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  Isabelle II asked herself why not. It would be hard to do any worse than sinking your own ships. And Ramón María Narváez was neither hard on the ears nor the eyes. He had a moustache and big ears that his small sideburns didn’t hide. He was also the first Duke of Valencia. He sold violence well; he sold it like mink. It was soft, it was warm and the animal hadn’t suffered. On his death bed, four years later, the priest would ask him to forgive his enemies.

  I don’t have any, he would say. I had them all killed.

  The diplomatic ranks were excited about this newcomer. Here is some of the fancy footwork that took place.

  Those who had found Pinzón too tough now found him too soft. Narváez made even the most sullied hands appear lily white. So they decided to replace the admiral – his distinguished bloodline would no longer suffice, and he wasn’t spilling enough enemy blood.

  Pinzón heard the news one evening as a Peruvian schooner was sticking out its tongue behind his blockade’s back. He dismissed the officers from his quarters and shut himself in, waiting for his replacement. He would return to Spain aboard the first ship flying a neutral flag – or maybe he would go to the United States. Because John Rodgers had intrigued him. The civil war he had talked about did too.

  His parting gesture was one of the eyebrow.

  Juan Manuel Pareja and a few more ships arrived in Peru in December 1864. He was given command of the fleet aboard the Villa de Madrid, the new flagship, with no great pomp or enthusiasm. Sword, cracked note on the trumpet, raising of the flag – let’s get on with it.

  He was born in Lima but, after the Peruvian insurrections, everyone he knew went back to Spain. He had never followed fashion or sported a moustache. He hated what he called rebels and, more generally, anyone who wasn’t a royalist.

  His father had fought the Chilean revolutionaries in 1813. His death had had three acts:

  1. There was the fire in Old Lope’s barn where he had taken refuge;

  2. There was the patience of revolutionary forces who surrounded the building;

  3. There were the guns fired at the burnt body emerging from Old Lope’s barn, sword drawn.

  Juan had cried.

  When asked about it later, he denied it.

  Settling a family matter, Narváez believed, required the help of a member of that family. And in addition to the flaw of being Peruvian, Juan Manuel Pareja had the quality of being heartless. People already perceived him as having the same skin colour and ideas as the prime minister.

  Also there was widespread surprise when, dismissing the theatre that had been Salazar – Madrid needs you, my good man – the admiral struck up new negotiations with Lima. It was thought to be for appearances. And it was, although substance was stirred up anyway, and Pareja increased his grievances threefold, increased his insults fivefold, logically increasing sevenfold his consumption of Cuban cigars. His demands grew exponentially, his aims even more extravagant than those of Pinzón and Salazar combined. They involved resources, promises, throw in some women, why not, and some Inca gold while we’re at it.

  President Pezet’s envoy, Manuel Ignacio de Vivanco, explained clearly that they would concede no more today than they did yesterday. His opinion of the men was still as harsh, his moustache still as smooth – he had come back against his better judgement. He had been promised that the meeting would be short. He had had his ego stroked – pause –and ballast added to his purse. People said he knew how to talk to men.

  I talk to them like dogs, he explained.

  Surprisingly, they reached an agreement.

  Pareja wanted to declare victory as soon as possible.

  Vivanco was worried about the fate of Caramba and Calíope, his dogs, who were teething.

  President Pezet was still thinking about Juanita.

  The paperwork was signed aboard the Villa de Madrid one fine afternoon in January – there is such a thing. It was sunny and not too cold; the sea gave the men a chance to sleep in. It was calm to the point of being still, the energy hidden below the surface as if under a large white sheet. Sometimes the sea stirred with an eddy, or some backwash, as if shifting a knee or an arm.

  It was 1865. The war had been going on for nine months already. The Spaniards had captured three islands and accidentally lost a ship. They had shot a man; their honour was intact.

