Reasons of State (16 page)

Already the first papers referring to the “European War” were arriving from our countries—a fresh, good, and exciting subject in these monotonous times—full of sensationalism and emotion. Once again people were confronted by huge headlines, or “stop-press telegrams” printed in twelve-point type, as they had been in more interesting times—with some important “news flash” enclosed in a frame of its own. Many people, accustomed to suppress their thoughts about local happenings for fear of persecution, felt free, elevated and relieved, as it were cathartically, by these great but faraway events, suddenly brought into the forefront of reality. At last they could discuss, argue, conjecture, protest (insult Von Tirpitz, censure Italian neutrality, laugh at the Turks) in accordance with similar tendencies in all the countries of the continent.
Over there
the clergy were pro-German, because impious France promoted lay education and had separated Church from State, while the Spanish bankers, the many descendants of German emigrants, and the relations and friends of the little clan of officials who were jokingly called “Little Fredericks” were already applauding the Kaiser’s certain victory. But all the intelligentsia, writers, academics, readers of Rubén Dario or Gomez Carrillo were pro-Allies
(no one understood about the
Entente
), as were all those who had been, or dreamed of one day becoming, schoolteachers, along with free thinkers, doctors trained in Paris, and a large section of the middle classes—above all those who, at social gatherings, sometimes talked French as affectedly and badly as the characters in
War and Peace
. Generally speaking, this was true of the whole nation, because the French came to our countries more for commercial than other reasons, and had never gone in for tiresome competition with the natives, but treated everyone alike amiably, and often allied themselves with zambas
^*
and cholas, in this respect being very different from those who shut themselves up in “German Clubs,” or “German Cafés,” which admitted only those of pure white blood, and where the appearance of a negro or Indian would have been greeted by a Fafner-like baring of teeth.

And now they were entering the month of September, amidst doubts and anxieties, although the Head of State surveyed the daily prospect with almost enjoyable expectation. To judge from the speed of their operations, Von Moltke’s armies would soon reach the Arc de Triomphe without much difficulty, since France now possessed no generals of the stature of those whose names were inscribed on Napoleon’s monument. And this proud, perverted metropolis was to experience a purification by fire, which more than one French Catholic writer would have compared to Sodom and Gomorrah—or even to the whore of Babylon, after the erection (a word that should be used only in reference to statues or architectural works, according to Flaubert) of its Eiffel Tower, Tower of Babel, modern ziggurat, lighthouse of cosmopolitanism, symbol of the Confusion of Tongues, happily balanced by other pinnacles such as the white cupolas—though its architect had wanted
them to be gold—of Sacré-Coeur. But the Head of State, who was a dispenser of indulgences when other people’s actions didn’t force him to be Distributor of Punishments, was not thinking about fire in terms of conflagrations and collapsing ceilings, but about a psychological fire, a moral chastisement that would force the Arrogant and Self-sufficient to humble themselves and ask for peace. That fire must not of course damage the frescoes of the Panthéon, the pink stone of the Place des Vosges, the windows of Notre-Dame, nor yet the chastity belts in the Abbaye de Cluny, the wax figures and illusions in the Musée Grévin, or the leafy chestnut trees of the avenue where the Comtesse de Noailles lived (although she was one of those who were cutting him) and still less the Trocadero, where as soon as the war was over our Mummy (now being fetched from Gothenburg by the cholo Mendoza) would be displayed in a glass case. And it could need only a few days, surely, for the war to be over. Doctor Fournier, as he discharged his patient—whose hand now went to his pistol easily and quickly, without his forefinger going numb on the trigger—broke into lamentations about the lack of preparation on the part of the Supreme Command, the improvidence, negligence, muddle—
c’est encore la débâcle
—that were carrying us towards inevitable defeat.

“
Vous faites bien de repartir chez vous, cher Monsieur. Au moins, là -bas, c’est le soleil, c’est le rhum, c’est les mulâtresses
.”

But on the afternoon of September 7 the Battle of the Marne began. (“A war is not won by taxi drivers,” the Head of State had remarked ironically.) It was soon apparent that in opposition to Jomini’s tactics and strategy, the French front line had no centre, this being occupied solely by a weak contingent of cavalry. On the eighth it looked as if they had lost. But on the afternoon of the ninth victory was theirs. That evening, the Latin American diplomats gathered together in
their café on the Champs-Elysées and celebrated this triumph by inviting every prostitute who passed to have a drink, while the Head of State—who had joined them for once—looking imposing in his frock coat, and with a patriarchal wisdom recognised by all, muttered: “Certainly … certainly … However, this doesn’t settle anything.”

