The Three Sentinels (7 page)

‘You are a hard man. In the end you will compel the State to take over the Company.’

‘If they wish. But they will get no oil.’

‘You have no duty to the Republic?’

‘It had none to us.’

‘But the work which was offered! There were jobs I should be glad to have myself.’

‘No doubt they are still available,’ said Gil Delgado.

Rafael managed to suppress a smile but knew that his eyes had given him away. He often wished that in his interviews with the police and the town worthies he was not escorted by Gil Delgado,
although Gil’s eloquence and sarcasm were indispensable in committee and at public meetings. He himself—well, what was he? He could only say what he meant simply and honestly. If he was
cheered as enthusiastically as Gil it must be because he was relentless and his comrades knew it.

‘Frankly, Sr. Garay, one would expect so sympathetic a man as you to be open to argument,’ González protested.

‘Words change nothing, Captain. The State and the Company broke their word and murdered our women.’

‘You forgive no more than your son.’

‘My son? What has he to do with it?’

‘He told me that when he was big enough he would stick a knife in me.’

‘You too have children, Captain,’ Rafael answered hesitantly.

‘Yes indeed. And I shall be glad when I can see them again. So it was understood between Chepe and myself that this was to be my fate and that in the meanwhile, as bitter enemies, he would
do me the honour to accept a biscuit.’

Gil Delgado remarked that such gentlemanly behaviour was out of a romance.

‘It seemed to me that for a moment he let me live in one, Sr. Delgado.’

Outside the police station a score of men waited idly for the reappearance of their two leaders, enduring the direct blast of the Cabo Desierto sun upon the shadeless concrete of the waterfront.
That was the only sign of purpose in the loose gathering which, under its casual cheerfulness, concealed its determination that anyone who entered the station should leave it. Voices became louder
and less disciplined when Rafael and Gil walked out on to the quay.

‘Nothing in particular,’ Rafael announced. ‘Antón!’

A little mestizo, alert as a ferret and wearing the greyish remains of the uniform of some indistinguishable army, answered:

‘Chief?’

‘Return the police rifle! Throw it through the back window while they are asleep!’

‘As you order, Rafael. Is there any danger?’

‘None. A favour to González—that is all.’

There were three cafés under the colonnades of the town. Two were no more than dark taverns. The third, patronised by the Mayor, the Harbourmaster and the Company’s white-collar
employees, was on the street level of Cabo Desierto’s only hotel and had its waiters, trays and kitchen staff. Rafael and Gil would never have dreamed of using it before the boycott, but they
were now responsible citizens. They sat down at one of the dozen iron tables outside the door and ordered two glasses of the cheapest rum.

Both were in need of relaxation. There was so much to do: organisation of full-time work on the land, distribution of relief, posting of guards. On top of all that routine work was an
obstructive bank manager who could not help receiving the contributions from sympathisers abroad but made every possible difficulty over the signatures necessary to draw on them. The last straw was
to be compelled to waste an hour on González.

‘But there is no point in being rude to him, brother,’ Rafael said.

‘What does it matter? He’s a coward.’

‘We do not want them to send the army instead.’

‘They dare not.’

‘No, provided we are peaceable. That is what I have said at every meeting.’

‘Keep your eyes on me, Rafael! The General Manager is coming.’

‘What the devil is he doing out of his car? To me he seems simple-minded. An unfortunate!’

‘Brother, he’s going to lose his pants if he doesn’t kick that dog!’

A yellow, short-haired mongrel was excited by the unfamiliar smell of manager. Rafael and Gil leaned forward delightedly. Mat Darlow, not knowing if the cur belonged to anyone of importance, was
tacking up the street and avoiding a definite engagement. Aware that in another moment he would become a figure of farce he decided that the nuisance could no longer be treated as somebody’s
valued pet. He shot out a hand to his ankles and seized the astonished animal by the scruff of the neck. With his other hand supporting its backside, he lectured it in rich Castilian finally
heaving it gently into the gutter where it, its mother and its daughter had carried on their trade.

