Afterlands, page 34
The Sinas are prepared to surrender.
Kruger watches the man in the firelight which, as always, illuminates features and feelings that could be missed in daylight, with its less subtle angles and tones. Clearly Ortiz would like to negotiate this surrender himself, now; he suspects he might get away with it but is worried that his superior will be angry; he is deciding that he had better consult El Capitán after all.
Thrusting his jaw he says, Very well, come this way.
I need water. Kruger’s voice is faint. Ortiz ignores him. Spurs jingling he roosters off, at a pace he must know will be difficult for Kruger. But it isn’t far. Luz’s command post is in one of the few undamaged houses in the village—the usual flat-roofed, one-storey adobe hut with a front awning of wood and straw, and for windows a vertical slit to either side of the door. Ortiz raps sharply, cocks his ear, then lets himself in while the sentries stand back from Kruger, aiming their bayonets at his ribs, timidly dodging his eyes. They look about twelve years old.
¿Tienen agua? Kruger asks them. ¡Por favor!
The boys exchange rattled glances. Ortiz bursts importantly through the door and with a leer of ridicule he looks Kruger up and down, then nods toward the opening. He draws his long-barrelled revolver and steps aside, keeping the gun trained on Kruger as Kruger enters. Then he follows him in. The one-room house has been made to look exactly like Luz’s command tent: stools set neatly around the folding table, the lamplit map squared on the table and held open by books, a bottle with a clean rank of glasses, and, draped from the ceiling toward the back of the room, two sheets of canvas curtaining off the bedquarters. Back there a second lamp is glowing, a familiar figure looming in silhouette. No horns.
A sabre pokes through the gap between the canvas drapes and sweeps to the right, parting them wide. Luz, looking fresh and alert, glides through. From the waist up he is naked except for white suspenders, white kid gloves. His hard torso is oiled with sweat. His broad, scholarly forehead shines too, flushed against the steel-grey helmet of hair, his wire-rimmed pince-nez. At his solar plexus is a diamond-shaped scar, as from a spear. He wears his revolver. He has been exercising, clearly, but is not out of breath.
Mr George Tyson, welcome, he says in English. The lieutenant advises me that you have come to arrange a capitulation. ¡Teniente Ortiz—espera afuera!
Ortiz stiffens. ¡Si, mi coronel! He backs out the doorway but remains there at attention, looking in.
I must have some water, Kruger says.
Do you care for a glass of port? Luz sheathes the sabre. I keep a bottle here for my officers. I myself do not drink, or eat meat.
Just water. Please.
He feels the weight of the little knife as he speaks.
Yes, says Luz, you must need some by now. All of you. He shakes his head, frowning slightly. My lieutenant took matters into his own hands today. Normally this tactic would be a last resort, so as to end a long siege and avert further loss of life. He is a very poor lieutenant. ¡Teniente—trae agua buena!
Ortiz blinks, then pivots on his rowelled heel and strides into the dark. A few seconds later, long seconds, one of the child sentries shuffles in quickly with a sloshing bucket in one hand, a tin cup in the other. Luz nods. The boy sets the wooden bucket in front of Kruger’s toes and then, trembling, saluting Luz with averted eyes, he backs away fast, out the door. Kruger crumples to his knees; he scoops up water and thrusts it to his open lips, slurping with violence, spilling half the cupful, and for this long moment he cares about nothing, nobody else, all he’s aware of is the rapture of that precious, tepid fluid flooding down the arroyo of his seared throat, trickling down through his beard. He glances up at Luz, who is closing the door in Ortiz’s staring face. Don’t take it away, he thinks, please! He scoops again, again soaking his beard, but this time he drinks more carefully, getting more down. He drinks a third and a fourth and a fifth cup.
Don’t drink any more, Luz commands softly. Not yet. You would be ill, and we have some matters to discuss. You say those in the church are willing to emerge without further resistance?
Yes, Señor.
He must get closer to Luz. He wipes his mouth and nose and stands up—then sneezes. The little knife tumbles out of his wet beard and plunks into the bucket.
Luz’s lean jaw seems to flex. His eyes peer with deep irony from behind the pince-nez.
