Thing to Love (38 page)

“What?” Penruddock exclaimed.

“Yesterday! Naturally it has not been published. That signs Miro's death warrant. I cannot avoid seeing it must be so. But why his officers?”

“What were Kucera's terms?” the consul asked.

“All officers and men to be confirmed in their ranks or retired on pension. No reprisals. When he has Avellana's signature to that, he will surrender the Citadel.”

“And he himself?”

“He holds himself at the disposition of the government.”

“Won't they accept that?”

“In the end they must. Miro in the Citadel is impossible to defeat. Even when we have our planes in the air again I doubt if they will be able to bomb him into surrender. No, my dear Consul, if Miro insists that he alone is responsible and that he alone shall pay the penalty, Avellana must sign and be content. But you cannot imagine the bitterness! ‘Gentlemen,' I said at last, ‘I have given you my opinion and I have no more to do here. All I demand is that General Kucera shall be shot in full uniform and that I myself am the last to shake his hand!' They have no decency, these civilians. Would you believe what Pedro Valdés replied? That for all he cared, he could be shot in a shirt with
A Present from Washington
printed on it.”

“Good! And when Valdés is shot himself it will be a present from Moscow,” said Paco Salinas, banging his fist on the table, “at the base of the skull and at night. It seems to me I am back in Barcelona twenty years ago!”

The members at nearby tables looked round, for Paco's strong Spanish accent had cut loudly through a dozen discreet little conversations on the future of commerce and politics. Don Jesús-María politely disengaged himself and decorated with his embrace a some-what
surprised colonel who had conveniently arrived upon the terrace.

Paco lowered his voice to a savage hiss.

“Friend Enrique, what a world is this! Look what has happened to it since we had the misfortune to be born! Its one purpose is to destroy a man wherever one is found. I tell you, I saw it begin in Spain. Whenever the Republicans caught a man who was a man, they shot him. Whenever Franco got his hands on one, he shot him. At this pace there will be nothing left but mediocrities. By God, it is the fashion to think that a man who is a man is mad. Quick! If you cannot shoot him, set up a committee to control him. It cannot? Then pay the newspapers to make his wife and daughter ridiculous! He is a disturbance. He might intervene most dangerously between corruption and the computers. Enrique, I have enough!”

“I did not know you were so fond of Miro Kucera.”

“Fond of him? I am not fond of him! He is the biggest fool in Guayanas and I am at his feet. I have no religion. I have no faith that Christ was crucified. It is only experience of my fellow men which makes me sure he was. But I have been educated by Jesuits and I remember my catechism. Miro has done his duty in that state of life to which it pleased God to call him. We cannot all be saints. Some of us must be generals of Divisions. Who gave him the Citadel? Juan de Fonsagrada, I suspect. And why? To make quite sure that he had the power to save his own life. So what does he do? Gives it up for the Division! The folly of it! But when I observe our fellow members whose faces resemble the hindquarters of butchered pigs upon which a boy has drawn animated features with a piece of burnt cork, I cannot feel it is folly at all. Let us get away from their influence and be sane. Come on board and lunch with me, Enrique. There'll be something rich, for they took the launch out at dawn to go fishing.”

The invitation suited Henry Penruddock's mood. It would be refreshing to get outside the tense city and look at it. Not that one could see very much from the naval basin. Before the expansive days of Vidalismo it had been a pleasant spot with nothing
between the quays and open country except the buildings of an eighteenth century shipyard and the long, low, white barracks of the customs officers; but now it was solidly hemmed in by factories and the twelve-story blocks of flats which housed the workers.

The consul general stepped on to the quarterdeck of the
Frente Unido
and raised his hat. There was a faint flutter above him as the Union Jack whipped out from its halyard and then hung motionless in the midday heat. The same old delightful compliment. The same old weather-beaten Spanish faces in the wardroom, and only three officers born in Guayanas. It was a great pity, he thought, that though fourteen years had passed since the government had made a token payment to Spain and at last settled the angry question of the ownership of the
Frente Unido
there was still no eagerness to serve in her. Only the coastal Indians, Negros and mestizos much preferred to do their national service in the so-called Navy.