The blasted dog was a reminder—not that any was needed—of his isolation. He had been swimming at the Country Club and had taken a momentary dislike to all the self-satisfied faces.
Perhaps it was his age. At any rate he felt himself to be wasting time in a bright half-world which had no more to do with life than a musical film. The background of sparkle and trumpeting flowers
and imported palm trees was indeed much the same. So he had driven down to the town and left his car outside the port offices.

Astonishment at seeing the General Manager on foot in the main street was obvious and embarrassing. Very well, let them be astonished! He wasn’t manager of anything at all. Managers should
have the Company, the Police and the Government behind them. The Company was hoping—with long drinks in the shade—for an energetic offensive. The sole interest of the police was to
avoid blame for whatever happened. And the Government, faced by the problem of marketing the bonanza of the Three Sentinels, was not at all eager to take them over and shoot down workers in the
name of nationalisation.

Wander around a bit and ask questions—he had spent a week on that and received too many answers. The Company executives were sure they had right on their side. Well, from their limited
angle so they had. The priest. He couldn’t say what Jesus Christ would recommend in a case like this. He was disconcerted by Mat’s curiosity. Divinity should stay safely on the Cross.
He got more out of Dr. Solano, who at least had shown a professional interest—as if dealing with a cage of rats—in the experiment of living without wages. Undernourishment, he said, was
not yet serious and the Cabo Desierto lands could give a poor but adequate standard of living. When he felt free to talk frankly Luis Solano would be an invaluable friend—of far more use than
the likeable, bumbling Mayor who contradicted himself daily. Before lunch he was horrified at the folly of his fellow citizens; after lunch they had his sympathy.

The police were predictable anyway. They were on the side of religion and property, which was always surprising since they had little of one and none of the other. And that Captain
González—a timid bureaucrat who seldom dared to show how intelligent he really was! The Manager must not sit in lit windows. The Manager must not go out alone. González would
like to see him continually followed by three well-polished, armed half-wits in uniform. That would look well in a report.

No one but he could get Cabo Desierto back to work. No one could help him in more than minor decisions. No one could share his perceptions. But there it was! Without his car and an expression on
his face as blank as Lorenzo’s he was biteable as any other intruder. The dog was perfectly right. One could only hope that Henry Constantinides was, too.

The café under the hotel was an inviting refuge, though it was awkward that those two toughs should be sitting there—one black and stocky, the other tall, big-bellied and
exceptionally white for Cabo Desierto. Gil Delgado, of course, and Rafael Garay, the father of the boy. However, he had shaken hands with them on arrival, so it would be safe to try a polite bow
and sit as far away as possible. Or even join them, damn it! If they were sullen and got up to leave, at least enmity would be clarified.

‘With your permission?’ he asked, approaching their table.

There were indeed two seconds of hesitation, but due to surprise rather than deliberate coldness.

‘Sit down, Mr. Manager,’ answered Rafael Garay.

Mat drew up a chair, allowed formal courtesies to flower and was asked what he would take.

‘What are you drinking? Rum? That will do me good, too.’

‘Are you very busy?’ asked Gil Delgado when the drink was served.

Mat smiled at the pretended politeness and made a mental note that at some future date the fellow should be pulverised by a sharper irony than his own. He might appreciate it. Reports had it
that Garay inspired the troops and the more sophisticated Delgado gave the pep talks.

‘Not so busy as I used to be. Here where we are sitting was a quarantine station—nothing but three walls, a thatched roof and a sort of government doctor. I remember he wanted to
vaccinate two of our Texan drillers who had just arrived. One of them shot the ampoule out of his hand while the other dealt with the bottles.’

‘Those were the days!’ Gil exclaimed.

‘Yes, we wouldn’t stand interference from the outside. Did you ever hear that for a week we declared Cabo Desierto an independent republic?’

‘Who? The British?’ Rafael asked with a shade of resentment.

‘Not we! We were sick with laughing. The drilling crews were at the bottom of it. They didn’t approve of an import tax on our liquor.’

‘And was your republic taken seriously?’