Well, apparently you did not come here merely to negotiate a surrender.
Somewhere a rooster crows prematurely and goes on doing it. Luz studies him.
In fact, however—and contrary to what you may believe—you did not come here to kill me, either. In fact, you have come here simply to save your own life.
This is unnecessary, Kruger says.
Probably you are not even aware of it yourself. And this has fascinated me—how men, even intelligent men, can persuade themselves that they are acting with principle in mind, when in fact they are merely indulging their animal natures. I took notice that you drank this water with exceptional, what is the word, relish. This water and the survival it entails, this in fact is what you came for. Lieutenant Ortiz furnishes a clearer example. He declares to me, and doubtless to himself, that he serves with me in order to clear this region of its primitive insurgents, and allow our nation to have its future among other modern nations. He declares that he serves the valid causes of progress and prosperity. In fact, he is merely a vain dandy, a, what is the English word, a cock, coax …
Coxcomb.
A coxcomb—thank you—hankering after a brilliant uniform, a commission, some decorations. A touch of glory, as aphrodisiac. Poorly armed adversaries and facile conquests. Tonight was a shock to him. We encountered real resistance. In the plaza his mount was shot out from under him, whereupon a Sina housewife very nearly impaled him with a hayfork while he lay helpless. She herself was shot only at the last moment.
With his gloved hand Luz unholsters his revolver. His eyes swing down to it for a moment, the rest of him unmoving. Then his eyes light again on Kruger’s face.
I know that you are a man of some thought, Mr Tyson. A part of you must have known that you could hardly kill me with this little knife. Last night you could not even achieve it with a sword.
Kruger says, If thoughtful men fool themselves, how can you be sure you aren’t just like Ortiz?
Luz’s chin lifts very slightly.
And why should I think, Kruger says, that you believe any of those things either? Progress, prosperity, wealth. I’ve read the Presidente’s broadsides too—nailed to the door of every cantina in La Paz. You know as well as I do, Diaz cares only for his power. And whether you know it or not, you, like him, are working for the railroad firm.
No.
How flattering to be seen as the Lamp of the Future—a father to those boys!
Luz’s eyes gleam. He bares that array of tended teeth. You think that they want anything else?
Given a chance to live till adulthood, who knows.
People do not grow up, Luz says firmly. There are no adults. Very few adults.
What about you?
The only adults are those who can turn to advantage the natural childishness of the mob. They thus become the parent of the mob. A parent who provides, who protects, who improves, who thus in turn begins the long work of elevating it to adulthood. I do in fact believe in these things we speak of, Mr Tyson. Like you, I am by nature an idealist—though by necessity a soldier. I care little for wealth or railroad money. I am not even much of a patriot. Fundamentally I despise the disorder I perceive here, the ignorance and barbarous suffering that ensue from it.
The Sinas are hardly barbarians. You must know that.
Luz regards him with that fixed smile.
I find I rather enjoy this, Mr Tyson. Here I have nobody to speak to. To speak to in this way, I mean.
Kruger says nothing.
In fact, you are correct. I have some respect for the Indians, and the Sina most peculiarly. Their language I respect. They are not without culture. Their time here, however, is finished. Civilization will not realize its entire moral and intellectual possibilities until it has purged itself of all these, how shall I phrase it, these infantile elements which constantly revert it into the past. Dirt and superstition and primitive ritual. Nostalgie de la boue. Imagine, Mr Tyson, an ordered and rational civilization all of adults! A society where, for example, all men can read and write. Where people like your shipmates will not die of the cholera, because of the wretched condition of our towns. It may be possible, in a future we strive towards. For now, alas, we must pragmatically exploit the primitive, as with my own illiterate troops, so as to advance the futurist cause.
Luz holds up the revolver and extrudes the cylinder, examining and spinning and clicking it back into place. The muscles of his arm bulge and knot: a perfectly tooled physique.
Now, in choosing to side with the Indians, you exhibit a curious sentimentality and nostalgia. I find it difficult to understand such self-indulgings in a man who appears otherwise intelligent. Men like you, Mr Tyson—men like you have no notion of the suffering your liberal decencies inflict over time!
