Guano Page 9

  What’s the name of the idiot across from me again?

  It’s Pareja, Sir; it’s Pérez, Sir – take all this away; yes, Sir.

  One week later, Santiago made war official in a communiqué. It came straight to the point: scorned pride, open hostilities. Madrid was incensed. Normally we were the ones who started this sort of thing, were we not?

  What do you think, Mr. O’Donnell?

  Leopoldo O’Donnell, Duke of Tetuán, was the most recent new prime minister.

  He didn’t look Spanish, and he sported an Englishman’s moustache. There was nothing refined about it, no fine tips, only big bristles, like a shoe brush, trimmed straight like a cedar hedge. Conceived in the Canary Islands fifty-six years earlier, he died two years later at Biarritz watching the wind, the stars and the sea.

  He had replaced Narváez precisely over the question of Africa. His predecessor had been considered too soft and had had his head turned by the Americas to the point of getting a kink in his neck. The New World was so yesterday, after all. Spain had come, had conquered, had filled its coffers: mission accomplished.

  Now it was just a matter of tending its own backyard, which, according to all evidence, was Africa. Of course, they would send a few ships to the Pacific, they would happily fight in the Andes – it was an emotional attachment. But not at the expense of the Old World, which was being rediscovered. Because their French and English neighbours were also rediscovering it, and in a hurry.

  O’Donnell shared all of these ideas, and a few others as well. It pleased the court. The dark continent was in fashion, the Negro more highly regarded than the Indian. So Pareja was asked to withdraw. Forget Chile, let’s finish things up on a higher note with Peru, collect a few shrimp specimens and come home.

  No, Admiral Pareja replied. We cannot dishonour Spain. She is like a crazed lover. She backs down at nothing.

  He was congratulated on the simile.

  But all the same, hurry up and finish this war.

  Not having sufficient troops to attempt a landing worthy of the name, Pareja decided to blockade the ports. It wasn’t as noble, but it wasn’t as expensive. Anyway, Spain had nobility to burn; she could afford to rest on her laurels. But he would have to do better than in Peru.

  That was not taking into account the 2,900 kilometres of Chilean coastline.

  And the Spanish ships, which were too easily counted. On one and a half hands, no more.

  It was worse than in Peru.

  Except in Valparaíso, where they were able to blockade the port fairly effectively. They even managed to irritate the Americans and the British, who were fond of the place. The economic losses were mounting. Formal protests were sent to Pareja, one signed by Commodore John Rodgers. Pareja didn’t know him. So, to the wastebasket.

  Simón, who was still posted off the coast of Callao, tried thirty times to write a letter to Montse.

  It was either too short or too long. It came too crudely from the heart or too coldly from the head. It wasn’t perfect. So, to the wastebasket.

  The Virgen was called in for reinforcement. A dispatch explained that the Chilean coast was longer than originally thought. A fast ship could intercept some of the more foolhardy. Peru was slug-like, in any case. And Chile, as you could see from maps, looked like a snake without end. It was shifty: no doubt this was the enemy to take down.

  There were immediate manoeuvres and preparations that required the crew’s attention. Simón was both relieved and disappointed that he had to stop writing.

  His heart had always been divided this way. Gypsies could read his future more clearly than Simón could read his feelings.

  Esmeralda: You will fall in love.

  Simón: But how will I know?

  He nonetheless decided to take part in the final expedition on terra firma, to gather a few supplies before sailing.

  Simón held out little hope of seeing Montse again, but he wanted to return to the places they had been alone together. It would reassure him to see the same bench, a similar sidewalk. Callao couldn’t have changed much. He had the sense that the lasting exteriors of the places that they had passed by retained the feeling he thought they had shared, along with the discussions, silences and looks exchanged. As long as the place remained intact, the feeling would remain intact. Better not to name it.

  One year later, Verlaine would commit this animist bit of nonsense to a gloomy poem. The desire to see the sparkling waters of a port again, the endless moaning of the wind, the end of an avenue, its statue. The scent of a suitable flower. His ‘After Three Years’ of love that, deep in the heart, lasts an eternity.

