Thing to Love (15 page)

“Only the dead.”

“You find a girl's body more pitiful than a boy's?”

“Yes, of course I do,” answered MacKinlay indignantly. “But I see two sides to the action of the troops. I wish I didn't.”

“What's wrong with being fair to both sides?” the consul asked.

“Nothing — if it works out like that. See here, Mr. Penruddock, I'm going to accept General Kucera just as Captain Irala and Don Paco explained him. It seems too simple to be true, but I've a hunch it
is
true. Then there's President Vidal — Well, to American eyes there's not much wrong with him. And, if I may say so, I don't think Guayanas would find much wrong with him if it wasn't for this sudden feeling in you all that only a big dose of idealism and self-sacrifice is going to pull this country out of the rut. I appreciate that. Building avenues and filling the shops of San Vicente are not enough. It may be that democracy is not enough. I've seen the poverty of the Barracas and if the peons think they are better off in huts made of gasoline cans than they are on the land, the poverty upcountry must be worse still.

“But I have to tell the truth as I see it. Professional pride — well, I guess it isn't confined to soldiers. And the truth is complicated. I have to say that Avellana's politics are a bright shade of pink. Responsible people in my country will try to understand. The rest won't, and the newspapers won't help them. They have to put things in black and white. And when they quote me and leave out all my reservations and qualifications, Avellana is going to look like an expropriating red.”

“I have never heard that he was against democracy,” Penruddock protested. “He is merely too impatient to wait for elections.”

“Now, Mr. Penruddock, you can't expect this country to follow the rules of the British Constitution.”

“No,” said the consul mildly. “No, that does sometimes occur to me. I just thought it might have some bearing on how red Avellana is today.”

“Enrique, you were extremely alarmed when your country went Socialist in 1945,” Juan interrupted. “You refused to meet the boats in case there was a political commissar on board to supersede you.”

“All right. I admit it. But who could tell that Socialists only mean a tenth of what they say and the tenth is worth having?”

“I could and I told you so then,” said Juan. “That is why I am an Avellanista.”

He turned to Andrew MacKinlay with the irresistible Fonsagrada smile. Henry Penruddock, though he did not know exactly what was coming, was aware that Juan's delicate head had risen from its coils and was about to strike.

“An Avellanista with a difference, Don Andrés. Like him, I wish to see the day when Latin America can talk to the United States as equal to equal, not as a prodigal son to a tactful father. Like him, I am uneasy at certain aspects of your moral and financial influence. But I pray that in his willingness to humiliate you — his willingness, not his wish — he does not think it necessary to look for allies outside this continent.”

There was nothing Henry Penruddock could do, nothing in the calculated indiscretion that he could attack. Juan had spotted that MacKinlay was far from having any prejudice against left-wing policies as such, and had cleverly suggested that Avellana's reforms need be no more alarming than those of social democrats anywhere else. Then, having established a comfortable area of mutual confidence, he had injected into it those devastating words
humiliate
and
outside this continent
.

Whether MacKinlay was merely a newspaperman of integrity and influence, or whether he had the ear of the Secretary of State and the C.I.A., the poison must work. To put it at its lowest, MacKinlay could no longer pooh-pooh his Embassy's blind prejudice against Avellana.

Vidal was certainly going to get any support he wanted. He might be wise enough to play it down. He probably would. But
United States newspapers and politicians wouldn't. Juan was right — for as much of the future as he could foresee. The cause of Avellana, from being squashed, moribund and just another South American revolution, could become unbeatable.

But who cared in these days what the leader of an old-fashioned liberal party said? Henry Penruddock emptied his glass and decided that he was taking this intrigue far too seriously. He watched Agueda and Salvador lrala descend the steps on their return from the laboratory. A superb couple! A spectacular advertisement of Latin America at its most charming! Whatever Vidal and Avellana might do, Juan's own policy — it was the one constant upon which one could count — was to temper all severities of government for them and their like.

