Face to the Sun (7 page)

‘Is that such a marvel? It is the language of half the world.’

‘Who are you?’

‘An Englishman recently arrived in Malpelo, and they put me in prison.’

‘What for?’

‘Frankly, friend, I do not know. It seems to be the custom in this country for one half of the people to put the other half in prison and then that first half returns to let them out. So
if you need some prisoners to take home as presents I will tell you how to get them. The Heredistas are wandering about the hillside searching for more of you to kill. But as they no longer have an
officer, I’ll bet you they are tired of it and are sitting still and smoking. You will see them from the ridge, and if you then creep round the flanks, give a yell and charge, you will get
them for nothing.’

‘And what about you, Englishman? I would let you go but you would run away.’

‘Where to, compañero? All I know is that this is a forest in Malpelo. Give me something to eat and drink and I will await your return.’

‘That I might do,’ he replied, ‘if I knew why Heredia had put you inside when you are not of our party.’

I had to invent some reason. I had begun to feel a liking for the Retadores; they reminded me of the humbler members of the Spanish hotel staff with whom I had sometimes shared a jug of wine
after making my formal and usually unnecessary inspection of a kitchen. They relished any shaft of humour, especially if sardonic.

‘Look! You know that Doña Juana recently flew back from London. Well, I travelled alongside her, and halfway across the Atlantic she began to permit certain intimacies. I think that
a steward must have noticed her enjoyment and reported it to the old sod in the palace and he made sure that I should not sit close to her again.’

‘The President’s wife! Well, she was once beautiful and, by God, there’s plenty of her left to play with. I wouldn’t mind sitting next to her myself. Look, mate,’
he went on, ‘we came out without any rations, but I carry about with me a little flask of good rum for emergencies only, you understand. Here it is and help yourself and be sure that we will
carry you back to camp if those legs of yours won’t. Now we are off!’

I had guessed right. They were all Indians or had Indian blood, but as well as the language they had absorbed the spirit of Spain. His generous gift was most welcome, but sheer liquid fire for
any poor gringo brought up on whisky. I took a couple of mouthfuls and settled down with my back against a tree trunk. I felt a new confidence in myself, having survived a Father of his Country and
revolutionaries alike with all spare parts still intact.

They returned after a couple of hours, driving in front of them a party of my former pursuers with no trousers. I saw no brutality apart from laughter when any of the prisoners tripped into a
cactus and had trouble regaining his feet because his hands were tied behind his back. A march of an hour took us to the headquarters of the brigade which was keeping a distant watch on the city.
It was a village of temporary huts set in a dip of high plateau, containing wives and children who had been burnt out of their homes as well as the fighting men. The west side looked across
impassable forest to a rugged coastline. On the land side, any force of Heredistas which broke out of the trees would be met by a curtain of fire from four or five strong points.

I was held apart from the rest of the prisoners and, lest that should show favouritism to a member of the
classe culta
, made to sit on the ground outside the commander’s tent while
a smart orderly, probably a deserter from the regular army, went in to report what my captors had said about me. He then led me in before a major – to judge by his ragged insignia – of
about my own age with a fair pointed beard who looked like one of the original Conquistadores. I had no hat to raise so I gave him a courtly bow.

‘First do me the favour to explain who you are and what an Englishman is doing in Malpelo.’

I replied that I was an archaeologist named Edmond Hawkins and a friend of the son-in-law of the President.

‘He was about to escort the Presidenta back from London to Malpelo and asked me if I would like to come with them. Naturally, I jumped at the chance. But on the second night after my
arrival there was a raid on the shop of a watchmaker and afterwards I was put under arrest for no reason. My story of an indecency with Doña Juana was an invention to amuse your troops. I
did not sit near her and, if you will excuse me, she is not to my taste.’

‘I have met this Hector McMurtrie. What is your opinion of him?’

‘His interests do not correspond to his sympathies.’

‘And yours?’

