The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts Page 25

  The cura, Don Ramon, was forty-five years old. He had served the same vast parish ever since he had left the seminary at the age of twenty-three, riding through it in the same pattern and at the same sober pace on his mule. He sometimes had to go without shelter because down on the savannah there were no tambos as there were in the mountains, and often he fell asleep under the stars wrapped in his gara – his leather saddle blanket – unfed and unwashed. He would arrive in a village, his black garb covered in white dust, and bless unions, perform baptisms, and conduct funerals and masses for those dead since his last visit. He accepted gratefully the hospitality of his parishioners, and was not above sleeping with the animals to save his hosts any trouble. He was small, greying, a little stout, and bore the air of one infinitely oppressed, weary and resigned; when he made the sign of the cross, one felt that he truly understood its significance, for his own life was one of suffering and sacrifice. Now that his eyes were failing him he relied on his own memory for the services, and upon his mule’s memory for travelling his established route.

  Don Ramon was a cura of conscience, but many of his fellow priests accepted unscrupulously the offerings that their parishioners left in the church for the consumption of the Virgin and of the dead, and used them for themselves. It was customary for the cura, in return for absolution, to have the pick of the pretty women and father numerous little bastards, known curiously enough as ‘anti-Cristos’, and to do deals with the dying in which he smoothed their way to paradise in return for their patrimony. Many priests became very wealthy landowners. The church hierarchy in the big cities were two-thirds plutocrats and oligarchs who yearned for military government, rich vestments, the extermination of radicals, and who utterly despised and distrusted priests such as Don Ramon, who believed that loving one’s neighbour included looking after their interests. Don Ramon had once been threatened with defrocking for being ‘political’, and since then he had found his vocation a cause of grief.

  The little adobe church at Chiriguana had a corrugated-iron roof, bulging and distorted walls, painted pink, and no seats of any description upon its floor of packed earth. The pious amongst the locals had filled it with tinsel, dirty mirrors, and gaudy home-made statues of the Virgin. Above the painted box that served as the altar there hung a grotesque Corpus Christi, its ghastly countenance contorted in death, its body twisted and lacerated and of a pallid yellow hue, a crown of thorns made of lemon spikes upon its head, and all over it were huge clots of crimson and scarlet blood carefully moulded for realistic effect. Above the door facing it was a similar Christ in Agony, and many times upon visiting the place the priest had been depressed by its tawdriness, and wished that upon the crosses there had hung radiant crowned Christs in eucharistic vestments, the Christus Rex that he adored as his personal image of the Saviour. The cura, however, was accustomed to tolerate and understand the flexible piety of his flock, and even attended without misgivings second baptisms, the Yacucheo, where the brujos exorcised all evil spirits amidst clouds of cigar smoke and pagan chanting. He attended the Lanta Tipina, the rite of the first haircut, but he would not attend La Ispa, because he objected to having to drink baby’s urine.

  Farides was dark-eyed, black-haired, and always smiling. She had the appearance of an Haitian, and would have looked perfectly in place in one of Gauguin’s paintings. She would one day be plump, but as yet she was soft and curvaceous, and she had about her an air of archness accentuated by her habit of wearing a white flower above her left ear. For the wedding she had borrowed every bit of the brightest and most colourful clothes that she had been able to find in the whole district, including Felicidad’s scarlet stockings and gold-sequinned skirt. She regretted being so heavily decked out as the sun climbed toward the hour of siesta, when her perspiration beneath her make-up began to make her feel like a stewed chicken.

  Profesor Luis was dressed in his only suit, left over from his adolescence in Medellin, when he had still lived with his respectable family. He had grown a few centimetres since then, and the suit was now too tight and too short in the sleeves and legs. To disguise the short sleeves, he made himself a pair of handsome white cuffs out of cardboard, and to disguise the short legs he wore well-polished black ankle boots with prodigious silver rowels that made him look as macho and as dashing as Pancho Villa himself. About his neck he wore a black western-style tie, and on his head he wore a black guarapon sombrero that he had bought from an Indian once in Cochabamba.