Next day he got up very early, in an embittered frame of mind, and stood contemplating the Arc de Triomphe, whose size seemed to increase or dwindle according to whether his defeatist desires were satisfied or frustrated. Now that his arm was cured, he must think about returning
over there
—he had no reason to stay on here—moreover, he must renounce for the present his hopes of a triumphal procession with deafening yet comic military bands marching like automatons, trombones and trumpets with blown-out cheeks, and all the musicians conducted by an enormous drum major. He was just going to telephone Peralta to suggest a stroll to Monsieur Musard’s Bois-Charbons when the secretary came into the room, looking disturbed and holding a long message on blue paper:

“Read this … read this.”

The cable was from Roque García, President of the Senate:
HAVE TO INFORM YOU GENERAL WALTER HOFFMANN REBELLED IN CIUDAD MORENO WITH INFANTRY BATTALIONS 3, 8, 9, 11. ALSO FOUR REGIMENTS INCLUDING HUSSARS, ALSO FOUR UNITS ARTILLERY TO CRY OF LONG LIVE THE CONSTITUTION, LONG LIVE LIBERTY
.

“The cunt! The son of a bitch!” yelled the Head of State. But this was not all: three of the “Little Fredericks”—Breker, the blond “good chap,” always favoured by notes and instructions from above; González, who had trained as a soldier in Germany; and Martorell, a Catalan artilleryman become a Creole out of hatred of the Spanish monarchy—these three
young soldiers, flattered, privileged, and rapidly advancing in the hierarchy, were all taking part in the coup.

“Sons of bitches! Sons of bitches!”

And suddenly giving way to paroxysms of rage, the Head of State shouted, raged, and stormed, and then sank into the depths of despair, groaning, wounded, seeming as if pierced to the heart, stammering out the most damaging adjectives he could find to describe treachery, felony, ingratitude, deceit, and fraud. His monologue reached a climax of exasperation, only to relapse once more into lamentations near to tears, as if he were unable to find words to express his disillusion; then, quickly recovering himself and again growing excited, he exploded into a fresh outburst of oaths and terrible threats.

(“I’ve heard that Mounet-Sully is a great tragedian,” thought Peralta, “but there can’t be another like my President.”)

And the Head of State was still shouting and raging, overturning furniture, throwing books on the floor, aiming at Gérome’s gladiators with his Belgian pistol, and making such a furious commotion that Sylvestre came hurrying from the pantry in alarm.

“
Monsieur est malade?… Un médecin peut-être?
”

Suddenly controlling himself—or pretending to do so—the enraged man turned to his servant: “
Ce n’est rien, Sylvestre … Rien … Un mouvement d’humeur … Merci
.”

And unfastening his tie, still red in the face, sweating, and with words of reproof ringing in his ears, the President began to walk from end to end of the room, giving orders and instructions to Doctor Peralta. Go to the nearest travel agency—the one near the Opéra would still be open—and do everything necessary to get them
there
as soon as possible. Ask Roque García for details of garrisons loyal to the government. Cable to Ariel; cable to our newspapers with a proclamation to go on the front page (“Once again, the blind
ambition of a man unworthy of the rank he possesses, etc., etc. Good: you know what is wanted …”); cable to him, cable to the other, cables and more cables …

Just then the cries of the newspaper boys announced a mid-day edition, with the latest war news.

“As if I cared a damn for all that!”

And out of pure rage he kicked over a picture brought him a few hours before by a pupil of Jean-Paul Laurens, and a protégé of Ofelia’s, which was standing on the floor in front of him, waiting to be hung up:
The Execution of Ganelon
.

“The cunt! Son of a bitch!” repeated the Head of State, stamping on the canvas as if in the figure of the most famous traitor of mediaeval times he saw some similarity to the renegade, infamous, obscene soul of General Walter Hoffmann.

