Thing to Love (14 page)

MacKinlay's good looks aroused sympathy. Though a man in his late thirties, he had at that moment the expression of some charming youth quite unnecessarily concerned by the fact that he couldn't fulfill his duty. It was that quality rather than any sharing of a common outlook which made Henry Penruddock feel that Salinas was harsh with him.

“More important to us,” Paco commented drily, “is that Kucera's internal hemorrhage should stop.”

Juan de Fonsagrada smoothly comforted his guest.

“If you want another angle to the story before you cable,” he said, “Captain Salvador Irala will be here soon. He is General Kucera's A.D.C. and devoted to him.”

The consul glanced quickly at Juan. There was nothing whatever to be seen in his dark and distinguished face but bland attention to hospitality. Did he realize that the impact of an agonized Irala upon MacKinlay was likely to be considerable? Did he understand the North American respect for generous youth? Irala had been — in principle if not in person — behind the Sten guns on the Palace steps. At the moment he could be a very powerful, unconscious ally for Vidal. Yet Juan was undoubtedly Avellanista.

Paco Salinas had got up and was leaning on the parapet of the fountain talking to the black-haired Vita, playing the romantic and fatherly naval officer. A refreshing change for him, the consul thought. His usual contacts with the opposite sex belonged to the severely practical, undemanding world of the dockside. MacKinlay's conversational Spanish was rapidly loosening up under the influence of the red-haired Chilean with the classic features and the warm, inquiring eyes. His absorption seemed more the American merry delight in beauty than a reconnaissance of the
possibilities, but gave ample excuse for leaving them alone. Penruddock gathered up Juan, strolled with him round the outer path of the patio, and asked what in God's name he was up to.

“I don't see why you shouldn't know. I am showing my loyalty to the constitutional head of state, while strengthening the only possible opposition.”

“It's certainly going to need it. Does anybody know where Avellana is?”

“Anything I tell you, Enrique, is in the strictest confidence. As between two business associates, shall I say?”

“I am bound to report home.”

“Tell them the truth — that Avellana is safe and the revolution far from over. When the plan to abduct Vidal failed, Gil took refuge here. He left last night on the back of a donkey with a small party of my own people and if he was picked up by plane at the rendezvous he should now be at Lérida. I believe in him. I think his ideas are worth a trial. At the same time I appreciate, while deploring, my son-in-law's exaggerated sense of what is constitutional action. So all I was prepared to do for Gil was to assure his escape.”

“He can't do much up in Siete Dolores if San Vicente remains loyal to Vidal.”

“That's what we shall see, Enrique. The so-called Massacre of the Innocents — which they richly deserved for being ten minutes late in starting — is magnificent propaganda. Avellana now represents the country's protest as well as its liberal ideals. And international protest is not beyond the bounds of possibility. You couldn't arrange a march of students to Trafalgar Square, could you?”

“Is that what you're up to with MacKinlay?”

“I wouldn't turn Salvador Irala loose on him if I was.”

The consul threw out his hands in a gesture of despair.

“It's perfectly simple, Enrique. MacKinlay has been talking to his Embassy, who are all solidly in favor of Vidal. Having observed the quality of his country's representatives in San Vicente he at once decided that they must be wrong, for which I do not blame him. He is also a cultured liberal in his tastes, so that for
both reasons Gil Avellana would naturally be his choice. I am determined to switch his sympathies to Vidal.”

“But why?”

“Because, my dear and trusted friend, I am trying to imprint upon the unblushing cheek of Vidalismo the kiss of death.”

“I see,” said the consul slowly. “At least I think I do.”

“If there is one thing I am sure of, after watching and occasionally entering Latin-American politics, Enrique, it is that whenever the United States interferes in our quarrels the party which accepts its aid is doomed. We never forgive that. And my father would have said the same.”

“Are you as sure of that in the nineteen-fifties as the nineteen-thirties?”

“Tell me a case where it wasn't so.”

“I can't, Juan. But that's worth nothing. Sooner or later both sides are doomed. They swap about.”