Numbly Kruger sees the knife in the bottom of the bucket, the water magnifying it into a more plausible weapon. Through his pince-nez Luz transfixes him with eyes as blue as Kruger’s own. The whites are very white. He has grown almost animated.
In fact there are men of thought, and there are men of initiative—of activity. Rarely, one finds men who combine these two properties—men who, upon reaching a hard conclusion by irresistible logic, will then set it into practice, dispassionately, impersonally, like the great Stoic emperor Aurelius, having to deal with the Christians. These are the Adults.
Men like you.
You, however, are a man of thought exclusively. That is why you were unable to use the sword last night. Similarly, you consider the merits of the Sina—I don’t deny that they have them—and refuse to face the cruel necessities of progress. In essence the Indians are children, subsisting in the ancient districts of imagination, not fact, not history, and they must be forced to grow up, or forcibly removed. Still, they cannot help being what they are, and in this they exhibit a certain rude integrity. You, however, have made a free choice, a foolish one. Though not necessarily fatal.
Luz cocks the revolver. Kruger remains calm, empty. He has often wondered what has caused more death and pain through history: the brutish lack of any ideas, or the ideas themselves. Luz might find this paradox intriguing, but Kruger can’t bring himself to speak, to participate.
You remain unconvinced, says Luz, pleased. He takes three steps toward Kruger, his left hand reaching to grip the barrel of the cocked revolver he holds in his right. With his left he turns the gun around and passes it, steel handle first, to Kruger. Kruger receives it and stares dumbstruck at the weapon in his hand, then at Luz, whose face at close range, shaved perfectly blue, is all irony, deep sardonic creases around the mouth.
Luz bows slightly and with arch formality takes two steps back, leaving a smell of lye and clean sweat in the air.
You came here to save yourself, Mr Tyson, and I shall permit this. I shall permit you, in fact, simply to walk away. However, you told yourself that you came here to assassinate me. And this also I permit. However, you cannot do it. Men are consistent—a matter of science. I stopped you with my will last night and as I look into your face at this time, I perceive it again—you see in me your leader. I have earned you, Mr Tyson. And this, in fact, is what men want, always. I sense that you have been deeply, how shall I phrase this now, deeply lonely, no doubt for a long time. How terribly men need something to adhere to, Mr Tyson! A church, a people, a land, a flag—a leader. A leader above all. As for the leader himself, if he is a true one, a true Adult, he needs only an idea to which to adhere. I think that you understand this, for you yourself, I think, are something of a leader, if undeveloped as yet. So I offer you a third and final choice: a commission in my army. A chance to become more than merely a man of thoughts. Frankly, Mr Tyson, you would be a great relief to me, Ortiz is such a … Luz grins dryly as he locates the word: a coxcomb. Like a young Santa Anna. To Ortiz and his ilk, conquest is merely a form of … of sadistic theatre. To me, it is moral science.
If I join you now—Kruger senses, even smells, the luscious water at his feet; maybe Luz was not totally wrong in his accusation?—would you leave the village in peace? What’s left of it?
But that would be to leave a vital work unaccomplished, Mr Tyson! However, I would certainly spare and protect any of those villagers who choose to surrender.
Kruger knows they won’t surrender. Those mastering, hypnotic eyes continue to hold his, and as the gun gets heavier in his slackening hand, he feels an odd visceral softening, a sort of voluptuous temptation to yield to his conqueror—this scholar of human weakness, a man bold and assured enough to give over his own weapon. The most primitive seduction. A bead of sweat stings down into Kruger’s eye. He tightens his grip on the pistol.
In fact, Mr Tyson, whatever should happen, I shall try to ensure that something does survive of the Sina people. I perceive that this matters to you a good deal. Victors do write the histories, and this confronts them with the obligation to record and preserve as much as possible.
Something distracts Luz. His mesmerist eyes release Kruger’s. His brow and lips pucker in thought, just slightly, though on his impassive face the effect is dramatic. With the bemused look of someone ambushed by a fascinating paradox, he says, The Sina tongue, for example—it cannot and will not be extinguished immediately. I myself have learned much of it, you see. In fact, should events transpire as they may have to—these Sina being so cursed with courage—then I myself might be the final living speaker of the Sina tongue!