  Simón got back to serious matters. He and the men would have to row hard to reach the dock.

  This time they didn’t bother with disguises. The townsfolk looked on with menacing glares while merchants made deals. They chatted a little, whispered sweet nothings to the woman at the bakery, had a drink on a terrace. Then they loaded the supplies into the dinghes.

  As they were doing all this, Simón saw a familiar silhouette. She was coming down from the town, bouncing from one passerby to the next, from one stall to the next.

  It was the Ortuño maid, who stopped to scold the nephew and give him another life lesson. He was into marbles now. He was growing up.

  Simón waved to her. She recognized him: Mademoiselle has returned!

  When? Simón asked, knocking over a bottle of wine.

  The bottle was too dusty, or too slippery, of course. A stray cat lapped up the liquid, its caramel fur speckled with spatters.

  Yesterday, Sir; she’s still asleep.

  Is she getting better? Is she smiling more?

  No more, no less, the maid said. Mademoiselle dropped from fatigue when she arrived. She kept muttering.

  Simón didn’t dare ask what.

  Is she dreaming a lot?

  You know, Mademoiselle is always off somewhere, never in the here and now. She dreams standing up.

  Simón was tempted to go fetch her in her dreams. But duty called, time was of the essence. And there was something else: a semblance of pride. Hadn’t she decided – with no goodbyes, not a moment’s hesitation – to leave for Lambayeque after they met?

  Why couldn’t he do likewise?

  Why didn’t he have her strength and detachment?

  Maybe that was actually what she wanted him to do. To prove how similar they were, to show her that they were cut from the same strong cloth, made to understand one another, a kindred spirit in freedom and independence. Leaving would bring them closer together.

  Time to go, said Simón. It’s nice to see you again, but I have to go.

  He explained that war awaited him. He was even moved himself. It was all heroism: duty, courage, stoicism. He wished Montse could have been there to hear him. She would have begged him to stay. Obviously, he would have had to say no, to stay in character.

  What should I tell Mademoiselle? The maid was concerned.

  She was afraid of a misstep, without knowing what it could be, of letting an opportunity slip by. Maybe her mistress would be disappointed that she failed to keep the lieutenant from leaving.

  She will ask questions, you know. It would be better if I said nothing of you being here.

  No, Simón answered, tell her what I said. And to explain my departure, you can simply add that …

  He looked off in the distance.

  One day I burn bright, blazing …

  He closed his eyes.

  … and the next day I am gone, obscured by the clouds.

  Like the sun.

  But Sir, the maid insisted, you could come with me; there is the vestibule, and it will probably only take a minute, and …

  No, Simón interrupted her. The sun doesn’t control the clouds.

  And he was off. Proud of himself.

  11

  Too much sea dulls the mind. Still more sea torments it. It’s the surface of the water that does it; at first hypnotic and all-consuming, it soon becomes a blank sh
eet on which you are meant to write the rest of your life. A dulled mind starts to daydream, and then is anxious about standing still.

  For days Simón had been pacing the cabins, the holds and the decks. He sought out any conversation he could find to calm his nerves. He would stop to talk about the size of rations or a weakening mast. He revived dying conversations with important philosophical matters and comments on worm holes in the hull. It all depended on the intelligence of the person he was talking to, which didn’t necessarily reflect rank.

  The fact was that he had grown unsure about his decision in Callao, made under the pretense of independence. He was tormented to the point that he could no longer write his reports, let alone a letter to Montse. It wasn’t for want of thinking about it. He thought of nothing but her. She was in every allusion to Callao, to Spain, to women in general, to umbrellas in particular, to anything. It was as though all of his thoughts had her hair wrapped around them. And his fixation could be displaced only in brief moments of relief: urination, sleep, danger.

  Once calm was restored in the world, the storm would start to rage inside him.