“Even you don't quite understand us. Look at it this way, Enrique. If the Yankees declare openly that they approve of Vidal, while all Latin-America is demonstrating against the Massacre of the Innocents, what could be better for Avellana?”

“You're going to make unnecessary difficulties for him when he's in power,” the consul objected.

“No. Once he's in power, they can't fail to see the generosity of his character. Cowboy President. The cattleman who gave away his land. With Morote too, guitar and all! The enlightened modern marriage between the haves and have-nots. Think of the publicity! It's bound to appeal to them. And if it doesn't, they'll have every other State of the Americas explaining to them that this is the vision of the future.”

“I don't like it, Juan.”

“Why not?”

“You're setting traps. You're doing what we were always accused of when we had an Empire. And I doubt if we ever did it. When people like you were intoxicated by their own brilliance we went away for the weekend and drank our tea in silent prayer. As the only representative of Her Britannic Majesty that you are likely to see till the heat lets up, I warn you not to be too clever.”

“My dear Enrique, nonsense! You're thinking of Arabs. And I refuse to be patronized by Her Majesty in your person — though in her own I should undoubtedly find the experience delicately charming — when only your private friends in London are aware that Guayanas exists.”

“That is completely untrue, Juan,” said the consul, trying to sound as warmly convincing as possible.

In a sense, it was untrue. Henry Penruddock was well aware that his country's politicians were more likely to be able to draw a map of the latest Republic carved from African swamp than of Guayanas; on the other hand, he was used to being rebuked for reporting in the intimate and colloquial style of a gossip columnist and to being congratulated on his accuracy whenever the department had bothered to understand what in the world he really meant. So it was obvious that his unconventional notes from San Vicente were not always minuted “for amusement only” but entered an active file — possibly of some committee of the Imperial General Staff who were as familiar as the Pentagon with flying times from Guayanas to the Panama Canal and the Venezuelan oilfields.

But it was never any good talking power politics to Juan, who put his faith in the power of human eloquence to persuade anybody of anything. And he might be right — at any rate wherever public opinion could be as noisy as it was ignorant.

Pancho — now admiring and respectful — led to the top of the steps overlooking the patio a resplendent Captain Irala, flaunting his uniform. Certainly he should have been dressed for active service. But the consul got the point. Not for Salvador Irala was the inconspicuous coloring of war when the conduct of Fifth Division was in question.

“What's the news?” Juan asked him.

“Out of danger.”

“I am so glad. Your dear mother —”

“I meant the general. Doña Felicia has left the hospital and gone home.”

“And your brother?”

“There is little hope.”

The consul felt more than ever that it was irresponsible to expose MacKinlay to the impact of this boy — hurt, at war with himself, contemptuous and angry — whose hopelessly volatile younger brother had been shot to pieces on the steps of the Palace, yet whose primary anxiety was for General Kucera.

When, however, Juan introduced Irala to the party, his manners were assured. He was the model Latin-American officer, a little supercilious perhaps, but no more than befitted the confidential A.D.C. of the Caudillo. There was a hardly perceptible moment of emotion when Paco Salinas greeted him, though Paco said nothing but the word
compañero
and laid his hand on Irala's shoulder. Companionship must have been given a poignant meaning by the eyes and touch of the older man who in his time had also known brothers on opposite sides of the barricades.

Salvador answered MacKinlay's questions without resentment. He showed a coolness which might have been formal military correctitude but was more probably due to disapproval of this searching interest in the family privacy of the Army.

“But what I still don't understand,” MacKinlay pressed him, “is why such a magnificent Division had to play politics.”

“Your troops in the United States take an oath?”

“Sure they do.”

“Do you accuse them of playing politics when they are faithful to it?”

“Captain Irala,” said MacKinlay, “I have talked to a great many people in the course of today, but that's the clearest explanation I have had. Does the rest of the Army think as Fifth Division?”

“I cannot answer for them.”

“Then aren't you running a risk of civil war?”