‘I cannot see that your Retadores are against democracy. You have, I believe, a number of so-called communists, but what of it? If they should seize power, they are not likely to storm the
Panama Canal.’

‘You are right. The Indians have always been communists, but only now have they latched on to the name. Soak the rich. That’s their politics. In Europe you would call them left-wing
socialists. Now, is it true that you took that troop carrier single-handed?’

‘Let your men take the credit for that, my commandant. I was the only prisoner who had a rifle.’

‘You have been a soldier?’

‘Never. But I was taught to shoot by an expert.’

‘Then you will have to learn the trade. You will understand that you have seen too much for me to let you go.’

‘Thank God for that, Major! I do not know how we got here or in which direction is the city, and it is very likely that I should end up in one of those valleys on the way to the
sea.’

‘So would most of my men. Few of them can read a map and the contour lines are mostly wrong anyway. Well, I must do my round of the pickets, and when I return perhaps you will give us the
pleasure of entertaining you in the mess.’

He fixed me up with a blanket and a pup tent where I soon fell asleep in spite of bruises. To put it mildly, it had been a hard day.

I was awakened by the same orderly who brought me a much needed bucket of water with which I cleaned off some of the blood of my fellow prisoners who had been packed with me into the rescuing
van, and the clean but clinging dirt of vegetable and mineral. It was far from a regimental mess to which I had been invited. The major himself had evidently had no more than a bucket, and that was
yesterday.

The major, three of his officers and a priest were round the table. They had excellent bread from the camp baker, plenty of eggs, corn and potatoes. No meat, since they would not deprive the
Indian farmers, scattered in the ravines outside the perimeter, of the few beasts they had. I was in luck, they told me, a barrel of wine had arrived from Chilean sympathisers and been spirited
from the docks to the mountains by the priest and a donkey. They could keep it for the mess without arousing any resentment since the
guerrilleros
preferred rum and water.

‘Has the major told you that we have something to celebrate tonight?’

‘I have too,’ I answered politely. I was longing to know whether the raid on the watchmaker had been successful.

‘May we tell him why?’

‘Why not? But Don Edmondo will not know what the Punchao is.’

‘I know what it was, and I have read somewhere that a model of it was made.’

‘Good! Well, Heredia stole that model from the museum and intends to use it as an emblem of the unity of his state. Now, we have, as you would expect, some loyal agents in the city and one
of them informed us that Heredia had dispatched it to his clock repairer. Now, it is ours. Would you like to see it?’

The thought passed through my head that I wished to God I had never seen it. But was that true? I had to admit that I was enjoying myself.

The major picked up a parcel from his desk and undid the soft and careful wrapping. The exquisite little golden suns of the Punchao flashed back the light of the paraffin lamp. Here it seemed to
be rejoicing in a more rightful setting than the bedroom of the Richmond hotel where I had last seen it.

‘Can you tell us who made the original?’

‘Nobody knows.’

That was true enough; but it was a subject I had to avoid. Apparently I could pass as an amateur
guerrillero
, but never as an archaeologist.

The priest made over it the sign of the Cross. Smiling, he noticed and remarked on my surprise. I replied that I was completely ignorant of church policy and assumed that they were for the
government of Heredia.

‘Some perhaps. What we are for is that the peasant and worker should be contented and earn enough to feed and educate his children. Or do you think that I should not bless this symbol of
the Rising of the Sun because the original was the supreme god of Indians who knew no better? To the Christian, it is a manifestation of the Holy Spirit like all the glories of the arts. We do not
worship them; we thank God for them. It is Heredia who would treat the Punchao del Dia as an idol. But I preach a sermon, my sons, when I should be warning you that Heredia is planning revenge.
Troops are pouring in from the coast and the country. It is up to your leaders to decide whether you fight or hide.’