  They had been sailing in the direction of Chile and Pareja for many days. The Virgen had passed Coquimbo and would soon arrive within sight of Valparaíso. November was November. The sky was drained of colour; the seas were growing rougher. Determined waves licked the sailors’ ankles, reaching almost as high as their morale, which was low.

  Simón had been daydreaming on his bunk since morning. Montse was lying on top of him, lying next to him, lying underneath him, lying under the bed, any form of lying that would allow for any sort of caress. This had been going on for two long hours – his imagination was starting to flag – when the alert sounded.

  Montse disappeared into the shape of the sheets, and Simón was able to get up.

  On deck, it was explained that a ship flying an English flag was approaching. It was the Esmeralda, a corvette. Not a very English name, of course, because it was in fact Chilean. But it had taken the Spaniards some time to unmask the imposter. The first clue was the Esmeralda releasing a small, powdery, quickly dissipated cloud from its side, like a puff from a pipe. A geyser of foam followed, a sort of spray of pale wheat immediately carried off by the wind.

  The ship wished us harm.

  Of course, they asked for an explanation for the fistful of white sand released into the wind before moving on. The explanation took the form of slivers embedded in the calves of the sailors, and wood shards driven into the base of the masts. Three men who were hit cried out in pain and in unison, although at times taking turns, producing a sort of continuous cry barely modulated by the tone of their voices, suggesting that suffering can be more unifying than a conductor. The port side of the Virgen now had an asymmetrical hole, a clear, unsightly message.

  They wished the ship harm in return.

  The ship finally decided to come clean. They had dragged their feet aboard the Esmeralda, taking their time to find the proper flag; the slow pace made it seem ceremonial. Or perhaps they had been dishonest, slow to admit that they would have to make it official after all, to show remorse. No matter. In Callao, the Spaniards had talked to the Peruvians, the Peruvians to the Chileans. They had discovered the itinerary of the Virgen. They had been expecting it. They would sink it.

  They got the battle they had been looking for. The Virgen extended its cannons. They were lined up along its side like decaying teeth. They countered the attack, subtracting a few Chileans, although mainly adding new waves to the sea. The Virgen ’s cannons weren’t rusty, but its artillerymen were.

  Simón ran. He tried to help the injured and buoy the spirits of the despairing. A bit of blood spattered the sails and his hands, got lodged under his nails; that would be harder to clean. Spain’s aim wasn’t very good. It was firing like an old man coughing: no consistency, no power. They were missing the enemy a great deal given how little they were firing.

  The captain gave the order to cease fire. The Virgen was having a hard time responding. Gunfire had taken chunks out of its masts. The holds were swallowing fish. It was like a casualty clawing its way through the sea, and behind it, the long stream of debris was its entrails. The Esmeralda was soon at its side. The two ships were so close that it was as if one were holding the other up. The order was given to board the ship. The Virgen ’s crew surrendered as a matter of course. A battle with cannons was all well and good, but fighting like pirates, no thank you. The Chilean engineers tried to save the ship. They would take it over; they would take good care of it. They took as prisoners 115 sailors, whom they would take less good care of. And six officers, whom they would treat decently.

  Simón was one of them. He was ordered to hand over all of his papers. These included part of Pareja’s correspondence; Simón had prettied it up with a few rewrites and embellishments. The writing was flowery, the writing of love letters. It was over.

  The prisoners were brought to Valparaíso.

  After negotiations, the Spanish ships blocking the port gave passage to the Esmeralda, which honourably unloaded the captives and would leave the harbour again only at its risk and peril. The Chileans had also promised good conditions for the officers’ detention: meals served with wine and, in the cells, if possible, a window that looked out onto something other than a wall. The others would get whatever could be found.

  The Spaniards had promised not to fire as they went by, nothing more.

  That was already something, given the humiliation, the insult, Isabelle’s coming wrath. It was noble of them not to send the Esmeralda to the bottom of the sea, thought a ruminating Pareja, who was watching the Chilean ship go by from aboard the Villa de Madrid. That coconut shell was laughing at Spain. Spain would crush it.