After an excellent lunch — for the cook was a Coruñes who never in all his life had wanted to do anything else — Henry Penruddock expanded over his brandy under the awning outside the captain's bridge cabin.

“What I cannot understand, Paco,” he said, “is why Vidal never made you hand over to one of the officers you have trained.”

“Enrique, don't think it is our fault. We are not jealous. The officers we have trained would be very competent if we had frigates and destroyers for them to command; but Vidal preferred to spend money on the Citadel and the Air Force. The
Frente Unido
is too big. They are afraid of her. Not one of them would dare to take her out of the basin even with a couple of tugs to do the work. So my best cadets occupy a desk at the Ministry of Defense and countersign papers I have already signed, or become harbormasters and inspectors of river police. The
Frente Unido
is as useless to Guayanas as to us. If Avellana has any common sense he will sell her for breaking up.”

“What will you do?”

“I? I declare for General Kucera!”

The consul was inclined to dream after his lunch, quietly congratulating
himself on his digestion and the excellence of the company. He pulled himself together.

“You . . . what?”

“I told you. I have enough. In all this they have forgotten the Navy.”

“If you had intercepted the
Santa María
—”

“I spit on the
Santa Maria!
There was nothing to fight for.”

“But Avellana has won. Whatever you do, you cannot affect the issue now, Paco.”

“The issue? What issue? Do you think it makes any difference to all those poor devils?” he waved his hand at the sordid crossword puzzle of windows and wash-hung balconies which overlooked the basin. “Under Vidal, plenty of work and good wages until they find their money buys nothing. Under Avellana, cheap food, unemployment and misery. The issue is a man. The Navy declares for General Kucera.”

“Paco, I beg of you!” Henry Penruddock exclaimed, seeing that he was dead serious, at any rate for the moment. “They are bound to accept his terms. If you revolt now, he won't even have time to say good-by to his wife.”

“Then perhaps he will have the goodness to fight for her.”

Juan. . . . The little Feli he had known as a child. . . . Guayanas, so full of potential happiness. . . . But it wasn't his business to interfere. Wasn't it? Wasn't it? No foreigner knew the country as he did.

With utter horror the consul heard himself say: “Why not declare for Vidal?”

“What good is that going to do?”

“It seems to offer more opportunities to save Kucera than banging off your guns for him. Also it gives you and any of your officers who will follow you a home.”

“They will all follow me. And we have no home but each other.”

“Why not try the United States?”

“Because I do not wish to earn my living as a waiter.”

“What's wrong with Minister of Marine?”

“I think they have one.”

“In Vidal's government, I mean.”

“What the devil does Gregorio Vidal want with a Minister of Marine?”

“Nothing. But the North Americans are paying the salaries of his government in exile, and a Minister of Marine will seem to them quite reasonable. As for your political opinions, you, as an old anarchist — which it would be best not to mention — are more Anti-Communist than most.”

“Enrique, is this a joke?”

“Not in the least, old friend. I can see nothing whatever to stop you declaring your support for the legal government and taking the
Frente Unido
to sea before the guns of the Citadel — if, as I fear, they are no longer served by Fifth Division tomorrow — can get your range. We seem to be agreed on the objective. I leave it to you to decide if it is practical politics. You heard the Captain General say that the British never intervene. At the most they allow themselves, as I am doing, to point out the often startling effects of sea power.”

“Listen, Enrique, like all your nation, you glorify piracy. For myself I do not mind. But I will not have my officers executed. I am like Miro in nothing — but in that, yes!”

“Avellana's government is not legal, Paco. Or not yet. In refusing to obey it, you cannot be a pirate. I do not know what my official opinion of Vidal's government-in-exile must be; but my private opinion is that Washington will find themselves supporting it in idleness for the next ten years, and that the Twenty-seventh Fleet, as I have heard you call it, will regretfully back its legality as long as necessary. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you and your officers were heroes for a second time.”

“At least we can use the same speeches. How far can I count on you?”