CHAPTER VIII

[
December 2
]

D
ON
J
ESÚS
-M
ARÍA DE
H
OYOS Y
A
LARCÓN
disliked the Citadel. Its little mounds, its cowls, its concrete cupolas, its grass terraces dominated by grinning slits, reminded him that war, like politics and finance, had become a playground for rival technicians. Modernization! Modernization for what? The Army of Guayanas was quite good enough for any campaign it was ever likely to have to undertake. And in any case one couldn't in these day annex a slice of profitable territory or even create a frontier incident without interference from the United Nations or the Organization of American States. This Praetorian camp on the outskirts of San Vicente had no object. Under cover of patriotism and the innocent integrity of Major General Kucera, Gregorio Vidal had built it to enrich himself and his stockbroker.

When Jesús-María mounted his charger — for a soldier did not perform ceremonies with cushions under his breeches — and rode through the gates of the Citadel followed by his adjutant general, their A.D.C.'s and gallopers, such was his mood. It changed almost at once. That Kucera — wasn't there anything he couldn't do? There he was, magnificently mounted, in full uniform, with a squadron of his oily mechanics handling their sabers as easily as spanners. Theater! He'd like to see what would happen if he
ordered the charge! But that was hardly fair. The armor, properly gay with pennants, was on the flank to do the charging. Never since he had commanded the Army of Guayanas had he been received with such precise pageantry. He brushed away a tear as the band crashed into the national anthem and Fifth Division, guns, infantry, armor and staff, saluted their nominal chief. Fine fellows! Don Jesús-María was passionately proud to have them under his command. His soldierly emotion of the moment obliterated all the doubts of a few seconds earlier as to whether in fact they were under his command.

He shook hands with Miro from horse to horse. Perfectly timed and maneuvered. Like a picture of Bolívar greeting Páez. The man was thinner, and his steady eyes, since the skin was no longer so brown, had lost that incredible dark blue of a flower. Ah, well, being trampled on by a lot of young atheistical scientists was no fun.

It seemed to Don Jesús-María that his world was divided into ordinary decent people and technicians. He wished that all the technicians would mass themselves into the party of either Avellana or Vidal; it would then be easy and congenial to declare for their opponents. But they didn't. On one side were Vidal's American-trained engineers destroying the traditional life of the country with concrete and Neon lights and sugar pop in bottles and domestic machines for doing what any servant could do better; on the other was this puzzling mixture of industrial workers, left-wing landowners and all the university students of science and technology. They seemed to be unimpressed by the mere imitative building of things. They called Vidal a chimpanzee with a box of bricks. Don Jesús-María had talked to a lot of them on the day of the state funeral and, though admitting he didn't understand half of it, he was convinced that Avellana was right.

It had passed off more quietly than he ever expected, that funeral procession. The garrison by common consent did not take part in it, nor did the Presidential Guard. The armed forces of the Republic had been represented only by a few senior officers, including himself, Marshal Faustino Ledesma of the Air Force, and Captain Paco Salinas — though God only knew who, if anybody,
had invited that doubtfully reformed old anarchist to take part. The mood of the public had been incalculable. Don Jesús-María, who in his time had suppressed and supported enough revolutions, had felt in his bones that at any moment the crowd might roar for vengeance. But on whom? Kucera had become more of a popular idol than ever, and anyway was in hospital. There was the corporal whose post had fired, but the masses, themselves usually ready to use knife or bullet in an emergency, understood him too well to do more than argue. There remained Vidal, who marched in the procession — a surprisingly courageous act even though the route was lined by his police and he wore a bulletproof vest under his shirt. Probably Concha, that old war-horse of a wife of his, had shamed him into it: But anybody trying to raise the crowd against Vidal would be in trouble. Apart from Morote and his reds, who were sitting on the sidelines, the average citizen of San Vicente was against any change of government.

