Reasons of State (35 page)

And now, sitting on the presidential chair with all his supporters around him, he was celebrating the victory.

“You’ll see, they’ll open all the shops tomorrow and stop making such bloody nuisances of themselves.”

Outside, the chorus of sirens was still going on.

“Bring some champagne, Elmira. The best: from that cupboard; you know where it is …”

An occasional single rifle shot could be heard, far away, and sounding feebler than the weapons of the army.

“There are still one or two fools left,” said the President. “Gentlemen, once again, we have won.”

So much had happened during the day, and public buildings were so deserted that nobody noticed one very strange thing: the sudden disappearance—by theft of course—of the Diamond from the Capitol; yes, of that enormous Tiffany diamond set in the heart of a star at the feet of the gigantic statue of the Republic, and marking the zero point—of convergence and departure—of all the major roads in the country.

WHEN I REMEMBER THAT DAY, IT SEEMS TO ME THAT I lived through some sort of improbable carnival, whose hours were fuller, more crowded than whole years—a confusion of images, descent into hell, mobs, aimless shouting, figures revolving, masks, metamorphoses, mutations, din, substitution of one thing by another, everything upside down, owls hooting at midday, sunshine in shadow, appearance of harpies, lambs biting, roars of the meek, fury of weaklings; uproar where yesterday there was only whispering; and faces that have stopped looking, and receding backs, and a decor suddenly changed by the scene shifters of tragedies hatched in secret, grown in shadow, born in my proximity, although, deafened as I was by other choirs, I would not have heard the sound of real choirs—choirs with few singers, but those few possessing the voices of Great Singers …

And so I “opened my heart” to you—as they say here—with the help of the wine of that triumphant night; at dawn, after everyone left, I added a bottle of Armagnac, as we sat there alone watching the peaks of the Tutelary Volcano turn blue;
we must have a sort of Chamonix up there, and a skating rink—skiing is marvellous exercise—and a cable railway to get there, as they do in Switzerland
; two swings of the hammock and it was three in the afternoon; thus, as an adolescent, you opened your eyes on the operating theatre after being relieved of an appendix full of seeds—they said at the time that the appendicitis had been caused by eating guavas, whose pips
accumulated in that useless organ, left over from the prehistoric days when men were
vêtus de peaux de bêtes
, like those painted by Cormon, and fed on roots and stones of fruits; so you emerged from the chloroform dream, and that male nurse with the white cap and stethoscope around his neck was leaning over you:
have they taken it out already?
; but the nurse is Peralta in male nurse’s clothes—
why?
—; and behind him—to my surprise—is Mr. Enoch Crowder, in his round spectacles, with his old puritan’s face, but now instead of his frock coat, he has come dressed in tennis clothes,
here, to the Palace?
, striped flannel trousers, with
YALE
in red letters on his sweater and his racket in his hand; the United States Ambassador coming into your room like this, without asking for an interview, without a top hat or a stiff collar;
they aren’t trying to annoy you, you idiot; I’m high on aguardiente, remember
; a half turn, a swing of the hammock, and leave me in peace to sleep; but now some words seem to be coming from a long way off, and swelling, getting louder as they approach, talking to me about a battleship; the
Minnesota
is in Puerto Araguato; a great big ship it is too, with its metal tower and its guns turning and taking aim by electricity, and by some strange chance navigating six miles off our coast for several weeks; they tell me (I’m understanding more and more) that they are going to land marines, that they are already landing;
coffee, damn it, coffee! where is the Mayorala?
; the marines, here; that’s what they did in Veracruz; what they did in Haiti, hunting down the niggers; and in Nicaragua and in many other places, with bayonets ready for zambos and Latins; intervention, perhaps, as in Cuba with that General Wood, who was a worse thief than the mother who bore him; landing, intervention, General Pershing’s “punitive” expedition, the man of “Over There” and “The Star-Spangled Banner” in the exhausted Europe of ’17, who was made fun of and
harassed in Sonora by a few guerrillas with cartridge belts around their chests; I’m laughing, but it isn’t a joke—oh no; Mr. Enoch Crowder has come here like this, in tennis clothes, racket and all, because he’s spent two days without once leaving the Country Club, deliberating in conference with the live wires of the Bank, Trade, and Industry; and it’s these sons of bitches who are asking for the
Minnesota
to come here with her filthy marines; but the army, our army, won’t allow such an affront to our national honour; only the army happens to have revolted at the present moment; soldiers have deserted their sentry boxes and machine-gun posts, saying that that business yesterday wasn’t their fault; that they fired only because they were ordered to by their sergeants and lieutenants; and the sergeants and lieutenants have rebelled against their captains and generals, who have dug themselves into the tall building of the Hotel Waldorf, and go from the bar to the roof and from the roof to the bar, hoping that the marines will arrive and relieve them from being besieged by the crowd—the huge crowd yelling around the building and clamouring for their heads; the palace garrison has disappeared; not even a doorkeeper is left, nor a servant, nor a waiter; don’t ask for your ministers; no one knows where your ministers are;
the telephone
: the telephones aren’t working;
don’t ask for coffee: much better have a glass of aguardiente
, says Peralta (but why the hell is he dressed as a male nurse, with that stethoscope, and that thermometer in the pocket of his overall?);
don’t ask for coffee, the Mayorala’s got other things to do
; but yes, now that I consider the question more thoroughly I agree with the captains and generals; let the marines land, let them land: we’ll arrange about that afterwards—we’ll negotiate, we’ll talk—but for the moment, order, order is what we need …