That evening, inspired by the rare treat of wine and past victories, we rose to our feet and called for fighting. In the morning, a general council weighed the evidence. From agents in the plain
came the news that what the padre had told us was no exaggeration. Later on a sweating messenger arrived – they dared not use radio – from Headquarters, authorising us to abandon the
camp if we doubted whether we could withstand a siege. We were to remember that we were only a vanguard and a refuge for the destitute and that the Heredistas would split up into small parties to
search for us and make us pay for our audacity by ambush after ambush.

It was more advice than an order but we took it. By evening, the posts were abandoned and stripped like the troop carrier. The weeping women and children were divided into small parties, each
with its own handful of armed guides, and told where to go and what story to tell if any of them were rounded up.

The major asked me what I would choose, telling me that the choice was mine. I was at liberty to rejoin my distinguished friends if I wished.

‘I will come with you and the Punchao del Dia if you will have me,’ I answered. ‘I will make only one stipulation. If we run across my only friend in Malpelo, Hector McMurtrie,
spare him and hand him over to me. But I think it very improbable that he will go adventuring beyond the city.’

It was decided that our party should aim for the wild coast. Heredia would certainly not attack from that direction since half a dozen men armed with light machine-guns and
posted at the mouth of a canyon or on the slopes above could compel him to search for any other approach, which would turn out to be as bad or worse. Our route was largely guesswork. We would hack
our way through choked woodlands of pine or oak or climb low cliffs so steep that the mules once had to be hauled up, and then find that we were committed to head away from the coast and have to
retrace our steps. By nightfall we had not gone far from the camp and could hear the distant rattle of firing – and saw from a hilltop a ripple of flame as they set the huts alight. A
horrible business. Those few of our wounded whom our surgeon had pronounced to be past saving had been left behind and we had no doubt that their bodies were helping to fan the flames.

At first light we were off again, and at last we could see where we were forced to go whether we liked it or not: a cove marked on the map, between two promontories with a sandy beach. We hailed
it with joy – soft sand for aching feet, calm sea for weary bodies. Our commander, however, was uneasy, for there was no way out of the cove except by the little stream we had followed down.
The track that we had left behind up crags and through forest would take time to trace but could not be mistaken. If we were caught in the cove and the promontories occupied, that was the end.

A fishing-boat passed close in and appeared to drop something overboard. As the wash eddied away, we could see it was a human being swimming ashore with a leisurely overarm stroke and pushing a
fish crate ahead. One of our party swam out to help and the two landed together. To our amazement, it was a young woman in a swimsuit propelling a minimum of clothes in the crate. We gathered round
her eagerly, assuming that she carried orders from Headquarters though how the devil they could have known where to find us was a mystery. The major began to question her, suspecting that her
arrival could be some ingenious trick of the Heredistas. She explained that security was so tight that she could find no way of secretly entering the country and so had hired the fishing-boat to
drop her at the cove. She knew the position of the camp we had just left and boldly reckoned that she could get there on foot. She introduced herself as Teresa Molina Cisneros.

The daughter of General Molina,’ the major exclaimed, adding that he had heard that after the execution of her father she had taken refuge in London.

‘Yes. I was there only a week ago. I wanted to do more for my country than the foolishness of newspaper articles. That would not avenge my father and give us freedom. Evidently I have had
the luck to fall in with a patrol of Retadores. I have news for you to pass on to Headquarters.’

It seemed to me that the voice was familiar but I had been thrown among too many strangers to place it. Its decisiveness was not unlike Carlota’s.

‘You know Heredia’s plan for the Punchao del Dia?’ the major asked.

‘To make it an emblem of his state, yes. A new swastika for the damned. The Presidenta took it with her to London and lost it. It was sold back to her and she returned with it to the
palace.’

‘A moment, señorita!’ said the major.

He placed his valise on a flat rock, opened it and unwrapping the Punchao held it above his head as the first segment of the sun rose from the sea. The assembled
guerrilleros
gave a
collective gasp of wonder instead of a cheer. They had all heard of it, but only a few had seen it on a visit to the museum. There, between the dark cliffs of the promontories, it flashed like a
tiny morning star, ready to be worshipped by the golden men who shared its colour.