The Assignment (18 page)

The three men stood there with their heads bowed.

Again Manuel Ortega saw before him the woman on the sofa and her husband on the floor and the child’s bicycle in the garden. Suddenly it was as if a wave of blood rushed through his head. His brain throbbed behind his forehead and buzzed at the back of his head.

“What have you done to them?”

He found it hard to control his voice. The first words sounded like a hoarse croak.

“Arrested them. Questioned them a bit. Let them put crosses and squares on a statement.”

Manuel again looked at the police officer’s right hand.

“Wasn’t it a temptation to use … other methods?”

Behounek shook his head.

“You don’t understand. These are the ones who are led astray.”

He took a puff at his cigar.

“Interrogation,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s hardly worth it. Just listen to this.”

He pointed at the man farthest to the right. He was a little man with a round face, a black mustache, and melancholy brown eyes.

“You there, take a step forward. That’s right. Are you married?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Have you any children?”

“Yes, señor.”

“How many?”

“Two, señor.”

“Which of you murdered Señor Pérez?”

“Juan, señor.”

He pointed at the man nearest him.

“Why did he murder Señor Pérez?”

“Don’t know, señor.”

“Who killed the señora?”

“Don’t know. She wasn’t dead when we left.”

“No, but she died soon afterward,” said Behounek aside.

Then he said: “Who cut the child’s head off?”

“I, señor.”

“Why?”

“It was crying.”

“Don’t your children cry?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Well, why did you kill Señor Pérez and his wife and his child?”

Silence.

“Which one of you said you were going to do it first?”

“I, señor.”

“When?”

“This morning, when we went past the house, señor.”

“Have you killed anyone before?”

“No, señor.”

“Did you suggest it as a joke? That you should break into the house?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Did you know Señor Pérez and his wife?”

“No, señor.”

“Had you seen them before?”

“No, señor.”

“Had you said before that you ought to go and kill someone?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Why didn’t you do it before then?”

“I didn’t want to go alone, señor. No one would come with me.”

“Was it only white men you wanted to kill?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Why?”

“They kill us, señor.”

“Has someone said that you must kill white people?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Who said so?”

“The Liberators, señor.”

“The Liberation Front, you mean?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Are you in the Liberation Front?”

“No, señor. I wanted to be in it, but I wasn’t allowed to. Neither was Juan.”

“Then you weren’t joking when you said you ought to go and kill Señor Pérez?”

“No, señor.”

“Why did you steal the trumpet?”

“It was pretty, señor.”

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

“I don’t understand, señor.”

“Do you regret killing the man and the woman and the child in the white house?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand, señor.”

“Why are you sad?”

“I want to go home.”

“How old are you?”

“Don’t know, señor.”

“What do you think we’ll do with you?”

“Kill me, señor.”

Again Behounek shrugged his shoulders.

“Sit down,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”

“What will you do with them?” said Manuel, out in the corridor.

“Keep them under arrest. Then they’ll appear before a federal civil court and will probably get a life sentence of hard labor without the prerogative of mercy. Without understanding why.”

As they were going up the spiral staircase, he said, presumably to himself: “On the edge of the precipice. So near. So very near.”

“I’m convinced that your extermination tactics only make matters worse,” said Manuel Ortega. “And it’s wrong.”

“Everything is wrong,” said Behounek. “Where shall we eat?”

They ate at a private club for businessmen and officers. It was at the top of one of the blocks in the middle of town. The rooms were large and bleak with tubular furniture and fans on every table and on the ceiling. There were quite a few guests, but the food was bad, even worse than in the little place near the square. It was very expensive too, even in comparison with the luxury restaurants of the federal capital. Both Manuel and Behounek ate listlessly and meagerly, and they did not say much.

Not until the coffee came did they talk briefly of matters relevant to the future.

“Which leaders of the Liberation Front are known by name?” said Manuel Ortega.

Behounek stared stiffly into his brandy glass and remained sitting like that even as he spoke.

“Most of them. First and foremost, the one called El Campesino, the leader and organizer of the partisan activites. He’s a Cuban, I gather. He has taken the name of some legendary Communist in Catalonia during the Spanish Civil War. Next, Dr. Irigo, who was the leader of the Communist Party in this country before it was disbanded. He’s from the north and has some kind of legal qualifications. He used to live in a place just south of the border, but now he’s probably somewhere abroad, either Cuba or Chile. Then a woman,
Carmen Sánchez, who looks after the propaganda. She’s only twenty-seven and is supposed to be beautiful. And then a certain José Redondo, called El Rojo. He’s a partisan hero and holds a prominent position in the organization.”

“These are evidently the ones we need to reach with a message about the conference. I assume that one can get hold of them through the radio and the press or by dropping leaflets.”

“Yes. And the bush telegraph.”

“Have you any more names?”

“Will have eventually. But those four must be in on it. El Campesino, Dr. Irigo, Carmen Sánchez, and El Rojo Redondo. I’ll send you a list of names with all the data early tomorrow morning.”

It was half past eleven when Manuel Ortega undressed. He felt ill and frightened and found it hard to breathe. He put the Astra under his pillow, took three of Dalgren’s tablets, and went to bed.

When he switched off the light, the darkness descended on him like an ancient black-velvet curtain, thick and fluffy and dusty and suffocating.

It was morning again, his seventh in this frightful town.

Fernández, sunflower seeds on the carpet, the smell of sweat, the two steps across the corridor, and his hand on the revolver butt.