  Lima took a dim view of the treaty. Too much had been conceded to the enemy: the islands, compensation payments and a great deal of pride. Speeches in the Chamber pitted people against one other. They all threw another log on the fire of general indignation. It went beyond the usual debate.

  In the streets, things were less metaphorical. Stakes were erected to burn Pezet and Isabelle II in effigy, each in turn. The effigy of a widely hated local bigshot was sometimes added to the fire, depending on how whipped up the demonstrators were and on the inventory of available straw.

  Congress refused to ratify the accord. The people had been heard. Or rather misheard. Because once news got out about the refusal, the people went back down into the streets for some rioting. They wanted the war to end, Spain to leave – who gives a damn about honour – and then if they could all the same give a good smack to the Cortéses, Pizarros and De Balboas over there. And all those Aguirres who come from the other world to sow evil in ours, amen.

  The people were impossible to understand.

  Nevertheless, Pezet’s government would fall a few months later. Vivanco learned of it over the barking of his dogs.

  Pezet learned of it during a performance that he interrupted abruptly before making his intentions known.

  Juanita: No, Mr. Pezet, no, I won’t come with you.

  Pezet: But what if, Juanita, what if we fled this dismal reality to live out our dream.

  Her name wasn’t Juanita, but Anna María. She was, however, beautiful, and married to Alessandro, the actor. Pezet would have preferred fiction and reality be reversed.

  He settled instead in Tarapoto, where he rarely spoke to women. First he would ask for their given name, then didn’t believe them, pulled the ring finger of their left hand toward him, before they stalked off, incensed. Then he went back to listening to the palm trees.

  10

  Anyway, for a while Peru will play only a minor role in our story. It was the spark. But the true blaze of the war was obscuring other skies.

  Pareja was informed that Pezet was deposed while his armada was already patrolling Chilean waters. The country that laid claim to these waters had gotten in a huff a few weeks earlier. Here’s what happened.

  The war was complicated. There had been threats, treaties, meetings, escalation. People were talking about Spanish arrogance and Peruvian indifference. But nothing was coming to a head – there was no conqueror, not even any battles really. It was a war that gave no one any peace, that spilled over a little into neighbouring countries like a dog barking in the next yard. Well, said Bolivia, Ecuador and Chile, what should we do?

  Especially since Chile quite liked its president and had noticed how Spain had undermined Pezet’s credibility in his own country so that his government had faltered. Hadn’t the Spaniards questioned the suitability of our own president, Pérez, at a party? They remembered all too well a joke about his love of the ballet.

  There was further discussion among the prominent families of Santiago, and then two or three scathing attacks published in the newspapers. It was becoming clear that Spain had come to restore its empire.

  With so few ships?

  With so little violence?

  But with such arrogance – it was plain to see.

  Pérez still believed in moderation. On the other hand, he was irritated at being ridiculed for his love of the ballet. So they wanted to help Peru a little and punish Spain just as little. It was only right.

  Having a Castilian merchant navy ship in Chilean waters was the perfect opportunity to put this new policy into action. When those aboard the Spanish vessel asked for a little coal for their boilers, they were refused.
Coal was a resource that could not be sold to a warfaring nation. Yes, things had taken an unfortunate turn, but President Pérez was determined to rebuild his image.

  Pareja saw the situation from another point of view. This embargo was a clear lack of neutrality; such an affront was without a shadow of a doubt a full-on attack. Things took a more fortunate turn.

  Particularly since two Peruvian steamers had just left the port of Valparaíso heading for Peru with Chilean volunteers and weapons aboard.

  What could be said in its defence?

  Nothing.

  So, Pareja decided to split up his fleet. He sailed for Chile with four boats. The Numancia and the Virgen stayed off the coast of Callao, so that the Peruvians wouldn’t forget that Spain was angry. And that its flag was beautiful.

  Before leaving, Pareja summoned Simón.

  Your reputation precedes you, he began. I hope it will follow you.