Kruger’s finger jerks, the hammer snaps. Nothing happens. Luz blinks—a microscopic show of surprise, or something—but he doesn’t move. A slow smile dawns across his face. He has hedged his bets, the scholar not quite so sure of his experiment as he claimed. This surprises Kruger; as his own action has. Casually Luz reaches and grips the barrel of the gun. He’s still smiling, the smile of a man tickled by the spirited anger of some harmless inferior. A woman, a small child. Kruger lets go of the gun and bends and swipes up the bucket by its hinged handle and swings it up and over his shoulder and down. Centrifugal pressure retains most of the water, the weight. The bucket smashes onto Luz’s head, cracks apart, water sloshing, slats and the tin cup and little knife and now the revolver clattering to the floor. In the manner of a folding chair Luz collapses neatly. On the floor he sits drenched, his scabbard splayed, blood pooling in the hideous dent in his hair. His glasses have popped off, his pensive blue eyes exposed. He holds up a hand, the index finger raised. Brow knitted, lips parted, he seems to have one further point to make, but can’t formulate the words. There’s something he means to object to, or rebut. His torso topples straight back and his head hits the floor with a decisive clunk.
Glancing at the door Kruger kneels, grabs the revolver, pops out the cylinder, leans toward Luz’s body hoping to find bullets. Then he sees: the cylinder is not quite empty. There’s a single bullet. The Padre, it seems, had a vice after all. The door swings inward. It’s Ortiz, his mouth forming a little O of shock under the moustache. As the man gropes at his holster Kruger snaps the cylinder closed and cocks the pistol, aims, squeezes. Another click. Ortiz fumbling to cock his own weapon. The two men fumbling a few feet apart. Kruger fans the hammer, the gun fires and Ortiz pitches backward into the doorframe, the astonished look dying on his face. Something on the back of his uniform or belt must be snagged on a hinge-head; he’s still on his feet, his torso and head slumping forward and hanging, a demobilized marionette. Kruger ducks through the canvas partition into Luz’s bedquarters, where the mannequin sporting Luz’s tunic and hat, pathetic now, confronts him. He grabs the hat and returns through the partition and crosses the pooling floor of the house. With a flat, vacant feeling, he steps around Ortiz’s limp torso and polished head, outside. The sentries gawp at him, hands slack on their rifles. Others are approaching. Kruger holds up Luz’s hat like a scalp.
¡Señor! says one of the child sentries, ¿Es usted el capitán nuevo?
Listen to me. The lanceros are all asleep. Now is the time for you to arrest and disarm them.
The sentry looks shocked and delighted. The Padre is dead?
Yes.
Then you are our capitán!
No.
¿El yanqui es el capitán nuevo! another soldier whispers. A crowd is quickly gathering, chattering as word moves among them. Someone says, We must arrest the lanceros or else kill them! So orders our capitán!
I am not your capitán. Go now, disarm them. Your war with the Sinas is over. I’ll join you after I take some water to the church—you there, help me. Go, before some of them wake!
¡Viva el capitán nuevo! chants a soldier, turning and holding his rifle high.
On the edge of Luz’s ruined and smouldering camp in early dawn he works beside the American miner, helping the Sinas and the peon soldiers to dig a mass grave. The Sinas and the peons—Mateo not among them—work in separate groups, communicating little. At least forty of the lanceros were murdered last night on their cots, or as they emerged from their billets, before the rest of them managed to form up and ride out through the broken wall and away to the south. The peons had fired after them into the dark until the last sounds of the galloping had died out.
The chilly air is pervaded with drifting odours of cordite, woodsmoke, the kiln smells of scorched adobe, the stink of shit and incipient decay. The gravediggers’ hurry is not out of fear of detection, but fear of the flesh-eating sun, soon to commence its daily onslaught. Toward a widening wound in the desert the peons drag the limp, gashed bodies of the lanceros by the toes and tinkling spurs of their boots, while village women, keening and shrieking, dart in to kick at the dead, lash at them with cottonwood switches, even stab and hack with knives and captured sabres. No blood flows from these cuts. How pale and null the dead faces, young now in repose, disarmed and dismounted, appear in the soft gloom.