  The couple were well loved in the whole district, and their youth, their comeliness, and their tender devotion to each other had touched a sympathetic chord even in the heart of Hectoro, who said only one remark in the whole day. Normally he only said one remark per day because of his hyperbolical pride, but today it was because he was afraid that the sentimental sob lurking in the back of his throat might catch him unawares. He said, ‘The Campas Indians consummate their marriages in the centre of a cheering circle of the tribe. Why don’t we do that?’

  The bride and groom set off from the village on two of Don Emmanuel’s finest horses, with flowers and tinsel entwined in the halters and tail-pieces. They rode side by side and were obliged by the party to kiss at every crossroads, amidst cheers of encouragement. Behind the couple rode the rest of the village on horses, donkeys, and mules amidst much mayhem caused by Don Emmanuel’s grey stallion. Misael could scarcely prevent it from trying to mount the female animals and bite the backsides of anyone who insulted it by overtaking. The accompanying cats got between the animals’ feet and others watched from the roadside, twitching their tails and purring.

  Behind the villagers came Don Emmanuel on his tractor, his great belly bursting out between his buttons and his red beard glistening in the sun. He was pouring forth as usual a torrent of ribald comments and imprecations to the women in the group, who were replying in kind, and behind him he towed his largest trailer crammed to the brim with the village children and cats, with two of the cats even sitting on the mudguards, clinging on with stoical aplomb.

  The party raised a happy cloud of white dust as it processed to Chiriguana, and this caused not only a change in their appearance, but the genesis of a considerable thirst, which was assuaged on arrival with chicha, chacta, pisco, aguardiente, ron cana, guarapo, Aguila beer, and liberal amounts of fruit juices, whilst the abstemious cats lined up to lap at the waters of the Mula. After this the civil wedding was to take place in the plaza because there was not yet a town hall.

  The Mayor was also the local policeman, which engendered a desirable reduction in local bureaucracy and meant that only one man needed to be bribed rather than two; for this reason the locals were also trying to get him appointed as magistrate and gobernador. Today he was dressed, unusually, in his uniform, and wore his sash of office in the national colours across his chest – red for the blood of national martyrs, yellow for the sand and the sun, blue for the sea and the sky, and green for the jungle. He had brushed his hair and shaved, and was for once unaccompanied by his goat. He puffed his chest out and drew his stomach in and the community was proud that he was their mayor and their policeman even though he was cross-eyed, had a scar across his nose, and had sold his twelve-year old niece from Valledupar to Pedro the Grocer for one hundred and twenty-two words.

  The Mayor had not been able to find the screed for the civil marriage service, so he was obliged to extemporise his own, which was short and to the point, and then he announced, ‘I now declare and affirm that you are married lawfully according to the statutes and processes of the Republic. Long live the Republic!’ The policeman cut short the cheers and ‘vivas’ of the throng by firing his pistol in the air, causing many cats to bolt for cover. He put his gun back in its holster and said, ‘I have not yet finished. As your Mayor, I am entitled to make a speech, and that is what I intend to do.’

  The policeman looked to the sky for inspiration, coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘A good woman,’ he said, ‘is like a good she-goat. She is beautiful, graceful
, forgiving, abundant and fertile. She is a good companion and abolishes solitude. Farides is beautiful, graceful, forgiving, and she has already abolished the solitude of Profesor Luis. Only time and activity will tell if she is fertile.’ He winked slyly and the people cheered bawdily. The policeman held up his hand for silence. ‘And a good man,’ he continued, ‘is like a good he-goat. He is handsome, noble, protective, and fertile. He also is a good companion and abolishes solitude. Profesor Luis is all these things, but only time will tell if he too is fertile! May I take this opportunity to wish you both all the energy you will need to find out if this is so!’ The people cheered again, and once more the policeman raised his hand.