“On me? Not at all!” replied the consul hastily. “All I say, Paco, is that if you are determined to declare for Miro Kucera, it would be more sensible to begin by declaring for Vidal. And if you like I will take with me when I go onshore whatever worthless bits of paper the police of this hospitable country have issued to you all instead of passports, and return them to you visaed for entry into
the United States — on the understanding that if you can, you may, and if you can't you won't. My North American colleague will be wild with excitement, but I can trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

“That will reassure my officers. But the best visa to the United States is to fire a shot which they believe to be in their interests. All I want from you is to watch continually for the opportunity to fire it. The timing will be difficult. My objective must be to get Avellana and Miro is the same room with me at the top of the tide. You see that I have some ideas already. To one of them I must give some thought, for it fits my genius. I have seen too much bloodshed, Enrique. Even in defense of my principles I prefer to make war without it.”

CHAPTER XXI

[
March 22
]

W
HAT HAD A RAGING ANGER
to do with grief and that intolerable, unbelievable thought that in another sixteen hours Miro would have ceased to exist? If she herself were about to be killed, anger would be such a waste of spirit and precious time; it was just as much a waste when that noble, beloved body was going to watch, quite calmly, the shaking rifles pointed at it. To be brave was easy. Felicia had been brave — a meaningless word — ever since the first action at Cumana. But not to be angry was impossible.

None of these military men had even given her a chance to speak to him. She had seen him and exchanged a long look as the rear guard entered the city. She had seen him again, distant and lonely, when he surrendered. Neither he nor she could throw away all dignity in the presence of these pomposities of death. Surely Avellana could have relented, or Jesús-María had the humanity to permit the prisoner to see his wife between arrest and the ritual murder of their so-called court-martial? Surely they would have enjoyed the emotional moment, the bowing, saluting and lowered voices? No doubt some fool would have put on a sword and expected her to notice the honor.

Miro could and should have saved himself. She blamed Salvador
Irala — knowing that she was unjust — since Salvador's death, if one judged by the mere sequence of events, seemed to be the end of the story, the point at which Miro had given up. That it was not so she had learned from Rosalindo Chaves — Rosalindo, whom she had always disliked and distrusted, who now was the only person, she felt, to suffer an exact replica of her own emotions: anger, grief and despair.

The surrender of the Citadel had been carried out with calm military efficiency. Miro might have been receiving rather than resigning his command. He had worked out the details right down to the suggested dispersal areas; and his final note to Avellana had been published by the papers without comment but with an evident editorial gasp of astonishment.

Your Excellency will understand that it must be made easy for my troops to obey me. The surrender will therefore be carried out as I wish it. I have the honor to forward a copy of my Orders of the Day, from which Your Excellency will observe that the Division will move without ammunition and with four days' rations. As soon as units have passed out of the Citadel their commanders will report to Don Jesús-María de Hoyos y Alarcón, or whomever Your Excellency may designate, for further orders. When I have taken the salute and the Citadel is empty except for maintenance parties and the Hospital, I myself shall leave by the San Vicente Gate.

And so he had, alone. It was a company of the Presidential Guard which had taken his surrender and driven him off to the Palace — a last insult from the point of view of Fifth Division. Her father insisted that it was not so intended. The other available troops were too full of enthusiasm and humiliation to be allowed the custody of Miro. The guard, representing tradition and continuity beyond civil war, could be trusted to take charge of his last hours with formal courtesy.

Felicia and her father had watched him leave the Citadel — if it could be called watching, when the far-off figure was smaller than her tears. Few civilians, whatever their standing, had been allowed on the Avenida Gregorio Vidal, for that was the route of the
Armored Brigade and two regiments of artillery, so that there was little space among the cactus and brush by the side of the road. Then they had driven to the outskirts of San Vicente Airport, where Colonel Chaves and the rest of the Division were bivouacked to await orders. It was there on the dead plain that she had spoken to the raging, desolate Rosalindo. And even there she could not stay, for the nearest Combat Group, recognizing her with joy, had spontaneously formed up. In another moment they would have cheered. In another moment both Chaves and she might have forgotten they had no ammunition. It was her father, as always, who delicately imposed sanity.