  He gave Simón some paper, a handful of letters that he took out of the drawer of his writing desk. One of them was to be rewritten; it was inelegantly splotched with ink on account of the author’s hesitation.

  It wasn’t flowing, he continued, staring at his inkwell. They tell me that you know how to fix it. You could read the previous ones as inspiration, to get the tone. That’s how you say it, isn’t it? The tone?

  Or the style, or the voice, Simón replied, the thing that makes it you.

  Pareja remained absorbed by the jet-black brilliance of the inkwell; he touched it with his finger, finally picked it up.

  You will embellish, he said, make sure the effects are right and the ideas efficient. Most importantly, you won’t be you.

  Simón acquiesced, waited to be dismissed.

  I’ll pick it all up when I come back, Pareja added, because you’ll stay here. You’ve been reassigned, Lieutenant. You’re no longer attached to an orphan ship.

  I have to go now. Dismissed.

  Pareja had decided that the Virgen needed an additional officer, so Simón had been installed, scribe and navigator, in a cabin with no porthole, the ambiguous purpose of which – storage or dungeon – remained to be decided under the new captain. This was done unofficially, while every day more piles of fishing nets appeared around Simón’s feet, as he wrote similar piles of reports. They ended up settling on a lack of accuracy they were quite comfortable with – except for Simón – in keeping with the lack of accuracy of the treaty of Tordesillas. This was no surprise; it was typical of the war to this point.

  Simón was happy to hear of Pareja’s departure for Chile. This would no doubt mean the relaxing of strict orders: no fraternizing with the enemy, no landing without an order to attack, no trading with the people, no setting fire to the sails.

  Maybe he could try to see Montse again.

  From that point on, he paced in his mind. He looked at the twinkling lights of Callao in the distance, a scattering of breadcrumbs that the fog pecked at from time to time. He sighed a great deal when the town disappeared behind the veil, and just as much when it reappeared – in other words, all the time.

  Shipmates questioned him; others got him a little drunk. Simón responded that he would like to see Callao again, a pretty town, and walk through the hills. They understood immediately: everyone hated Callao, a soulless town, ‘hills’ an overstatement, not to mention the glaring lack of brothels.

  See a young lady again, eh?

  If only briefly, Simón explained.

  If only to freshen up my fantasies with a bit of reality, to better imagine the shape of her eyes, the curve of her breast, you know, so that it doesn’t fade away.

  And who knows, they added, half joking, maybe to take things a little further.

  Simón wouldn’t object.

  The opportunity arose quite naturally. Under the captain’s tacit, unofficial approval, sailors from the Virgen mounted a small trading expedition. They wanted more tobacco and less vile food on board. Simón was invited to join them.

  At first he hesitated. He was sleeping so well in the arms of his memories that he was afraid to leave them and dispel the dream. He used scruples as justification. I mean really, not like that, without warning. Whatever will she think?

  And I don’t even have flowers.

  In truth, he found himself more comfortable with the idea of Montse than in her arms. He ended up being forced into the dinghy. He was a good officer, he would command the operation. He did an uncanny imitation of the Peruvian accent, which was eerie: muted tones, a practically monotonous stream of sounds, some rattling of chains on the double R – now that you mention it, it really quite suited him, or a strange double of him.

  Everyone wanted to see how his story would turn out. Because the war had been boring of late. Lacking oomph, practically stalled, it left a void to fill in the men’s minds. They called the other diversion to the rescue without uttering its name: lov… No, no, Simón demurred, not that serious word, barely an inclination of a few degrees.

  They shoved him into the dinghy.

  They told him: Of course, you’re right, a little slope that’s pulling you down just a bit. You have to go for it, let go, come on. We’ll see if you pick up speed, Lieutenant.

  It was evening. They tied the ropes to the bollard, careful not to make the knot too complicated. They might have to leave in a hurry.