  ‘A good couple is like good music. To be good it must be female and full of grace and tenderness, but it must also be male and full of strength and will. Then you will have true duende and true saudade. In Profesor Luis I see indeed machismo, and in Farides I see gracia. May they always make sweet music together!’

  On cue, the little band summoned from Valledupar by the Mayor broke into a sentimental air from Vilcanota, and began a retreta that lasted for the rest of the day. There was in the band a tiple player who played astonishing tremolos, a fat man with an ancient sousaphone almost unrecognisable for verdigris, an assortment of drummers, a trumpeter from Mexico, and a small Indian playing a quena and pan-pipes. They played at first in the centre of the plaza, and then played perambulatory-style among the crowd of cats and celebrants until finally they had to retire owing to the effects of alcohol and the impossibility of trying to play and not trip over the cats.

  It was impossible to cram everyone into the church for the religious ceremony, and Don Ramon and the couple themselves had difficulty in finding their way to the front. Don Ramon removed the cats from the altar and from their perches on the crucifix and then conducted the service with simple dignity without the aid of a missal. He gave a short address in which he reminded the congregation that Don Luis was a true son of Christ because he gave his life and efforts for others, and that Farides was a true child of the Virgin because she too had spent her life in service. He commanded the congregation to care for the couple as they deserved, and to strive always to make them happy and appreciated. He finished with the blessing, and then Aurelio stood up and picked his way to the front. ‘I too have a blessing,’ he said, and looked at Don Ramon for his permission. Don Ramon nodded, and Aurelio placed his hands on Farides’ shoulders. She smiled at him as he said first in Aymara, and then in Quechua, ‘I consecrate this virgin to the Moon.’ He moved over to Luis and placed his hands on his shoulders. He said first in Aymara, and then in Quechua, ‘This virgin I consecrate to the Sun.’ He stepped back and joined their hands, and over them he made signs to signify the Sun, the Moon, the Fish, and the Serpent. Aurelio was now personally satisfied that the couple were really married properly. ‘Thank you,’ said Luis, who had, like everyone else, not understood any of it, and Aurelio nodded and returned to his place, moving the large black cat who had occupied it. The policeman announced from the back, ‘I now declare a carnival! You men had better take care – the girls are well-armed, and not one of them is to be trusted!’

  Everybody left the church in a buzz of excitement and trooped off to the plaza in gaggles. There they elected Farides regiadora. Hoisted high on people’s shoulders she waved and smiled and smacked any hands that found their way up her legs, squealing with mock outrage. She demanded to be processed along the narrow street, and half-way along she raised her hands and clasped them together above her head.

  At the signal the girls, whom no one had noticed slipping away, appeared at first-floor windows and balconies and roofs and released an avalanche of flour, eggs, and water onto the men and cats below, who with one mind scattered to take evasive action under the balconies. The avalanche ceased, and Misael poked his head out and looked upwards. A bag of flour on the end of a cord descended sharply upon his crown, and Felicidad giggled with delight as she hauled it back up again. ‘Ay! Ay!’ applauded the girls from their fortresses, and then Misael stuck his head out again and a balloon full of water caught him full in the face. He danced out to the centre of the street and was buried in a cascade so dense that he looked like a man sculpted roughly out of lime. He raised his arms and shouted, ‘Es yo solo que tiene cojones?’ and the men responded to his challenge to their virility by bravely pouring into the centre of the street to join battle.

  The men threw eggs, arepas, guavas, mangoes, papayas, canchas, and the women responded with their flour and their globos of water and their eggs until there was a vast, frantic, laughing, screaming, perspiring, soaking-wet, befloured melée occupying the whole town and transforming it into a genial slippery snow-white mess of mayhem and stampeding felines. After half an hour of this furious engagement Felicidad blew the policeman’s whistle that she had borrowed for the occasion, and at the shrill blast everybody stood still and looked up. The policeman, who had preserved his dignity and his uniform under Felicidad’s balcony, stepped out and declared, ‘The battle is over, and the girls are the winners!’ The laughing pretty girls above the streets clapped their hands and cheered, and the men booed, ‘Abajo las Muchachas!’ Felicidad called to the policeman, ‘Senor Jefe! We want to discuss the truce!’ He looked up at her and she emptied a bucket of water over him. He bellowed with outrage and she emptied a bag of flour over him, followed by a globo for good measure. ‘Never trust a woman at carnival!’ yelled Felicidad, and once more the unprepared men were pelted from above.