“
You’re crazy
,” says the male nurse: “
what these people of the Bank and Business, and also this gentleman here, all want
is for you to go to hell; they’ve had enough; you’ve been playing the devil with their patience for more than twenty years; they don’t like you; no one likes you; if you’re still alive it’s because everyone thinks you’re with the others in the Waldorf; they can’t believe you could possibly be such a fool as to stay here alone, without companions or guards; it hasn’t entered anyone’s head; but when they do find out … I don’t like to think what’ll happen!…
So
let’s bugger off. But—at once!
”

I begin to understand. I get up. I hunt for my slippers.

“
But, fuck it all, I’ve not resigned! I’m the President!
”

“
You think so?
” says the male nurse. “
Luis Leoncio is already in Nueva Córdoba. A procession of cars has gone to fetch him
.”

“
That cretin, with his Alpha-Omega?
”

“
He’s the only man who can clear up the situation
,” says the tennis player.

“
But …
”

“
For the present we’re backing him
.”

“
So you’re dropping me?
”

“
Our State Department knows what it’s doing
.”

“
How can they take that professor seriously, a man who …
”

The tennis player was showing signs of impatience: “
I’ve not come here to argue, but to face facts. Doctor Luis Leoncio has the support of the active forces in this country. A lot of young people with democratic ideals are supporting him
.”

“
I see: Belén, the Methodist colleges, and the Statue of Liberty
.”

“
Don’t waste any more time, damn it: finish dressing!
”

“
Doctor Luis Leoncio has ideas, a plan
,” says the tennis player.

“
So has the Student
,” I say.

“
But that’s a very different matter
,” says the tennis player, passing his racket from one hand to another.

“
You must know that it was really the Student who did you in
,” says the male nurse. “
The bombs, those macabre jokes and false rumours all came from Alpha-Omega. But the general strike was the Student’s doing. A splendid piece of work, by the way. I wouldn’t have thought him capable of it
.”

“
And are you going to tell me that all the tradesmen who refused to open their shops were Bolsheviks?
”

“
It was precisely because they were afraid of the Bolsheviks that they didn’t open their shops. By joining the stoppage they were protecting their goods. And now they will lay them at the feet of the Caudillo of Nueva Córdoba, defender of order and prosperity, who will try to tame the Student—or something of the sort—and give some legality to his party. Because now there’ll be political parties in the country
.”

