The Secret History of Costaguana (30 page)

I had more than one chance to speak. Today I have to ask myself: Would General Tovar have believed me if I, a complete stranger, had told him that the shortage of trains was a revolutionary strategy, that the promise to send the battalion in the first available trains was false, and that by separating from their five hundred men the generals were submitting to the revolution and losing the Isthmus out of pure naïveté? Would he have believed me? Well, the question is merely rhetorical, for this was never my intention. And I remember the moment when I saw them all (General Tovar, General Amaya, and their men) sitting in Colonel Shaler’s luxurious carriage, basking in the privileged treatment, receiving complimentary glasses of juice and plates of bitesized pieces of papaya while waiting for departure time, satisfied at finally having earned the Americans’ respect. Dear readers, it was not out of cynicism or sadism or simple egotism that I climbed aboard the coach and insisted on shaking hands with the two government generals. I was moved by something less comprehensible and decidedly less explicable: the proximity to the Great Event and, of course,
my participation in it
, my silent role in Panama’s independence or, to be more precise and also more honest, in Colombia’s disgrace. To have the chance to speak again, even the horrible temptation to speak, and not to do so: my historical and political destiny was then reduced, and would be forever reduced, to that delicate, catastrophic, and vengeful silence.

Colonel James Shaler’s private train began to spit out steam seconds later. The whistle blew a couple of hoarse notes; I was still on board, amazed at the cosmic ironies of which I was the victim, when the landscape outside the window began to move backward. I said a hurried farewell, wished the generals luck, and leapt down onto Front Street. The carriage began to take the generals away; behind, waving the most hypocritical handkerchief in the history of humanity, was Colonel Shaler. I stood beside him as we both engaged in that strange revolutionary task: seeing off a train. The back door of the carriage grew smaller and smaller until there was just a black dot above the rails, then a cloud of gray smoke, and finally not even that: the lines of iron converging, stubborn and determined on the green horizon. Without looking at me, as if not speaking to me, Colonel Shaler said, “I’ve heard a lot about your father, Altamirano.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“It’s a shame what happened to him, because the man was on the right side. We’re living in complicated times. Besides, I don’t know much about journalism.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“He wanted what we all want. He wanted progress.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“If he had lived to see independence, his sympathies would have been with it.”

I was grateful that he wasn’t attempting fictions, or half-truths, or concealment strategies. I was grateful he respected my talents (my talents as a reader of the real, as an interpreter of immediate reality).

I said, “His sympathies would have been with those who made the Canal, Colonel.”

“Altamirano,” said Shaler, “can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away, Colonel.”

“You know this is serious, right?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know people are risking their lives, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’ll make it easy for you. Either you’re with us, with independence and progress, or you’re against us. It would be best if you decided right now. This Colombia of yours is a backward country . . . .”

“It’s not my Colombia, Colonel.”

“Does it seem fair to keep the rest behind? Does it seem fair that all these people should be screwed just because that congress of crooks hasn’t managed to get their own slice of the Canal?”

“It doesn’t seem fair, Colonel.”

“It’s really not fair, is it?”

“It’s really not fair.”

“Good. I’m glad we agree on this, Altamirano. Your father was a good man. He would have done whatever it took to see this Canal. Mark my words, Altamirano, mark my words: the Canal will be built and we’re the ones who’ll build it.”

“You’ll build it, Colonel.”

“But we’ll need your help. The patriots, no, the heroes of Panama City will need your help. Are you going to lend us a hand, Altamirano? Can we or can we not count on you?”

I think my head moved, I think I nodded. In any case, Shaler’s satisfaction at my consent was reflected in his voice and in his face, and at the back of my mind my thirst for revenge was quenched, the organ of the lowest instincts was satisfied again.

A tired old mule went by pulling a cart. On the back a child with a dirty face and bare feet sat with his legs hanging over the edge. He waved good-bye to us. But Colonel Shaler didn’t see, because he’d already left.

 

A
nd after that, there was no going back. Colonel Shaler must have had magic powers, because with those few words he had magnetized me, turned me into a satellite. During the hours that followed I found myself touched, much to my chagrin, by the waters of the revolution, and there was nothing I could do about it. My will, I seem to recall now, did not have much to do with it: the whirlwind—no, the vortex—of events involved me irremediably. The ingenuous generals went to Panama City; the Tiradores battalion remained in Colón under the command of Colonel Eliseo Torres, a small man with an insolent voice who still looked baby-faced despite the mustache that cast a shadow on both sides of his serpent’s mouth. Readers of the Jury: allow me to show you the sound, faint but very evident, of the least noisy revolution in the history of humanity, a march marked by the inevitable rhythm of the clock. And you’ll have to be witnesses to that unbearable mechanism.