  Pareja’s annoyance was interrupted by a mail petty officer who had come to announce the prisoner count and the names of the officers. The admiral seemed worried once Lieutenant Claro was mentioned. Had any papers had been taken from him?

  Your Excellency’s personal correspondence, Your Excellency.

  Very well, dismissed. Come back here.

  Close the door at least.

  Pareja paced the deck, his head bowed, all night. He didn’t return the sailors’ salutes, contemplating his future and his boots more than his troops. Then he stopped for a moment near the main mast and stroked it gently before returning to his quarters.

  Once there, he wrote a note. He put on his best uniform, with frogging and buttons on the cuff carved with manticores, with roller coasters at the wrists. He lay down on his bed. He loaded his revolver, thought to himself that he really didn’t want to go through with it – but the others would suggest it. As much to avoid their looks, the viscountess’s disgrace, her husband’s face turning red, the general discomfort in the court, he put a bullet in his brain. The pillow was livid, turned red, soaked up the blood until its thirst was quenched and – it was a lot of fluid – spilled a little onto the bedding, which in turn saturated the Persian carpet. The carpet was burgundy, so the blood blended in, and to the innocent observer it added two or three patterns at the most. The stains would hardly show.

  Pareja’s eyes stayed open. They were calm and yet haunted by reflections. Valparaíso; the sea; you, dear reader. Like fossils or sediment, memories seemed to have been deposited in them, minuscule speckles in the pupil like the last bubbles released by a drowning man.

  His parting note read that honour demanded suicide. His final wish was to be buried at sea, but for pity’s sake, not in Chilean waters. Adieu.

  After the Triunfo was sunk by the seagulls, the Virgen had fallen into enemy hands, and Pareja had committed suicide, it was clear that the war was a serious affair. There were whispers in Madrid that the admiral’s correspondence had contained intimate details. Smutty fakes circulated; they were in hot demand. The war was finally heating up.

  It had also driven Pezet from power in Peru. It had hurt the Chilean economy and the pride of the president of the National Ballet. It h
ad irritated the Americans and the British. They still had their eye on the Spanish fleet. They were patrolling the surrounding waters and diplomatic corridors. They were looking disapprovingly at Isabelle II.

  And yet of all of these players, none were concerned about the fate of Simón, who had fallen into enemy hands, except for the enemy himself, who took the time to find him an adequate cell where he could rot, and you, dear reader, of course, concerned about his fate, worried about his loneliness, to the point that you are willing to rot with him for a while – but only a while, because you will escape.

  Here’s how.

  Núñez

  1865–1866

  12

  Simón disembarked in Valparaíso. As an officer, he was entitled to smiles from the young ladies. He was able to keep his gold pen and was even given a window. In the longest moments of the day, he held the former between his fingers, sitting before the latter. He wrote four lines of a journal, hunched over a tiny desk, and wore himself out. Then he found his motivation: this would sell in Madrid, where tales of prisoners sent the duchesses into a tizzy.

  In between vainglorious daydreams, he watched the city through the window and tried to remember his walks. He hardly recognized the streets he had wandered. He got tired of writing badly and reliving nothing, and asked for some newspapers. Some of them were unreadable. Others reported on the progress of the war and a rancher’s wedding, where the best sires were on show, because the bovine world never sleeps. As far as the war went, the Spanish fleet had a new admiral, Casto Méndez Núñez. He didn’t have a moustache, but he had full sideburns that he regularly scratched, both when he was thinking and when he wasn’t. He was credited with ideas of coastal bombardments and Galician superiority. He would have to succeed where his predecessors Pinzón and Pareja had failed. Striking harder summed up his strategy. He dreamed of a statue in Madrid, Plaza de Cibeles.

  Simón wanted to meet him. Another character for his writing, perhaps. Stature, nerve, ego, all suggestive of genius. Or potential for deception. We shall see.