  The battle continued unabated until some intrepid souls barged open the doors and entered the houses to engage in battle at close quarters. Furniture flew and people fell over the cats and rooms were laid waste as the struggling and squealing girls were carried out bodily to be dumped in all their finery into the river. Many men were unchivalrously pulled in when they held out gallant hands to help the bedraggled maidens clamber out again, and many deep friendships were formed which deepened even further as the day progressed into evening with the aid of alcohol and dancing. Soon there would be more weddings and more carnivals, and then more weddings, and more carnivals, and thus the population would happily increase both in quantity and merriment.

  The next morning Farides very archly put a red flower above her left ear and promenaded along the street with a smug and knowing expression whilst the revelry continued tirelessly, pausing in three days only for siesta, when the town reverberated with purring and snoring. The cats, still looking dignified and serene, padded among the revellers eating the broken eggs with raffish streaks of pastry congealing in their fur. Like everyone else, they would have a lot of serious cleaning up to do later.

  Dolores the whore gave Farides a little tin filled with white cream. ‘If Luis ever strays or his manhood fails,’ she whispered, ‘you rub this on your chucha, and without fail he will wriggle and rattle with lust for you. I bought it from a canoeira when I was in Iquitos, and it is made from the genitals of the bufeo.’ Dolores winked and took a puff on her puro. ‘It is powerful cream. Keep it carefully.’

  Farides blushed and smiled. ‘Thank you Dolores. I shall keep it and hope I never need it.’

  29

  * * *

  COLONEL ASADO MAKES A LITTLE MISTAKE

  OLAF OLSEN, FROM Norway, was a very powerful industrialist, and was in charge of the local operations of an American company who produced rough-terrain vehicles both for civilian and military purposes. It never concerned him that there were stories of people vanishing, because he was an upright conservative man, he did not know of anyone who had vanished, and like many others he thought that the only people who vanished were people who deserved to.

  Mr Olsen had a pretty blonde daughter called Regina, who was taking a year off between school and university, and who was living at home with her father. Mr Olsen believed that Regina should know what it is to work, and so he gave her very little pocket money, and was pleased when his daughter advertised her services as a babysitter. One of the women for whom
she babysat, and with whom she became quite close friends, was another blonde, a woman of about twenty-six, whose name was Esmeralda.

  Esmeralda was a single parent, and when she was younger she had been the kind of urban terrorist who throws bricks through police station windows and sets fire to the clubhouses of élite golf courses. Naturally she had grown out of it, and was now working as a bank-teller, but she still had some friends from her radical days. She was on Colonel Asado’s list, but Colonel Asado did not know her address. He arrested one of Esmeralda’s friends and for some reason did not torture or rape her; in an unwonted access of generosity he spared her life and her body in return for Esmeralda’s address. Esmeralda’s friend listened to the screams generated by El Electricista, and told Asado Esmeralda’s address.

  She hurried home to telephone her friend, but she was not there, so she decided to ring first thing in the morning.

  First thing in the morning Regina turned up to babysit, not knowing that both Esmeralda and her baby had stayed overnight at her boyfriend’s house.

  Regina opened the gate and started to walk up the path. She looked up and saw that four men were coming for her, having slipped out of the shadows in the porch. Regina had heard all the stories about abduction, rape, torture, and murder, and unlike her distinguished father she believed them. Instead of waiting to be asked for her identity card, she fled through the gate and started to sprint up the street. Colonel Asado sprinted after her, dropped on one knee, aimed his pistol at her, and fired. Regina fell to the pavement; she was pitched into the capacious boot of the State Telephone Company Ford Falcon and driven away for interrogation.