  Everyone was wearing dark clothes and black bandanas. Some had blackened their faces with coal. The mission started clumsily through the town. They were talking too much, discussing the supplies they needed, and their outfits were ridiculous.

  The small group was cause for concern in the townspeople’s homes – one of the disadvantages of the disguise, because it made them look like devil worshippers on their way to a black mass. Passersby turned; the curious pressed their noses against the windows. They would be committing their evil deeds in the hills, no doubt, or at Miss Ortuño’s house. She had books that no one else would read.

  The group of suspects split up to escape the vigilance of the locals. They would meet up at the home of a sympathizer who would trade provisions for a bit of gold. Except you, Lieutenant, of course, we’ll see you back at the dinghy. Wink, wink, pat on the shoulder, off we go.

  Simón didn’t want to disappoint anyone. He set off for the Ortuño residence.

  He knocked softly at the door, looked behind him, not wanting to upset the calm that was settling over the town. No one answered. He knocked again, and the maid opened the door, a bit on edge. Oh! It’s you, Mr. Claro, forgive me, I thought, what you’re wearing, you gave me a bit of a fright.

  Simón asked her about Mademoiselle: was he disturbing her sleep, her reading, her sighing? Oh, no, not at all. Mademoiselle left for Lambayeque with her brother, who is not doing any better. He’s having nightmares. And they had mentioned a trip to Tarapoto; the strong wind is good for the constitution.

  Simón wanted to leave something for Montse, a token of his affection, an expression of his thoughts, to keep alive what was meant to be. He had seen it done in books. A small gift. But nothing he had with him seemed significant.

  He still hadn’t written a letter.

  Not even any flowers.

  Oh, Simón finally said. When is she coming back?

  Well, Sir, well. Miss Montserrat is quite mysterious. One night you see her and the next not at all. She’s like the moon.

  Let’s get back to Pareja and his ships, which arrived in sight of Valparaíso on September 17, 1865. Three years had passed since Pinzón first took command of the fleet.

  The people of Valparaíso were there, still pensive, the ocean still calm and dangerous.

  Dreamers still filled the docks and women their dreams.

  The mantilla had fallen out of fashion. Hair was becoming more of a distraction.

  This time, however, there was more carrying on and unpleasantness than when Pinzón had come. The Spaniards were demanding apologies. The Chileans were getting annoyed by the political situation. They were kind of like the Peruvians’ c
ousins, you know, and were even known to marry their daughters. Spain had thought Chile more respectable.

  Pareja wanted to see José Joaquín Pérez, president twice over.

  The meeting took place aboard the Villa de Madrid. Food was served. Pérez still leaned on his cane with the gold knob, and no matter what the Spaniards thought of it, was more serious than ever about his presidency of the National Ballet.

  And the ballet? Pareja asked.

  It’s doing well, thank you, Pérez answered.

  And the country?

  Even better, rest assured.

  Would it have been too much to ask that the Spanish fleet be welcomed with a few salutes? Say, twenty-one of them.

  No, Pérez said, technically it wouldn’t be a problem because, you know, Chile has more and more guns, and men to use them. Warships too, that sort of thing, coastal batteries, if you want to know. So technically no, but ethically yes.

  They had a hard time understanding the Spaniards’ objections. They asked for clarification. Tomorrow is the 18th, Pérez explained.

  So? Pareja asked.

  Well, that’s the day Spain left.

  They had thought it was for good. At least they had hoped.

  Ignorance, Pareja said, angry. As a worthy representative of our Lord on earth, Spain has a small presence everywhere.

  Well, Pérez said, it seems you’re forgetting Africa, where the French are truly everywhere, for instance, and the English.

  The comparison was a little shaky.

  Spain always returns, Pareja went on. She is like the sun. That sort of thing.

  Like certain nightmares, then.

  The worst, Pareja answered.

  There was anger all around. They were both ruminating, losing their appetite. Thoughts were growing confused: the veal blanquette was arrogant, Chile inedible.