“
The businessmen are managing things intelligently
,” said the tennis player; “
wise men
.”

Coming to my senses, I suddenly say that there’s still time to do something: make peace with Hungary, which now has a stable government, restore constitutional guarantees, create a Ministry of Employment, remove press censorship, create a coalition cabinet until the forthcoming elections, to be supervised by a mixed commission, if that seems suitable.

“
Stop talking rubbish
,” says the male nurse. “
We’ve come to the crunch now. If we don’t clear out quickly, the crowd will soon be here, and you can imagine what that means. They loathe your guts!
”

At that moment a strange figure loomed up in the passage leading to the patio; it was Aunt Jemima, Walter Hoffmann’s grandmother, quietly making her way towards the main staircase, carrying on her head, as if it were a coffin, the grandfather clock from the dining room. “I’ve been in love with it for years,” she said as she passed. Behind her came several shady characters—obviously her great-great-grandsons,
carrying trays of silver, decanters, and table ornaments taken from the sideboards. This struck me as a final warning:

“
I shall take refuge in the United States Embassy
.”

“
Out of the question!
” says the tennis player. “
There’d be a riot in front of the building. Demonstrations. Violence. An impossible situation. The only thing I can do is give you shelter in our consulate at Puerto Araguato. There you will be protected by our marines. My government consents to that
.”

“
You’ll take me in your car …
”

“
I’m sorry, but I can’t expose myself to being fired at on the way. The Morejón woodcutters don’t understand diplomatic car plates. And there are said to be armed bands in El Bajío
.”

“
It’s only that there are no trains … the strike
,” I say, in a voice that trembles because of saliva that refuses to be swallowed.

“
That’s not my fault
,” says the tennis player. Peralta points to his clothes, his cap and stethoscope:

“
I’ve got an ambulance downstairs. There are no tolls on the road to the Olmedo Colony. And those Germans don’t care a fuck for our politics
.”

“
Good luck, Señor President
,” says the tennis player.

“
Son of a bitch
,” I say under my breath. But he hears me and says, in the manner of a comic clergyman:

“
Rahab, the woman of Jericho, was a bitch. And today she’s reckoned among our Lord’s ancestresses. Try reading the Bible on your way, Señor. It’s a most comforting book and full of information. There’s a lot about overturned thrones in it
.” And he picked up his racket, one of those—I remember—that are carried in a trapezoid wooden frame, with four screws holding down the rim of the racket, and took himself off without more ado (I think he said, “
So long
”), and as casually as if he were returning to the American Club, with its deep armchairs, bourbon on the rocks, tickertape, and central heating.

“
Son of a bitch
,” I say, and say again and again, because I have no worse insults in my limited English vocabulary. Now I look towards the gleaming peak of the Tutelary Volcano, no longer white but a pale orange from the approach of dusk. And I can’t help my expression being saddened by the tender melancholy of departure. But now the Mayorala arrives, eccentrically attired as a Nazarene Penitent, in a purple tunic, yellow sash, sandals, a
rebozo
to match the tunic, and carrying a bundle of clothes.

“She’s coming with us,” says Peralta. And she explains with her special combination of mimicry and onomatopoeia: “Everyone knows that when I was [
gesture of pouting out her breasts and rounding her hips
] … you me [
a faint whistle, and one forefinger making a cross with the other
] and although I’m not the same [
hands re-modelling a face that was now a little coarsened
] you and I still go on [
now she joins her forefingers and rubs one against the other
]. And with them being so mad at me, if they caught me [
a whistle accompanied by a hand clapped to her forehead, and her head falling on her left shoulder with the mouth open
]. So that’s why I …” (
loud whistle and arms imitating the movements of someone running
).

“Besides, the Nazarene dress is a splendid idea,” says Peralta. And suddenly I come to myself and remember the most important thing of all: