The War of Don Emmanuel’s Nether Parts (47 page)

It took several months to remove the worst of the mud; they were hampered every time it rained, and as the terraces were built the bricks had to be carried further and further away. In the end it was years before the whole town was dug out because work slackened almost as soon as there were enough houses to live in, and people only dug out houses on the two days a week devoted to community service projects, or when they felt like moving to a sunnier position, or could not stand their neighbours any more, or there was a new addition to a family that necessitated a more spacious residence. The stones would always bear the dark stains of the centuries’ immersion in mud, and it was many months before the damp was finally driven out. The people developed a submarine mentality, for all about them were the traces of centuries of tranquil inundation. They would say, ‘Swim over to my place tonight, and we will take a copa together,’ and they would point to a playing cat, laugh, and say, ‘Look at that catfish!’

During the early phases of the digging the workforce was dramatically increased. Something glinting on the western slope had caught Consuelo’s eye, and she had put her hand up to shade her vision. ‘Ay! Ay! Look!’ she shouted, and everyone followed the line of her gesture to see in the distance Aurelio at
the head of four hundred Indians of both sexes and the troop of fifty Spanish soldiers in full armour.

With one mind the people dropped their bricks and their tools and converged on the historical column of de-refrigerated human anachronisms. ‘Hola!’ shouted Aurelio, and led the column towards the crowd. Pedro stepped forward and strode up to greet Aurelio. He cast his eyes over the column and said, ‘You are a great brujo.’

‘No,’ said Aurelio. ‘The secret is knowing how to do it gently and as quickly as possible.’

The people crowded round the new arrivals, and saw that they walked like the dead, with no life in their eyes and without expression. ‘Are they still dead?’ asked Father Garcia.

‘No, they are sleepwalking. They will take many weeks to wake up. When they do . . .’ he pointed to the Spaniards in full armour, ‘you will probably have a lot of trouble with these. You should imprison them or they will imprison you.’

‘How will we feed so many extra mouths?’ demanded Remedios. ‘There is scarcely enough for us.’

‘They will eat little until they wake up. I will stay here to care for the cholos. As for them . . .’ he spat, ‘I nearly did not revive them. They are a problem for you.’

During the weeks before they awoke the unfrozen somnambulatory denizens of an imperial age worked like automata alongside the people. At night they did not sleep, but sat motionless with their hands on their knees and their empty eyes open and unflickering. The people talked to them in childish voices and fed them with pureed banana and soup, which dribbled down their chins as with babies. The great cats licked their faces and cleaned them as they would their kittens, and at night draped themselves across their laps to sleep.

‘Why did you do this?’ asked Garcia one day. ‘Why did you bring them back from death?’

‘I wanted to ask the cholos the secret of the stones,’ said Aurelio. ‘And the Spaniards I brought back for vengeance.’

‘Vengeance?’ repeated Garcia. ‘You are not going to kill them again, surely?’

‘No, Garcia. You will see.’

When the Indians woke up Aurelio was mortified to discover that not only were they completely terrified by the strange people around them, but that they spoke a language that was neither Aymara nor Quechua, nor Guarani, nor any tongue that he recognised. His attempts to befriend them failed, and the night after they awoke they slipped in a body out of Cochadebajo de los Gatos and disappeared into the mountains, gratefully believing that they had escaped slavery.

The Spanish, however, woke up believing that they were in charge of everything. At first they were completely disorientated and confused, in a city they did not remember, with people they did not recognise. But within half an hour of waking, the imperious Conde Pompeyo Xavier de Estremadura had struck Felicidad for not curtseying when she crossed his path, and one of the common soldiers had sexually assaulted Francesca in public, and then lashed out at Josef when he had pulled him away.

After several intolerably anti-social and brazen incidents of this kind Hectoro mounted his horse and roped the Conde with his lariat as he was attempting to order Remedios to fetch him some food. Cursing roundly in his quaint Castilian, the arrogant conquistador was dragged to the colonnade of the jaguars and tied to one of the obelisks. The remainder of the band of ignoble Iberians were rounded up at gunpoint and herded to the same spot, where they too were tied to the obelisks.

‘I demand,’ thundered the Count in his strange accent, ‘to be released forthwith, or you will all taste the edge of his Catholic Majesty’s sword! Your city will be razed, and every one of you quartered and fed to the dogs! How dare you perpetuate this blasphemous outrage against the might of Spain!’

‘You will be quiet,’ said Hectoro, through clenched teeth, ‘or I shall remove your cojones and oblige you to swallow them.’ He took out his knife and brandished it before the aristocrat’s face.

Hectoro rode his horse to where all could hear and announced, ‘You have all been dead for four hundred years, and we have very kindly brought you back to life. There is no King of
Spain here! There are no Kings whatsoever here, and no Counts or Marquises or Princes! You will show humility and gratitude, you will behave with courtesy, or we will cast you out into the mountains to die all over again.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘To us you are lower than dogs, you have no rank and no privilege and you will get no consideration from us until you deserve it! I sentence you to one week of humiliation for your barbarity!’

Hectoro swung off his horse and strolled over to the Count, who glared at him disdainfully and said with contempt, ‘You will die, dog, the moment the King hears of this!’

Hectoro spat on the ground, opened his fly and pissed copiously on the Count’s feet. The latter turned puce with rage and struggled against his bonds, shouting out blasphemies and imprecations. The people cheered and clapped, and Hectoro ambled back to his horse, swinging up into the saddle. He acknowledged the applause of the crowd and gestured for silence. ‘Do not harm them,’ he called. ‘Shame them.’

Aurelio turned to Pedro. ‘Vengeance,’ he said, and walked away smiling.

For a week the children amused themselves by imitating Hectoro’s feat and throwing mud balls that splattered on the engraved cuirasses and helmets, and stained the scarlet breeches. Felicidad tugged the Count’s beard and squeezed his nose whilst he glowered at her in speechless indignation. Francesca lowered the breeches of the soldier who had assaulted her, pouring pimiento sauce on his genitalia, and Consuelo filled with horse manure the chappelle-de-fer of the man who had pushed her and set it back on his head.

The soldiers were not released until every one of them had vowed never again to give offence, on pain of expulsion, and to work relentlessly at clearing the mud. The offensive decon-gelated soldiery were in effect treated as abject slaves for several months, roped together and made to work at gunpoint. The objectionable and unrepentant Count remained bound to the obelisk for one month before he ungraciously conceded to work like everyone else, but, unused to being treated with
amused contempt, his fierce pride gave way at length to sorrowful despondency, and he began to waste away. At length even Hectoro took pity on the disheartened warrior, and Remedios, sensitive to his perpetual suffering, his elaborate deferential courtesy, his profound melancholy and his quaint turn of phrase, began to fall in love with him and bring him gifts of dainty things to eat.

During and preceding these events, Father Garcia had continued to elaborate in his head the details of his new theology. Having pondered the incomprehensible evil of the world, he concluded that God had not created it, but had created souls. What had really happened was that God had created the Devil through a cosmic oversight, and it had been the Devil that was responsible for having made the world and tricked the souls into occupying bodies. The only way to struggle back to God was to deny the Devil’s creation completely, refuse to eat meat in order not to interfere with the process of metempsychosis, and diminish the Devil’s kingdom by refusing to procreate.

When he preached the New Gospel in the squares, he found that he made no converts at all, and was forced to admit that even he himself found its practical requirements unpalatable. After many weeks of serious thought he preached the same Gospel, with the rider that Cochadebajo de los Gatos was the beginning of a New Creation, a New Period of God’s active intervention in the Universe; therefore one could eat meat and had an absolute obligation to procreate as much as possible in order to increase it in size relative to the Kingdom of the Devil. Father Garcia’s revised Albigensian heresy grew instantly in popularity, and he became a serene and contented man who exuded an aura of saintliness and beatitude. His preaching became more and more inspirational and unintelligible until one day, rapt with mystical ecstacy, he levitated spontaneously and was able to preach to a purring assembly of cats from the top of an obelisk.

THE ASSORTED FRAGMENTS
of El Gandul were gathered together and placed in a military coffin. This was loaded on to a truck and taken to the barracks, where it was draped with the national flag. Before it departed for the capital the Brigadier held a special parade for it.

It was set up on a gun carriage with the General’s sword and cap on it, and the whole garrison paraded past it at the slow-march, with guns sloped, and in full dress uniform. Practically the whole town turned out to watch the occasion, which was the grandest military display ever seen in Cesar. Many of the soldiers marched with tears streaming down their cheeks, and those who had known General Fuerte, such as his office staff, wept so grievously that soon the whole populace was contagiously convulsed with sobs. General Fuerte had been the only honest and honourable governor they had ever had, and so his coffin was festooned with flowers as it passed, and some people cried out incongruously, ‘Viva El General!’ for want of a more apt expression.

In the plaza the soldiers wheeled into formation and halted. The four little black horses with nodding plumes drew the gun carriage into the centre, and there the Brigadier delivered a grandiloquent oration in the customary style. He stood at the foot of the statue of Simon Bolivar and spoke these words,
which were reprinted in full in the Valledupar
Prensa
the following day:

‘Citizens and soldiery of Valledupar! A most dolorous duty causes us to congregate in the plaza before the image of our nation’s most exalted hero, Simon Bolivar! In this coffin before us, opened too early, lie the mortal remains of our unfortunate and beloved Governor, whose existence, although it has been cut untimely short, passed with meteoric luminosity, leaving an illustrious and translucent after-glow in its wake. Even as the varied and beautiful lines of the spectrum through a converging lens are transformed into a scintillating ray of white light, resplendent, so the details which in his work he compiled, united and synthesised, emerged afterwards from his lofty brain in the beautiful productions of public peace and harmony whose merit is sufficient to place his sarcophagus in the temple of immortality!

‘If the disassociation of the matter which constitutes the shell of the human body carries not with it the destruction of personality; if an immortal spirit survives, transmigrating, or ascending in infinite and glorious spirals to the affectionate bosom of the omnipotent creator, then his cruel and gratuitous expiration in the conflagration of a subversive explosion is not death and obliteration, but a transformation, a mere change from one existence to another! The chrysalis, it is true, has broken its carapace, and the glorious butterfly – the resplendent psychic entity – has flown to happier regions, to merge itself into the Prime Cause of our Being. His noble and refined spirit, spreading like the undulations of the oceanic waves, hovers like the humming-birds he loved amidst the engrossing and perfumed orisons of the choirs of the hierarchies of the celestial inhabitants of the heavenly regions!

‘Citizens and soldiery of Valledupar! Let us bid farewell to the excellent General Carlo Maria Fuerte! Let us pray that we shall carry always before the lachrymose eyes of our saddened and subdued souls the perfect image of his magnificent example! Let our tears not wash away the memory of this immaculate and conscientious public servant! Let us remember him with
unstinting gratitude, and let us ensure that his successors in office follow his precepts!’

Wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his glove, the Brigadier drew his sword and raised it. The soldiers presented arms, stepped one foot forward, and raised their rifles to their shoulders. When the Brigadier brought his sword down, the soldiers fired three volleys into the air, and in response there boomed from the barracks the salute of the field guns.

The people of Valledupar honoured the body with a despedida as far as the railway station, where it was carried on the shoulders of six soldiers into a carriage.

In an interview that evening the Brigadier stunned the, whole nation by stating that in his opinion the assassination of the General was the work of right-wing extremists within the Army. Everybody had assumed that the outrage would, regardless of the truth, be blamed on left-wing terrorists. General Ramirez hastily refuted the Brigadier’s contention in a rather too vehement press release, and in this way unwittingly started a rumour that he himself was responsible. His position became ever more insecure and untenable as the rumours spread, and as even the national press regained the temerity to reprint the articles from the
New York Herald.
Seizing his opportunity, His Excellency, President Enciso Veracruz appointed the Brigadier military governor of Cesar, and promoted him to General without consulting General Ramirez. When the Revolutionary Socialists (Turcos Lima Front) tried to claim responsibility for the atrocity, no one believed them, and General Ramirez made himself publicly ridiculous by pretending that he did. The Brigadier, now General, further stunned the nation by calling a plebiscite in Cesar to confirm him in office. He won easily without rigging the vote, as only the communists tried to organise an opposition. They feuded bitterly over the selection of a candidate, with the result that the left-wing vote was split between nine hopeful representatives who devoted their election addresses to denouncing each other as capitalist lackeys, revisionists, revanchists, Trotskyists, and bourgeois stooges. The general population, not
being familiar with the technical vocabulary of the left, voted for the only candidate whose speeches they could understand, which is the main reason why Brigadier, now General, Hernando Montes Sosa won the election so easily.