The faucets were still not working. The officer in charge of the engineers complained of a lack of materials and demanded twenty-four hours more.

On his desk lay a gray-brown cable covered with official stamps:
SOON AS POSSIBLE MEANS AT LATEST WITHIN ONE WEEK STOP SIX DELEGATES FROM EACH SIDE ZAFORTEZA
. Beside the cable lay a letter from police headquarters with the promised names and information.

On the telephone: Behounek.

“Everything calm.”

“No casualties?”

“No.”

“No blasting details?”

“Nothing at all.”

Ten minutes later: Dalgren.

“The Citizens’ Guard is prepared to negotiate.”

“When?”

“As soon as you’re in a position to get the two sides together.”

Danica Rodríguez in her green dress and thonged sandals on her bare feet.

Gómez, who relieved Fernández. Large, heavy, and unshaven, with streaks of sweat on his face.

The rays of the sun which hurtled straight to the ground like a cloudburst of white fire.

At ten o’clock Manuel Ortega sat behind his desk and began to write out a rough draft of his speech. The effects of the third sleeping tablet began to slacken.

The text seemed disorganized, and soon he went into the next room to give his secretary some instructions.

“Reserve a spot for me on the radio at five o’clock.”

“Find a printing plant which can begin printing ten thousand leaflets today.”

“Investigate distribution possibilities and find people to do it.”

“Get some ice and another crate of lemonade.”

“Don’t bite your nails.”

Then she laughed. It was the first time she had laughed while on duty. She was pretty when she laughed, he thought. And she was not wearing a bra. Today her nipples could clearly be seen beneath the material. Perhaps it was because of the heat.

He felt very peculiar and went back to his draft.

At eleven o’clock Fernández came back, slinking into the room like a cat.

At half past eleven Danica Rodríguez stood in the doorway and said: “You’ve a visitor. A lady.”

“Show her in.”

It was Francisca de Larrinaga. Manuel rose to his feet in confusion. He discovered that he had forgotten all about both her and the proclamation as well as the General.

She was dressed completely in black with a mourning veil over her face, but she moved swiftly and energetically. Despite this, she seemed cool and fresh, quite untouched by the appalling heat.

“May I speak in the presence of your staff?” she asked.

Danica Rodríguez was still standing in the doorway and Fernández was rooted by the wall.

“Certainly.”

“Good. I just wanted to be sure on that point. I promised you a definite decision within four days. Well, I’ve decided.”

She opened her handbag and took out a long white envelope with a monogram embossed on it.

“This envelope contains the draft of my father’s speech. I have also enclosed a certificate in which I confirm on oath the genuineness of the document.”

Manuel Ortega took the envelope with two fingers as if he were afraid of soiling it.

“I’m handing it over to you then, for reasons I explained to you earlier. What you will now proceed to do with it is something with which I do not want to be concerned.”

She closed her bag.

“That I’ve come in person is partly due to the fact that I consider this document much too important to be entrusted to a servant, and partly because it is not the kind of business to be dealt with over the telephone.”

“Of course. Listening in …”

“Yes, it is very efficient. At one time it even saved people’s lives. It would perhaps interest you to hear that five people called me up after your visit of condolence with the single intention of finding out what you had come for. You ought to know at least two of them. Señor Dalgren and Captain Behounek.”

Before Francisca de Larrinaga left the room, she looked at Danica Rodríguez in an amused way and said: “Terribly hot, isn’t it?”

Then she left.

In comparison with the woman who had left the room, Danica Rodríguez looked undressed, sweaty, and excited.

Fernández stared after the General’s daughter as if he had just experienced a revelation.

Danica Rodríguez shrugged her shoulders.

Manuel Ortega wiped the sweat from his forehead with a
handkerchief which was already drenched. Then he sat down, picked up the letter opener, and slit open the envelope.

“Come here,” he said. “This might be interesting.”

She walked around the desk and read over his shoulder.

The proclamation was spread over two quarto pages. It was typed and divided into numbered paragraphs like a military order of the day, but here and there the General had crossed words out and added notes in his spiky handwriting which was hard to read. One could see that the changes had not all been made at the same time, for he had sometimes used ink and sometimes pencil.

PROCLAMATION

1. I, General Orestes de Larrinaga, at present Provincial Resident and authorized representative of the government in this province, hereby wish to state my views on the situation here.

2. These views are based partly on the conclusions I have drawn from my knowledge of the country and the people, and partly from the experience I have accumulated during a long and varied career as an officer of high rank.

3. The disturbances in the province are caused by two political extremist organizations competing for power. One of these (the Citizens’ Guard) wishes to retain the established order. The other (the Liberation Front) wishes to destroy the present order. Both these endeavors are equally erroneous and must be utterly condemned; not only the aims but also the methods which are used on both sides.

4. In recent years, in most parts of the world, and even in most parts of the states in our Federal Republic, there has arisen a new concept of the citizen as an individual (human being). This point of view has not been applied in our province. The majority of the inhabitants live in great material and spiritual poverty; nor are they given opportunities for education. This, in the present day, is indefensible.

5. The Citizens’ Guard is wrong when it tries to retain by force the old system, which from several points of view is out of date. Through it the majority of the people are forced to remain in wretchedness. This could lead to a catastrophe.

6. The Liberation Front is wrong when it tries to seize power by violence. It is also wrong when it believes it can use that power without support from other groups of people.