‘Only by the Government—and the poor harbourmaster who had to entertain the ship’s company of the gunboat which was sent. Friends, I know we cannot go back to the beginning,
but never forget that Cabo Desierto was once my home!’

‘It’s plain you understand its dogs,’ said Gil Delgado.

A trap there. If he answered anything like a simple affirmative, the fellow would quote him as saying or implying that the workers of Cabo Desierto were dogs.

‘The man who does not understand them is either a fool or a coward. To understand one’s fellow citizens is harder. But perhaps we could work together in some things.’

‘For example?’ Rafael asked.

‘For example, something healthy to drink while none of us has much money. There is a surplus of wine in Chile. It would be very cheap and the duty is low. Shall I buy in bulk for the
canteen?’

‘We cannot use the canteen.’

‘Who is stopping you?’

‘Man, it’s understood.’

‘So long as it is not against your principles! In my day it might have been. There was always a taste of oil in everything.’

‘You would permit it?’

‘Why not? The cooks and servers might as well do some work for their pay. And the profit, if there is any, goes to the Welfare Fund.’

‘We cannot draw on the Welfare Fund.’

‘But it is yours like the land.’

‘No! The land belongs to the Co-operative. But the Fund belongs to the employees of the Company. And since we are no longer employees …’

‘I see. You should be a lawyer, Sr. Garay. But I hear there is some suffering.’

‘Among the children,’ Rafael admitted.

‘You have a son, I believe. What is his name?’

‘Chepe,’ Rafael answered and then, feeling that the nickname was too informal for managerial society, added: ‘José -Maria.’

‘Doña Catalina was a churchwoman?’

‘Yes, but she had no need to be.’

‘I have heard that where she was, was heaven already.’

Rafael did not respond. The General Manager had no right to state a truth which had never—in so many words—occurred to him.

‘I will see what I can do about the Welfare Fund. Lend it to the Mayor, perhaps. We do not want children in our battle.’

‘There is no battle, Mr. Manager,’ Rafael said impassively. This is a boycott, not a strike.’

‘What do you propose to end it?’

‘Nothing. We of Cabo Desierto have decided to live without oil.’

‘And what do
you
propose?’ Gil asked.

‘Also nothing. Since we are agreed, some more rum? And as I am an older inhabitant than either of you I must be permitted to pay.’

‘We thank you,’ said Rafael, rising. ‘But we have much to do.’

The two leaders shook hands with the General Manager and strolled up the street with an air of importance they could not help. Until they had turned into the Company’s housing estate, away
from the main street and its eyes, they did not discuss at all the unprecedented occurrence.

‘You were very formal, Rafael,’ Gil said.

‘Look! No one would expect us to refuse to allow him to sit down. But to continue in friendship and to accept his drinks, no!’

‘All the same, there is much to discuss if he is willing.’

‘At a café table? That would be beneath his dignity.’

‘He is a man who carries his dignity about with him.’

Rafael Garay silently agreed and resented it. Respect for the enemy was an unnecessary complication of his boycott, so deadly simple if it were kept simple. He stopped in his compact stride and
flung out the palm of his hand.

‘If he wishes to fight, I told him there!’

The gesture was for himself—an affirmation of faith. He saw that it was so undeniably true that he could safely feel pity for his victim if nothing more.

‘Suppose he does not wish to fight and offers guarantees for the future?’

‘What future? We will not forget the dead.’

‘Who says I forgot them?’

‘I take it back, brother. A little frankness between friends—that is all.’

Gil pressed his arm.

‘Believe me, Rafael, after you and Chepe no one loved Catalina more than I. But Cabo Desierto—one must remember that there is a world outside it.’

Rafael went on alone to his house, one of a casual unregimented cluster which stood close under the hillside beneath the first hairpin of the road. His son was in the yard, heartily flooding the
cans, tubs and troughs of flowers which Catalina had watered daily. Few of them seemed likely to recover from neglect.

‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked.

It was Catalina’s invariable question when Rafael returned. To hear it again from Chepe reminded him how keenly he would have missed the repetition had she once omitted it.

‘So, so.’

‘The committee, papacito?’