Baltasar was amazed at the serenity of the troops and the women and children that followed them from place to place, overcoming the distances of the vast continent because of the war, perhaps linking the idea of war with the end of a centuries-long isolation, an intimate justification of death, pain, failure, all in the name of movement and of contact with other men, women, and children.
Serenity or fatalism? They barely looked up at Baltasar, answering all his questions in short, almost lapidary, phrases. Only one question was left unanswered: “Where is Quintana? Which of you is the priest?”
They seemed to be saying that if he had managed to get this far, then this young man was one of them, and if he wasn’t, they wouldn’t let him go alive … Meanwhile, why get upset?
“Before he became a priest, he was a farm worker and a mule driver; he knows the land better than any Spaniard or native-born creole. And if he doesn’t end up winning the war, the truth is, he’s never given a victory to our enemies.”
“He was always poor and still is. He’s a hand-to-mouth priest. Others have their rents and monies from special fees. Not him. He had only one living, and the king of Spain took even that away from him, just to show his power and his nastiness.”
“Go on, Hermenegildo, don’t put it to the gentleman that Father Quintana rebelled just because they deprived him of his living.”
“No, I think he rebelled against his solitude in the world. Look at him sitting there.”
“Careful, Hermenegildo, shut up, we have orders.”
“Excuse me, Atanasio. It just came out.”
“Let’s see you find him,” said the man called Atanasio to Baltasar. “Don’t believe my eyes. I’m blinder than a bat.”
“Did you say solitude? Who knows? He used to like cockfights and gambling back in his town. He mixed with the people. Who knows if he didn’t start fighting just to stop gambling.”
“Or so he could go back to gambling after the war,” said a man passing by, guffawing, potbellied and merry. But he wasn’t Quintana either, Baltasar said to himself as he scrutinized the dark faces, some zambo, others mulatto, very few Indian, the majority mestizo.
“I saw some blond children playing. Where did they come from?”
“From right here. Don’t you know that Veracruz has been the entrance to Mexico for every foreigner since Hernán Cortés and that there are lots of blue-eyed, fair-haired kids in these parts?”
“All of them children of sleepless nights!”
“Not so. You see, our leader is very good at hiding. Once in Guanajuato he was running away from the Spaniards when we had no weapons, and he wound up becoming the lover of the wife of a famous lawyer of the Crown. He winked and told us, ‘No one would ever think to look for me in that lady’s bed.’”
“You want to find Father Quintana? What if he’s dead and we don’t want anyone to know?”
“What if he never existed and we invented him just to scare the Spaniards?”
“But, sir, don’t you believe that story, because the people who think Papa Anselmo’s dead drop dead themselves from fear when they see him reappear.”
“They think they’ve beaten him, that he’s dying of hunger, that he’s living in a cave, that he’s turned coward. But Quintana comes back to life, returns, and starts over. That’s why we’ll follow him anywhere. He never gives up.”
“Because he’s got nothing to lose. A poor parish priest! His living, his Crown privileges, that was the only wealth poor priests had in New Spain.”
“How could he have anything when he went to war because he believes the clergy should have nothing, since the laws of Rome forbid them to have anything?”
“Hold on, what about those elegant uniforms he likes to wear? We all know about that.”
“So, who doesn’t like elegant uniforms? Why should we prove the Spaniards tell the truth when they call us ragged beggars? A man has to look his best once in a while, especially in parades, in battle, and at his funeral. Don’t you agree?”
“The best part, sir, is that he makes sure we have good uniforms, too.”
“And he won’t accept anyone in the troop if he can’t give him at least a sword and a gun.”
“The ones I’m thinking about are the poor tailors who work for General Father Don Anselmo Quintana, because when the Spaniards capture his coats they’re going to shoot the poor tailors who sewed them.”
“How they hate him!”
“Don’t be a fool. That’s why the general’s coats don’t have labels.”
“There aren’t even any bills, not a single reference in the ledgers to receipts and payments,” said a lawyer carrying a bundle of papers. He’d stopped to drink a steaming cup of coffee handed to him by the woman with the cold, who offered to carry the papers from one archive to another. The lawyer gave her the papers and then turned to Baltasar. “You’re looking for Quintana? Well, son, you’ve been given the countersign, haven’t you? You can find him if you want. Or if you are able.”
“Is he here?”
“I can’t tell you that, boy. Who are you?”
“I’m not going to tell you. What’s good enough for Quintana is good enough for me.”
“You don’t talk like a Mexican. But you don’t sound like a Spaniard, either.”
“Well, it’s a big continent. It’s hard for all of us to know each other.”
“Well, boy, let me give you some advice. The general seems really easygoing, but he’s a tiger when he gets his back up. So watch your step. Don’t play with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“What right do you have, addressing me so familiarly?”
“What right do you have calling me boy?”
“I have a degree in jurisprudence from the Royal University of Valladolid in Michoacán.”
“I see. In that case, what is it your excellency wishes to say to me?”
“Boy, I want to tell you what happened to a man who looked like you who was with us in the Oaxaca campaigns. A little creole officer, about your age, was insubordinate to General Quintana. He disobeyed orders by visiting a woman. But he found her in the arms of the Spanish commander of the town. And the commander, in his underwear, felt ridiculous and beaten. Without his uniform, what is an officer, whether creole or Spaniard? Nothing! Our young officer threatened him, and the commander disgorged some military secrets. Our little officer then ran out to report what he’d learned, but found no one in headquarters. So he acted on his own and without permission attacked the rear guard of the Spanish garrison at Xoxotitlán along the Oaxaca road. His action allowed us to take old Antequera, Mr.…?”
“I see. You, sir, are both curious and impertinent.”
“Boy, I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as we say in court.”
“I am Captain Baltasar Bustos. My last posting was to accompany General José de San Martín in the Andes campaign.”
“Captain, a thousand pardons. You seem so…”
“Callow. Yes. Your story interests me, please finish it.”
“Delighted. Let’s see now. Sit down on this crate here. We lack amenities.”
“Just go on. Quintana was faced with a dilemma: should he punish the officer or not?”
“Exactly, Captain. Your perspicacity is astonishing.”
“No more than your malice, Counselor.”
“You flatter me, Captain. That was the dilemma. Punish him. Or allow a tradition of disorder and caprice to flourish. The priest Quintana has enough headaches defending himself against edicts of excommunication and anathemas for heresy.”