They walked up the street side by side: the fat one and the lean. It was a Sunday and all the shops closed at noon-that was the only relic of the old time. No bells rang anywhere. The lieutenant said: Have you seen the Governor?
You can do anything, the jefe said, anything.
He leaves it to us?
On conditions, he winced.
What are they?
He'll hold you-responsible-if-not caught before-rains.
As long as I'm not responsible for anything else ... the lieutenant said moodily.
You asked for it. You got it.
I'm glad. It seemed to the lieutenant that all the world he cared about now lay at his feet. They passed the new hall built for the Syndicate of Workers and Peasants: through the window they could see the big, bold, clever murals-of one priest caressing a woman in the confessional, another tippling on the [50] sacramental wine. The lieutenant said: We will soon make these unnecessary. He looked at the pictures with the eye of a foreigner: they seemed to him barbarous.
Why? They are-fun.
One day they'll forget there ever was a Church here. The jefe said nothing. The lieutenant knew he was thinking: What a fuss about nothing. He said sharply: Well, what are my orders?
Orders?
You are my chief.
The jefe was silent: he studied the lieutenant unobtrusively with little astute eyes. Then he said: You know I trust you. Do what you think best.
Will you put that in writing?
Oh-not necessary. We know each other.
All the way up the road they fenced warily for positions. Didn't the Governor give you anything in writing? the lieutenant asked.
No. He said we knew each other.
It was the lieutenant who gave way because it was he who really cared. He was indifferent to his personal future. He said: I shall take hostages from every village.
Then he won't stay in the villages.
Do you imagine, the lieutenant said bitterly, that they don't know where he is? He has to keep some touch-or what good is he?
Just as you like, the jefe said.
And I shall shoot as often as it's necessary.
The jefe said with factitious brightness: A little blood never hurt anyone. Where will you start?
His parish, I think, Concepcion, and then-perhaps-his home.
Why there?
He may think he's safe there. He brooded past the shuttered shops. It's worth a few deaths, but will he, do you think, support me if they make a fuss in Mexico?
It isn't likely, is it? the jefe said. But it's what- He was stopped by a stab of pain.
It's what I wanted, the lieutenant said for him.
He made his way on alone towards the police station: and the [51] chief went back to billiards. There were few people about; it was too hot. If only, he thought, we had a proper photograph-he wanted to know the features of his enemy. A swarm of children had the plaza to themselves. They were playing some obscure and intricate game from bench to bench: an empty gaseosa bottle sailed through the air and smashed at the lieutenant's feet. His hand went to his holster and he turned: he caught a look of consternation on a boy's face.
Did you throw that bottle?
The heavy brown eyes stared sullenly back at him.
What were you doing?
It was a bomb.
Were you throwing it at me?
No.
What then?
A gringo.
The lieutenant smiled-an awkward movement of the lips: That's right, but you must aim better. He kicked the broken bottle into the road and tried to think of words which would show these children that they were on the same side. He said: I suppose the gringo was one of those rich Yankees who think ... and surprised an expression of devotion in the boy's face; it called for something in return, and the lieutenant became aware in his own heart of a sad and unsatisfiable love. He said: Come here. The child approached, while his companions stood in a scared semi-circle and watched from a safe distance. What is your name?
Luis.
Well, the lieutenant said, at a loss for words, you must learn to aim properly.
The boy said passionately: I wish I could. He had his eye on the holster.
Would you like to see my gun? the lieutenant said. He drew his heavy automatic from the holster and held it out: the children drew cautiously in. He said: This is the safety-catch. Lift it. So. Now it's ready to fire.
Is it loaded? Luis asked.
It's always loaded.
The tip of the boy's tongue appeared: he swallowed. Saliva came from the glands as if he smelt blood. They all stood close [52] in now. A daring child put out his hand and touched the holster. They ringed the lieutenant round: he was surrounded by an insecure happiness as he fitted the gun back on his hip.
What is it called? Luis asked.
A Colt No. 5.
How many bullets?
Six.
Have you killed somebody with it?
Not yet, the lieutenant said.
They were breathless with interest. He stood with his hand on his holster and watched the brown intent patient eyes: it was for these he was fighting. He would eliminate from their childhood everything which had made him miserable, all that was poor, superstitious, and corrupt. They deserved nothing less than the truth-a vacant universe and a cooling world, the right to be happy in any way they chose. He was quite prepared to make a massacre for their sakes-first the Church and then the foreigner and then the politician-even his own chief would one day have to go. He wanted to begin the world again with them, in a desert.
Oh, Luis said, I wish ... I wish ... as if his ambition were too vast for definition. The lieutenant put out his hand in a gesture of affection-a touch, he didn't know what to do with it. He pinched the boy's ear and saw him flinch away with the pain: they scattered from him like birds and he went on alone across the plaza to the police station, a little dapper figure of hate carrying his secret of love. On the wall of the office the gangster still stared stubbornly in profile towards the first communion party: somebody had inked the priest's head round to detach him from the girls' and the women's faces: the unbearable grin peeked out of a halo. The lieutenant called furiously out into the patio: Is there nobody here? Then he sat down at the desk while the gun-butts scraped the floor.
PART II
Chapter One
THE mule suddenly sat down under the priest: it was not an unnatural thing to do, for they had been travelling through the forest for nearly twelve hours. They had been going west, but news of soldiers met them there and they had turned east: the Red Shirts were active in that direction, so they had tacked north, wading through the swamps, diving into the mahogany darkness. Now they were both tired out and the mule simply sat down. The priest scrambled off and began to laugh. He was feeling happy. It is one of the strange discoveries a man makes that life, however you lead it, contains moments of exhilaration: there are always comparisons which can be made with worse times: even in danger and misery the pendulum swings.
He came cautiously out of the belt of trees into a marshy clearing: the whole state was like that, river and swamp and forest: he knelt down in the late sunlight and bathed his face in a brown pool which reflected back at him like a piece of glazed pottery the round, stubbly, and hollow features; they were so unexpected that he grinned at them-with the shy evasive untrustworthy smile of a man caught out. In the old days he often practised a gesture a long while in front of a glass so that he had come to know his own face as well as an actor does. It was a form of humility-his own natural face hadn't seemed the right one. It was a buffoon's face, good enough for mild jokes to women, but unsuitable at the altar rail. He had tried to change it-and indeed, he thought, indeed I have succeeded, they'll never recognize me now, and the cause of his happiness came back to him like the taste of brandy, promising temporary relief from fear, loneliness, a lot of things. He was being driven by the presence of the soldiers to the very place where he most wanted to be. He had avoided it for six years, but now it wasn't his fault-it was his duty to go there-it couldn't count as sin. He went back to his mule and kicked it gently: Up, mule, up -a small gaunt man in torn peasant's clothes going for the first time in many years, like any ordinary man, to his home.