“My general never for a moment considered it possible if he acted swiftly.”

“All the same — forgive me if I say this — to an American observer it looks very much like suppression of a progressive party by brute force.”

“Captain Irala's brother was on the steps of the Palace,” Juan murmured tactfully. “He is dying.”

The consul was appalled by Juan's Machiavellian tactics. It was
perfectly plain that although he had briefed Andrew MacKinlay on the personalities he was going to meet he had held up the tragedy of young Irala until he could use it to the best effect.

The American, embarrassed and out of his depth, expressed his sympathy as best he could. He had not realized, he began, that feeling went so deep.

“My brother Federico carried a Communist banner,” Irala broke in contemptuously. “Does that again make it clearer to you?”

“You mean Avellana is backed by the Communists?”

Irala shrugged his shoulders, weary of this foreigner with his continual questions. A clever man who meant well, he thought bitterly, and yet understood nothing by instinct. Poor Federico! He was a most improbable Communist, and a wildly erratic liberal. All he had ever wanted was to be at the heart of whatever action was going on, and he had paid the price. It was impossible to explain that if he, Salvador, had been on the terrace of the Palace he would have fired to kill and kept on firing and willingly been court-martialed for it. Juan de Fonsagrada understood that without being told. But the American was obsessed with politics. So let him rest in peace. It was far too long a business to explain.

He turned to Agueda, whose eyes were big with pity. Curious how eyes could express so much in spite of different shapes. Those gray, bloodshot eyes of the Spanish captain, steady and merciless as himself, had assured him of sympathy and approval with the aid of only one word. And now the lovely brown liquid of old Fonsagrada's spectacular bit of temptation was saying much the same thing. If that was anything like the natural shape of her breasts she was worth some attention. In any case there was a sweetness in disillusion, and we all did our best. This damned American apparently expected him to remove his own mental bra. To hell with him! He wouldn't find anything very exciting — just the primitive fact that one followed a man when one had the luck to meet one. Those friends of poor Federico who insisted that nothing was worth living for — hadn't they ever felt love?

“You have just come from Chile?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Are they as crazy as we are?”

“We have our problems.”

“What do you do here?” he asked bluntly.

“I am a pathologist.”

“The devil! There is a laboratory?”

“Captain Irala does not believe in science,” she remarked to Juan.

“Show him, my dear. Show him all round, if you wish,” said Juan benignly. “Vita will sit with us.”

He looked a little wistfully after the handsome pair as they stood for a moment on the steps of the patio outlined against the soft light of the house.

“There should always be a woman present when men talk,” he said, filling the glasses. “Or a picture. Or a magnificent view. Or the sea. In the presence of the eternal, even if we are unconscious of it, words have wings.”

“Try an archbishop,” said the consul rudely.

“Archbishops do not mirror eternity, Enrique; they are its political representatives on earth and they have the same effect upon me as the Chamber. I allow myself to become intoxicated by myself. I desire to show how much more pious and eloquent an archbishop I should be. But with the sea at my feet or a woman across the table — even if she is not listening — I am bounded by reality. Don't you agree, Don Andrés?”

Andrew MacKinlay looked up from the notebook in which he was busily writing.

“Frankly, I don't. I find that women take my mind off my work.”

“There is that of course,” Juan replied. “Perhaps it is necessary to reach my age or to have no work. And you, my old
conquistador!
With which of us do you agree?”

“With neither, Don Juan,” said Paco Salinas. “Look! I am cursed with loving the unfortunate. And men have a deeper wish to suffer than women. In war and religion, art and politics, we do not care what suffering we bring upon ourselves. Women have no business in that evil world of ours. They don't know where the limits are, as I saw in Spain. If we have enough love for a cause
or a person we are not greatly blamed when we kill. But a woman is. You know all those Marys in the churches — Mary of this and that and whatever the priests can think up! There should be a special Mary to comfort those who commit our follies as well as their own. What are you writing in your notebook, Don Andrés? Are there any women in it?”