At 9:35 on the morning of November 3, Herbert Prescott receives in Panama City the telegram that says GENERALS LEFT WITHOUT BATTALION STOP ARRIVING 11 AM STOP TAKE AGREED ACTIONS. At 10:30, Dr. Manuel Amador visits the Liberals Carlos Mendoza and Eusebio Morales, in charge of composing the Declaration of Independence and the Manifesto of the Junta of the Provisional Government. At 11:00: Generals Tovar and Amaya are met with profuse, cordial greetings by Domingo Díaz, the provincial governor, and seven illustrious citizens. At 3:00 p.m., General Tovar receives an anonymous letter telling him to trust no one. Rumors of revolutionary meetings in Panama City proliferate, and the General goes to see Governor Díaz to ask him to order the superintendents of the Railroad to transport the Tiradores battalion immediately to Panama City. At 3:15: Tovar receives the reply to his request. From Colón, Colonel James Shaler refuses to allow his trains to be used to transport the Tiradores battalion, arguing that the government owes large sums of money to the Railroad Company. Tovar, a man with a subtle though perhaps slow sense of smell, begins to get a whiff of something strange, heads for the Chiriquí barracks, headquarters of the National Guard, for detailed discussions of the situation with General Esteban Huertas, commander of the guard.

At 5:00, Generals Tovar, Amaya, and Huertas have sat down on a pine bench outside the barracks, a few steps from the oak door. Tovar and Amaya, concerned by the rumors, begin to discuss military solutions that can be carried out without the support of the Tiradores battalion, captive of the debts. At this, Huertas stands up, gives some excuse, and leaves. Suddenly, a small contingent of eight soldiers bearing Grass rifles arrives. The generals suspect nothing. In the barracks, meanwhile, Huertas orders Captain Marco Salazar to arrest Generals Tovar and Amaya. Salazar, in turn, orders the soldiers to carry out the arrest. The generals suspect something. And at that moment, the eight Grass rifles swing through the air and aim at Tovar’s and Amaya’s heads. “I think something’s gone wrong,” says Tovar, or maybe Amaya. “Traitors! Turncoats!” shouts Amaya, or maybe it’s Tovar. According to some versions, that’s when they both say in unison: “I suspected as much.”

At 6:05, revolutionary demonstrations begin to occupy the streets of Panama City. Collective shouts go up:
“Viva Panamá Libre!
Long live General Huertas! Long live President Roosevelt!” And most of all: “Long live the Canal!” The governmental military, in fear, load their weapons. One of them, General Francisco de Paula Castro, is discovered hidden in a stinking latrine. He has his breeches up, all the buttons of his uniform well fixed in their buttonholes, so the excuse offered (which makes reference to certain intestinal upset) loses validity; nevertheless, this Francisco would go down in history as the General Who Was Scared Shitless. At 8:07: Colonel Jorge Martinez, in command of the cruiser
Bogotá
anchored in the revolutionary city’s bay, receives news of the occurrences on land and sends Dr. Manuel Amador, leader of the insurgents, the following message: “Either you hand the generals over to me or I’ll bomb Panama City.” Amador, excited by the revolution, loses his composure and replies: “Do whatever the hell you want, if you’ve got the balls.” At 8:38: Colonel Martinez examines his balls and finds them full of fifteen-pound shells. He approaches the shore, loads his cannons, and fires nine times. The first shell lands in El Chorrillo neighborhood, on Sun Hao Wah (Chinese, killed on impact) and a few meters from Octavio Preciado (Panamanian, killed by heart attack provoked by the fright). Shell number two destroys the house of Ignacio Molino (Panamanian, absent at the time) and number three hits a building on West Twelfth Street, killing Babieca (Panamanian, percheron horse). Shells number four through nine do not cause any damage whatsoever.