Don Jesús-María did not like the present position at all. That was why he had made the gesture of inspecting the garrison. Partly he wished to show that in the eyes of the Army the military honor of Fifth Division was unaffected; partly he wanted to remind the units and their officers that Kucera was nothing more than a divisional commander. Yes, the present position was very embarrassing indeed. Revolution ought clearly to fail or clearly to be successful. The province of Siete Dolores, raised by Pedro Valdés on the day of Avellana's attempt in the capital, had not returned to its allegiance. The civil governor, the military governor and the Twelfth Cavalry Division had declared for Avellana. And now Avellana was with them and was forming an effective shadow government in Vergara, the provincial capital. Siete Dolores was politically unimportant, but it possessed the country's second airfield at Lérida and good communications by road and rail to San Vicente.

Don Jesús-María inspected the Division, giving particular attention to the niceties of ceremonial. He did know what else to look for. This was a very different body of troops from those among whom he had spent the last forty years of his life. All one could
ever expect of the infantryman of Guayanas was to keep his person and his rifle clean. The cavalry had far higher standards. Don Jesús-María believed that they were as good as any European cavalry between the wars. Certainly their horsemanship was superb. He had a theory — and he knew what he was talking about — that the close attention to detail demanded by the care of the horse extended itself naturally to detail of equipment and tactics.

Detail was his specialty. He was the terror of quartermasters and well aware of it. Don Jesús-María was therefore perfectly in character when he paid particular attention to the water supply of the Citadel and its stock of petrol, rations and ammunition. What he wanted to know — without arousing suspicion — was how long Fifth Division, if the worst came to the worst, could stand a siege. It could fight its way out. He had no doubt of that at all. But where could it go then? The future isolation of the Citadel, whether besieged or masked, seemed a possibility.

All this, however, was a nightmare. Much more important than counting rounds per man was a long and affectionate talk with Miro Kucera. He managed to arrange it not too obviously, pairing off Captain Irala with his own A.D.C. and turning his adjutant general loose on the colonels in command of brigades. At last he found himself in Kucera's office without ever having to suggest a private interview.

When the entirely neutral subject of promotions had been discussed, Don Jesús-María said:

“I wish I had known in time what your politics were, Miro.”

“As a soldier, I haven't any. As a citizen, I should vote for Avellana.”

“That is what I thought. You geniuses stick together. And when you asked for leave to go to La Joya . . . Well, a fine mess of it you and Gil have made! Would it be any help if I accepted your resignation and gave you my word of honor that I'll have you back within a year?”

Miro answered the smile. Old Jesús-María had always such an expression of calm and benignity. He had modeled his face,
mustache and gallant carriage upon the French and British leaders of the First World War, and it was too late to change to the military face of the Second.

“I cannot retire now,” he said. “It would not be fair to the Division.”

“You'll have to go if Avellana comes in. And then I should be powerless to do anything about it.”

“I know that, Captain General.”

“You'll be all right? I suppose the Fonsagrada interests . . . ?”

“Yes. There are family plans.”

“What are Juan's intentions, Miro? He could bring Los Venados and the highlands over whenever he wished.”

“Not without the frontier garrisons. How far will Twentieth Cavalry obey your orders, now that Twelfth have declared for Avellana?”

“What a question, man! How far will
you
obey my orders?”

“Captain General, in everything that I can. But you know that I am directly responsible to the President.”

“And if my other commanders say they are Avellanistas and directly responsible to the Vergara government?”

“I cannot believe that your influence as the revered chief of the nation's Army —”

“Miro, as an older man will you permit me to say that you are too much of a soldier? My influence will hold the Army for just as long as it thinks it cannot win. But let us take, for example, two situations: one where it believes you might desert Vidal; another, where Vidal and San Vicente can only accept defeat. In either of those eventualities, the whole Army would declare for Avellana. You will say that I should not follow. But what is the father of a family to do when all his sons are determined on a certain course?”