His care of her for the last two days had been hard to bear. He was loving and gentle as he had been when she was a little girl — yet helpless and admitting helplessness. Leader of the liberals. Easily able to mass a crowd in the streets or to raise the province of Los Venados in rebellion. And all he could ever say was: “What good would it do, Feli?”

At least he had not said that of her decision to make a personal appeal to the President for mercy. The appointment was at half-past three. Afterwards she was to be allowed at last a long interview with her husband. There would be a blind farewell at dawn next day, when they took him out.

She dressed as if for Mass, for it was official pity that she had to arouse. After leaving Avellana she could take off the mantilla and add some touch of color by belt and flower to her black. She would not let Miro think her already in mourning when still they had an hour or two together.

“We have a little while to wait, Feli,” said her father when she came downstairs. “I have arranged with Gil Avellana that we shall call on him at four, not half-past three.”

“Why?”

“Because Enrique Penruddock asked me to. My darling, I do not flatter myself that his country has any official interest. But he sounded urgent, and it can do no harm to act as he advised. When there is nothing left to trust in the world, one seizes at old friendship.”

“So I give up half an hour of Miro because your old companion of the Ateneo terrace. . .”

Again she knew that she was piling injustice on injustice, and at the same time blessed him because he could not be hurt.

“Daughter mine, you may be right. But let us cheer ourselves with the thought that you might not be; that even if the odds are ten thousand to one against Enrique's having any influence, there is still the one.”

“I can do better. Gil Avellana must still have some remains of friendship and chivalry.”

“I hope so, Feli. God knows I hope so. Whatever you do, do not be sharp with him.”

They walked together into the courtyard, now cleaned of packing straw. A dozen of the wounded were there, some idling in the shade; others, more helpless, taking carefully measured doses of the sunlight on camp beds. The Fifth Division men rose or tried to rise to greet her. The Avellanistas were embarrassed; most made some slight gesture of recognition and pity.

It was Pancho who saved her from tears. Before he opened the gates for the car, he bowed over her hand and begged her to give his most respectful greetings to the general. His tone was loud and matter-of-fact. It did not for a moment assume that there was any possibility he would not see the general again.

The calm radiance of the Palace was unbelievably neutral. It had no right to be unchanged, to remain the unparalleled eternal beauty of all the Americas when there was no Concha in it any more, when the confident soldier who had so often mounted the steps was now resignedly reading — she was as sure as if she had seen him — behind locked and guarded doors in the small, formal suite of two rooms reserved for distinguished state prisoners. Usually they left it for exile, or in triumph. Except in the heat of anger Guayanas was merciful. She clung to the hope given by tradition.

Even the Palace servants were unchanged. Why, after all, should they be changed? But that, too, was a part of this unnerving neutrality.
It seemed unnatural that men who had loyally served a master they liked should show equal deference to the successor who had insulted him and thrown him out.

The
mayordomo
received them as if he had no memory of that terrible night when his fat knees had plopped against each other. He said that the President awaited them in the Little Salon. As she walked with her father down the long corridor, she tried to think why. Everything counted: why not the President's study? Because, perhaps, he wished to emphasize his private friendship for the Fonsagradas, although he had to refuse their request. Because, perhaps, he had no need of formality when he meant to grant a reprieve.

As soon as she entered the room she knew there was no hope that the latter guess was right. With the President was Pedro Valdés. That was a bad sign. Either Gil Avellana wasn't going to risk being alone with herself and Juan, or Valdés was there on his own insistence to see that the sentence was carried out.

They were both thinner and Avellana's hair was grizzled over the temples. Pedro Valdés had emphasized his military Communism by wearing the simplest possible gray uniform. It was not elegant. The people of Guayanas liked a show of gold lace and gallantry. He would never be able to make a stand against the proud Latinity of Avellana if they quarreled, nor would the Army accept for long a commander who played at being Stalin or an ascetic Chinese. A flash of insight, at last inspired by Valdés's uniform, convinced her that both she and the North Americans had been wrong. Not even the Barracas would accept the conformity of which that uniform was the symbol. Avellana and Morote they would follow with joy, but Valdés never.