SO NEXT MORNING THEY WOULD CATCH THE train to Saint-Nazaire, whence a ship was leaving for New York, full of Americans who, having seen the Germans approach too close to the Seine and knowing that the war was by no means over, with its inconveniences and rationing, preferred to return to the opposite side of the ocean. After the crossing, there would be several days of enforced idleness—as before, at the Waldorf-Astoria. There was a possibility of seeing a performance of Umberto Giordano’s
Madame Sans-Gêne
, sung by Geraldine Farrar (for the Metropolitan Opera House had announced its world première), and although his daughter took him for an ignoramus where music was concerned, merely because he had on occasion been so bewildered and bored by the telluric entanglements of
Rhinegold
with its confusion of dwarfs, giants, and water nymphs as to fall asleep in his box, the President was very appreciative of Maria Barrientos’ coloratura, Titta Ruffo’s significant lyrical energy, the pure timbre of Caruso’s long, incredibly sustained high notes and his magic voice, so prodigiously enclosed in the body of a Neapolitan innkeeper.

After having got rid of
it
somewhere in Switzerland, Ofelia had left for London, to escape from this tiresome war, now making itself felt, according to her, in the lack of Russian ballets, tango orchestras, and elegant parties in full evening dress. In England, on the other hand, recruitment was voluntary, and life was fairly normal: so she would go to Stratford-on-Avon with a view to completing her Shakespearean education.

“I wonder if some Fortinbras or Rosenkranz will make her pregnant?” thought her father, well knowing that nothing that happened
over there
in their native land mattered to his daughter, who had decided some time ago to live forever in Europe, far away—as she said—from “that country of filth and sweat,” with no amusements except municipal concerts, family parties where everyone danced the polka, mazurka, and redowa, and palace soirées where the wives of ministers and generals clustered together at the farther end of the room from a group of men telling dirty stories, to talk about births and miscarriages, children, illnesses, deceitful servants, and deaths of grandmothers, interspersed with exchanging recipes for crême caramel, egg flip, babas, marzipan, and cream cake.

That night the Head of State and Doctor Peralta paid a farewell visit to Monsieur Musard at the Bois-Charbons, and drank heavily. Afterwards they took two girls picked up on the street to a luxury brothel in the Rue Sainte-Beuve, whose entrance hall, decorated with ceramics by Léon-Paul Fargue’s father, led to a rickety lift, worked by a piston rod and got up in traditional style so that it looked rather like the corner of a Norman dining room moving vertically. It was late when he got back to the Rue de Tilsitt, to find the corridors and rooms heaped with suitcases and trunks packed by Sylvestre. Doctor Peralta showed him some stereoscopic pornographic
photographs—the
Verascope Richard
—he had bought the evening before, and which with their double images gave a surprisingly three-dimensional effect.

“Look. Do look at this. You’d think that man was alive. And you can see every hair on those two women. And what do you think of that combination of five in a row?”

In spite of having drunk so much, the Head of State, though intoxicated, was lucid and sad. He was invaded by a feeling of enormous fatigue when he thought of the efforts he had had to exert four times since he took on the government. Now there would be his arrival in Puerto Araguato. The train of old coaches climbing up to the capital through forests whose trees mingled—it was impossible to know which branches grew from the trunks and which had been cut by machetes—with those that roofed the huts in villages so melancholy and overshadowed by the universal vegetation that a laugh in one of them would have sounded like some obscene explosion of animality. Afterwards, the obligatory speech from the balcony of the palace. His battle dress, probably smelling of camphor, ironed by the Mayorala Elmira, his irreplaceable housekeeper, a woman of excellent judgement and (when he felt like it) a docile and complacent source of consolation; the journey to the battle front would be towards the south this time—a few months ago it was to the north, on other occasions it had been to the east or west. Now it led to the region of the Quaking Bogs, with their purplish lagoons constantly bubbling and pullulating with the animals and reptiles hidden beneath the deceptive peace of Victoria water lilies. Marching along flooded paths, with one’s face plastered with revolting ointment that for barely an hour kept off the stings of a hundred species of mosquito. It was a world of sweating hibiscus, false carnations—traps for insects—scum that tangled and disentangled its convolutions from sunset to
sunrise, fungi smelling of vinegar, oily flowers growing from rotten trunks, greenish dust and tendrils, collapsed anthills, deceptive turf that ate into boot leather. And it was through such country that he must pursue General Hoffmann, find him, surround him, corner him, and finally put him up against the wall of a convent, church, or cemetery and shoot him. “Fire!” There was nothing else to be done. Those were the rules of the game. Recourse to Method.