraft, it would have to be obvious enough for any boy scout—the ashes of a fire, an arrowhead, a blazed tree, something of that sort. The other object is to find a place of refuge for Chucha and myself. I am confident that I can deal with any ordinary bandit and talk him out of unnecessary violence; but political idealists on the run are new to me. It is possible that this obstinate Cuban might return to the estancia with orders to snatch me up to the Cordillera or shut my mouth for good. In that case—assuming I could reach the horses—I should have to try Pedro's trick and find safety for us both in the forest.

[
April 19, Tuesday
]

I must make this a long and exact entry: a record of facts to which I may someday have to refer in public. What public? There is no public. I wish Valera would return or that a plane would come in out of the blue or that some wireless operator would notice that there are never any messages from Pedro. I am here to conduct experiments in tropical agriculture. I am not the secret agent of the CIA or any other bunch of prejudiced whore-cum-spymasters. And I am not to be lied to and double-crossed by a damned mulatto murderer who happens to have read a handbook on the interrogation of suspects—if he can read.

At dawn I saddled Tesoro, who could carry me farther into the forest than I had penetrated by any of my cursory explorations on foot. I knew that, once in the tall timber, the trunks were far enough apart for man and horse, provided always that the rider was not aiming for any particular point and was content to go where he could.

My excuse to Chucha was hunting. We are short of fresh meat. So I took the Lee-Enfield on the off chance of meeting deer or peccary. I also took a small bundle of colored beads, iron nails and dried fish wrapped in a length of the bright green pup tent. I felt slightly absurd playing at Robinson Crusoe, but it seemed the best method. If I laid out a present in some prominent place and it subsequently disappeared, I could rule out duendes,

I would far rather have taken the mare but, since Chucha found some special magic in Tesoro, I had to ride him. He began to play up as soon as we had crossed the creek and had to be shown who was boss. The cut passage, through which I had taken Pedro, was already closed by fern and offshoots from the fallen scrub. I had to use the machete and lead Tesoro with the other hand. After that we had leaf mold under foot and could move generally westwards though never in a straight line. Silence was absolute, proving that two hundred feet above my head the sun was blazing on treetops and already inhibiting all activity. At dawn and in the cool of the evening I have known the forest as noisy as an ill-organized public meeting.

I was riding more or less parallel to the Guaviare, never turning towards it since the only certain thing about Homo Dawnayensis was that he had never been seen on the banks. Conditions were surprisingly favorable for game, though I saw none. I passed through two glades with good grazing, the first small and entirely open, like a green well in the surrounding forest; the second fairly open, without definite boundaries and gently sloping upwards towards the west. In both I expected to find that game had fed, but there were no droppings except a pat of cow dung—almost certainly from the lost beasts which I had seen on April 3 and now knew to be stragglers from the guerrilla's herd.

I rode at a good pace up the second glade until I was stopped by a low, overgrown cliff. That was what, sooner or later, I expected to see, for the stretch of grass and parkland could only mean that there was not enough soil for tree roots. When I had followed the outcrop of rock for half a mile to the north, it disappeared and the canopy of the forest closed overhead—big timber through which I could easily continue a westerly course.

Here and there to my left I could catch a glimpse of rising ground and thick vegetation, showing that I was traveling along the side of a low ridge where trees were confined to pockets and cracks in the rock, leaving enough light for secondary growth of shrubs. The place was uncannily silent except for Tesoro's hooves. The only sound I heard was unfamiliar—something between a whistle and a sea gull's call. It seemed to come from far away on the other side of the ridge; but among trees it is difficult—for me, at any rate—to tell whether a sound is weak and close or distant and strong. This, I thought, had too much power behind it for a bird. A primitive, man-made instrument?

Soon I could see a confused mass of rocks above me, with gray pinnacles rising out of the jungle which crept and climbed over the lower stuff. These crags looked high enough to give me a view across the treetops—a rare experience of ethereal beauty. The dark green flows on as solidly as a garden, and eyes insist that one could walk from every dome of blazing flowers to another.

Since Tesoro could easily have broken a leg I tethered him to a tree and left him plunging and protesting. The ridge was a tangle of fallen, rotting trees, of roots, ravines and hollows. Patches of blue sky, red and orange macaws sailing in it with the ease of hawks, tempted me on, but I did not like it at all. Anything—especially snakes—might be living in the dark holes where one could hardly distinguish plant from mineral. I unslung my rifle, which left me only one hand to climb with—and that got fiercely bitten by ants. However, they seemed to be the only inhabitants.

The top was just too low to allow me my view over the trees, but was open, desolate and no doubt a landmark which could be glimpsed from many points in the forest. Facing east was a great sloping slab of rock which I should probably have seen if I had climbed the low cliff at the upper end of the glade. I stripped off moss and cleared the cracks, leaving a whitish patch the size of a billiard table. There I laid out and firmly anchored my square of green nylon, spreading the presents on it. The patch of color could, of course, attract monkeys who would scatter the lot; but I had neither heard nor seen any monkeys since entering the forest when a band out on an egg-stealing expedition was raising hell among the birds.

The whole place was singularly lifeless, with not even a lizard. The only animal material at all was the point of an antler which I found when scraping earth from the slab. It was worn very smooth. Polished by man? Weatherworn? Or passed through the stomach of scavenger or jaguar?

I am used to desolation and normally excited by it, but there on the rocks I was not. That low plateau was somehow menacing. I felt that I was watched. Any of Joaquín's duendes could have had it all his own way if he had stuck up his sabre-toothed head from a hole or hidden behind a pinnacle. I do not think that human beings would choose to live in such a tangle of primeval litter when there is shelter on the forest floor, less risk of basking snakes and less annoyance of ants. All the same I have to return to explore further and to see what, if anything, I have attracted. The ridge continues to the southwest, and must be the only landmark between the llano and the Guaviare.