They received her father with the false geniality of politicians, and herself with distant courtesy. Avellana sat at the desk with the two telephones by which Concha had stood so commandingly. Valdés remained by the great window which overlooked the glacis and the sea, disassociating himself from a painful interview which, it was certain, gave him no pain at all.

“Excellency, however much we have been opposed, may I congratulate an old friend upon his victory?” she said.

“Thank you, Doña Felicia. You are most generous.”

“And I wish you success. You will do much for Guayanas that ought to be done!”

Something in her was being sincere in spite of the fact that she would gladly have assassinated him then and there. But his face was a mask. Intuitively she perceived that he recognized only the actress in her. He liked and was accustomed to women of little depth. From his point of view, she was Pilar flattering him into a diamond bracelet or that detestable Vita begging to be installed in Concha's private drawing room with its own entrance. This stately opening, which in normal times would have appealed to him, was useless. It was better to be natural.

“Don Gil, what has he done to deserve death? Exile, imprisonment, whatever punishment you like. . . . But death? You are so strong now that you need not fear him.”

“I would not fear him if the civil war were over, Doña Felicia,” he replied. “But it is not. While the United States supports and recognizes Vidal, I am not leaving such an able commander at his disposal. It is inexpressibly painful for me to say so, but your father at least will understand.”

“Miro would give you his word of honor.”

She noticed that he hesitated before answering. Even Gil Avellana could not deny that Miro's word of honor was a formidable bond.

“But it is not only a question of fear, Doña Felicia.”

Valdés from the window interrupted with a loathsome remoteness:

“May I be permitted to remind Doña Felicia that the former Major General Kucera has been condemned by court-martial for rebellion against his superior officer, aggravated by murder, destruction of State property and refusal to accept surrenders?”

“And no credit for omitting to murder Red Cross personnel?” Juan asked.

Felicia turned to him, startled. This was exactly what he had warned her not to do.

“That was done without orders and in panic, Don Juan,” Valdés replied, “by very simple men who have not our advantages. You
will agree it is different from killing prisoners, sabotage, and the deliberate massacre of innocent students.”

“You know he never ordered that!” Felicia exclaimed.

“Directly, no. But he told his troops what to do before he went down the steps.”

“He did not!”

“Then who did?”

“I did.”

The two men smiled skeptically. Her father, she could see, at once believed her.

“I should have guessed, Feli,” he said. “I thought it was probably Concha Vidal.”

“Doña Felicia, my debt and the debt of Guayanas to the Fonsagradas is very great,” said Avellana, the gentleness of his tone contrasting with the bitter incisiveness of Pedro Valdés. “I dearly wish that I could reprieve your husband, but justice must be done. I have promised it to the people. It is a punishment in the name of the thousands of dead, a pledge to the whole country that such bloodshed shall never happen again.”

“Gil, we are not in the Chamber,” Juan retorted. “You know as well as I do that revolution very rarely turns into civil war. It can only do so if the armed forces are split, as they were this time. It is then the custom for the winning side to shoot a few generals. Justice has nothing to do with it.”

The telephone purred. Valdés picked it up and said:

“Captain Salinas requests an immediate interview.”

“Tell him to wait, Pedro.”

“You said old friendship counted, Don Gil,” Felicia appealed. “Then let it count.”

“I cannot. I cannot do it any more than a judge can.”

“But you are not a judge. You are the President. And I come to you as any other citizen, begging the President for mercy.”

“I have already been very merciful, Doña Felicia.”

“Not of your own free will. But now you can be. Give me my husband's life. In a month, everyone will have forgotten him.”

“Everyone? You think so?” he answered sternly. “You forget how many are in mourning!”

“Will it help them if there is one more?”

She heard her father catch his breath. But her reply was not intended to be moving. It had been a simple way to state a fact.

Juan at once took advantage of Avellana's silence.

“Gil, have you considered the effect of this sentence on foreign opinion?”

“I have indeed. And I will show you the telegrams if you wish. From universities, Juan. From writers and intellectuals. From left-wing movements in Europe and the Americas. And they are all the same. Death to the mercenary who used his forces to deny social justice to the people!”