Don Jesús-María's illustration was apt. His puzzled, kindly face expressed his dilemma. He couldn't be expected to give up his paternal power — promotions, movements, ceremonies. He enjoyed the deference too much. And it wasn't altogether empty deference. He was liked. For Miro and his officers he was a joke, but they were well aware that Vidal could never have given
them their present freedom without the tacit consent of Don Jesús-María.

“I am deeply sorry to have made things so difficult for you,” said Miro sincerely. “But my duty was quite clear.”

“Yes, yes! You and Don Gregorio! A masterstroke! It would have been an example to all Latin America without those poor, misguided students. But, Miro, the Army was always a little afraid of your power. And now — well, you have rubbed their noses in it. The Presidential Guard, for example . . . as garrison commander, you were fully entitled to relieve them of their immemorial duties. But I would have liked more tact. They are bound to wonder whether it would not be less boring to use their lances rather than polish them. And couldn't you have let that helicopter escape? And that case of Trumpeter Menendez who spat on the flag. Justice is not everything. One must consider the glory of the Army as well as its efficiency.”

“We leave that to you, Don Jesús-María,” said Miro with a deferential little bow.

The use of
we
rather than I was unconscious, but he saw that Don Jesús-María had not liked it. Perhaps it had emphasized too plainly the solidarity of Fifth Division.

“I would advise you, my dear Miro, not to pay too much attention to the adulation of your officers. I remind you that a Caesar is made by the declaration of his troops, not by his own. And he cannot avoid obeying. That could be your position, and frankly I do not believe that Vidal and Avellana are worth it.”

“Do you mean,” asked Miro, much shocked, “that the real issue could be the Army versus Fifth Division?”

“No, no, no! What a habit you have of seeing everything in black and white! But it would have been easier for us all if your conscience had been more elastic.”

“The whole thing was too sudden for me. I could do nothing else.”

“Good, good! But now discretion — eh?” said Don Jesús-María, getting up and patting him consolingly on the back. “It is only necessary to have time on our side, and do you know how that can be assured?”

“By moving a little faster than the rest,” said Miro.

“Not at all! Not at all! To have time on one's side it is necessary to delay doing anything whatever.”

Miro Kucera led his commander to a lunch of such excellence that Don Jesús-María, toasting his major general, declared it to be a perfect example of the Division's attention to detail. The convivial side of Army life appealed to Miro as much as its precision, and in that he was enthusiastically seconded by Salvador Irala — who had once shocked the mess by declaring that you couldn't create a first-class killing machine without an early Christian spirit of trust and charity between man and man. At any rate, the style of the Division or its hospitality inspired Don Jesús-María to send for his car instead of his horse.

Miro, alone in his office with a cigar and a pretense of papers, considered the wisdom of his senior's advice. It would indeed be easier to remain cynically in the Citadel and allow the politicians to tear Guayanas apart without any officious assistance. But there it was; not even inaction would keep Fifth Division out of the arena. Don Jesús-María was either very disingenuous or hadn't thought it out. The neutrality of the San Vicente garrison would put Gil Avellana in power just as surely as if it had declared for him with flags, artillery salutes and a
pronunciamiento
. Jesús-María had brought up another worrying point as well: What would happen if Avellana tried to remove the Division's commander after the officers had tasted power?

His imagination sharpened by wine, Miro faintly realized the perilous nature of his success. If he had been content to be a normal major general of the Guayanas Army, with a normal Division of sloppily dressed, out-at-grass infantry, none of this would ever have happened. Well, it
had
happened. And very probably Gregorio Vidal, that delicate insect building instinctively among panels and pictures, had intended it. The only possible course was to continue to set an example, to support the oath and the Constitution, until such time as Vidal was turned out by a free vote. If Miro's own motives were fully understood by the people — and it
looked as if they were — he might one day go so far as to supervise the honesty of that vote.
You will see that we get justice?
Morote had asked.