At 9:01: the Revolutionary Junta, meeting in the Panama City’s Hotel Central, presents the flag of the future Republic. It has been designed by Dr. Manuel Amador’s son (applause) and sewn by Dr. Manuel Amador’s wife (applause and gazes of admiration). At 9:03: explanation of the symbols. The red square represents the Liberal Party. The blue square represents the Conservative Party. The stars, well, the stars will be something like peace between the parties, or the eternal concord of the new Republic, or some pretty little idea along those lines—they’d have to come to an agreement or put it to a vote. At 9:33: Dr. Manuel Amador reveals details of his trip to New York in search of North American support for the secession of Panama to those who don’t know about it. He speaks of a Frenchman, a certain Philippe Bunau-Varilla, who advised him on all the practical details of the revolution, and even supplied him with a briefcase with the following contents: a declaration of independence, a model constitution for new countries, and some military instructions. The audience applauds with admiration. Those French sure know how to do things, damn it. At 9:45: the Revolutionary Junta proposes they send a telegram to his Excellency the President of the United States with the following text: SEPARATION MOVEMENT PANAMA REST OF COLOMBIA HOPES RECOGNITION YOUR GOVERNMENT FOR OUR CAUSE. But the conspirators’ joy was premature. The revolution was not yet sealed. It still needed my intervention, which was lateral and superfluous and in any case dispensable, as also had been my treasonous silence, but it nevertheless stained me forever, contaminated me as cholera contaminates water. It was the moment when my crucified country (or maybe it was the new resurrected country?) chose me as evangelist.

“You shall testify,” I was told. And that’s what I’m doing.

 

D
awn was cloudy on November 4. Before seven I left without saying good-bye to you, dear Eloísa, who was sleeping faceup; I leaned down to give you a kiss on the forehead, and saw the first sign of the day’s stifling, humid heat in your damp hair, a few locks sticking to the white skin of your neck. Later I would learn that at that very moment Colonel Eliseo Torres, delegated commander of the Tiradores battalion, was urinating under a chestnut tree, and it was there, with one hand leaning on the trunk, that he found out about the generals’ detention in Panama City. He went immediately to the Railroad Company offices; indignant, he demanded Colonel Shaler assign a train to take the Tiradores battalion across the Isthmus. Colonel Shaler could have invoked the Mallarino-Bidlack Treaty—as he in fact later did—and his obligation, established in that text, to maintain neutrality in any political conflict, but he did not. The only answer he gave was that the Colombian government had still not paid him the money it owed, and furthermore, to be honest, Colonel Shaler did not like to be spoken to in that tone of voice. “I’m sorry, but I cannot help you,” said Colonel Shaler at the same time as I leaned down to kiss my little girl (careful not to wake her), and it’s not impossible that as I did so, I would have thought of Charlotte and the happiness that had been snatched away from us by the Colombian war. Eloísa dear, my face close to yours, I smelled your breath and pitied your motherlessness and wondered if it was my fault in some obscure way. All events, I’ve learned over time, are connected: everything is a consequence of everything else.

The telephone rang at seven in the Company offices. While I was walking slowly through the streets of Christophe Colomb, taking my time, breathing the heavy morning air, and wondering what face my schizophrenic city would be wearing the day after the beginning of the revolution, from the Panama City station three of the conspirators were speaking to Colonel Eliseo Torres to suggest that he lay down his weapons. “Surrender to the revolution, but also to the evidence,” one of them told him. “The oppression of the central government has been defeated.” But Colonel Torres was not prepared to bow to the pressures of the separatists. He threatened to attack Panama City; he threatened to torch Colón as Pedro Prestán had done. José Agustín Arango, who was the conspirators’ spokesman at that moment, informed him that Panama City had already embarked on the path to liberty and did not fear confrontation. “Your aggression will be repelled with the might of a just cause,” he said (Colombians have always been good at grand phrases for precise moments). The call ended abruptly, with Colonel Eliseo Torres throwing the telephone with such force that it chipped the wood of the desk. The echo of the blow resounded through the high-ceilinged hallways of the Company and reached my ears (I was at the port, twenty meters from the Company entrance), but I didn’t know, I couldn’t have known, what it was about. Did I even wonder? I don’t think so; I think at that moment I was distracted or rather absorbed by the color the Caribbean takes on overcast days. Limón Bay was not part of the immensity of the Atlantic, but a greenish-gray mirror, and on that mirror floated, in the distance, the silhouette of what looked like a toy model of the battleship
Nashville
. You could hear only a few seagulls, only the lapping of the waves against the breakwaters and the deserted docks.