“Good. You’re an obedient man. So I expect you’re a good citizen too, aren’t you?”
“Certainly, captain.”
“A citizen who obeys all the laws of his country?”
“Of course, captain.”
“Ha, so we’re dealing with a model citizen. Tell me, have you got any cows?”
“Sí, capitán.”
“And goats?”
“Sí, capitán.”
“What do you do with those cows and goats?”
“I sell the milk, captain.”
“Who to?”
“To the co-operative depot in Pueblo Nuevo.”
“Who else?”
“No one else, captain. I have to deliver all milk to the depot.”
“Don’t you sell milk to your neighbours?”
“Neighbours? I haven’t got any near neighbours, captain. The nearest place, Sanchez’s. .”
“I mean your neighbours in the jungle!”
“In the jungle? I don’t understand you, captain.”
“No. of course you don’t understand me. But what about meat? Don’t you sell meat? Don’t you ever slaughter one of your cows?”
“Oh no, captain. I live on my cow’s milk. Later, when my young bull is fully grown and my cows start calving, I may be able to slaughter a cow now and then and sell the meat. I hope to live to see the day.”
“I hope so too. No, I’m sure of it. Before you die you’ll see your cows slaughtered. You mark my prophetic words!”
The interrogation continues for quite a while. Suddenly Captain Román has had enough and orders Fernando to go to his cow pen: “That’s where you belong, among the dumb animals!” A dozen soldiers climb onto the wall of the open pen and at Román’s command the automatic weapons start rattling. Then Fernando’s wife is raped five times and his daughter ten times. The two women are tied to their beds and the house is set alight. The farmer’s little house burns to the ground and the soldiers leave. A slender moon appears among the clouds and casts a faint light on the dismal scene. Only the front wall of the burnt-out farmhouse is still standing; occasionally there is a crackling sound from the smouldering ruins. In the pen the body of the peasant lies among his dead cows, some of which are still bleeding. The whole scene has the desolate air of the paintings of Sergio Etchechourry, the visionary artist who over a century ago immortalised the War of Independence, and particularly the struggle in the countryside, in scenes of ghastly devastation and death. The farmers in the wide plain of Tierra Baja learned their lesson. None of them would ever again take it into their head to supply meat, milk or eggs to the guerrilla camp in the jungle.
And I see a nineteen-year-old youth dressed in dark blue jeans, white T-shirt and trainers who, from the third-floor balcony of a house in the Calle Principal throws a grenade at a military vehicle which drives down the street every day at 12:03 pm carrying twenty men of the National Guard to the Los Reyes barracks. Either from youthful insouciance or from anxiety because he is carrying out his first terrorist attack, the man lobs the projectile with far too much force. The grenade sails right over the vehicle and explodes in the gateway of the school on the other side of the street, just at the moment when the children come rushing out. Seven boys and girls are killed instantly, thirteen are injured. The soldiers immediately cordon off the street and search the houses; the weeping culprit is caught. He keeps screaming that the grenade was meant for the military vehicle. Under torture at the barracks he reveals which group he belongs to, who sent him on the mission, and how he got hold of the grenade. The radio stations broadcast classical music for three days, occasionally interrupted by a new report of the confessions of the grenade thrower or an interview with the next of kin of the little victims. The funeral takes place on Sunday afternoon, and as the sad cortège crosses the Plaza del Sol, the two fountains spout water dyed red to symbolise the spilling of innocent blood. The following morning the grenade thrower’s head is displayed on the pinnacle of one of the fountains. The eyeless head hangs there until the skin has turned black. One morning it has gone and the Plaza del Sol is officially renamed the Plaza de los Niños.
And I see a Caribbean island with big hotels and white beaches newly replenished with shining sand. In a little house an old woman prays to her favourite saint for the safety of her son. He has been in Europe for a year; he likes it fine and is earning good money. It’s true he hasn’t sent any home, but she is happy with his cheerful letters, which she reads ten times over. But Europe is a very big island where rich people live. They have gold mines and apartheid and nuclear rockets they have borrowed from America and will fire at each other when they declare war. She has read all that with her own eyes in the morning paper. The gold mines have long, dark tunnels that reach the centre of the earth. But the Europeans don’t go down themselves, they send in black West Indians and Turks to extract the gold. From time to time, one of the tunnels caves in and buries many workers. That is why she is praying for her son. Her prayer is not heard. His body is fished out of a canal by the police and press reports say he was murdered by drug dealers. The story appears under splash headlines in her morning paper. The old woman never knew that the Pope had declared many years earlier that Santa Filomena was not a true saint.
And I see my garden gate swing open and Eugenio, once a schoolteacher and now the village idiot, enters. As he comes into the light I can see that he is not wearing his customary hat or the boots in which he keeps newspaper cuttings. His trousers are rolled up to just below the knee and I notice that he has six toes on his left foot. That is to say, above his little toe there is an appendage that looks very like a miniature toe. When he has come very close, he startles me by suddenly tumbling forward and standing on his head. With his head and hands on the ground and his legs flailing to keep his balance, he starts bellowing in the annoying, singsong way of children reciting a prayer or a poem: “A person could go old and grey with all that waiting! Who was it promised a land of milk and honey? That the blind would see? The deaf hear? A thousand-year land of plenty? Meanwhile, take pity on the rich — millionaires can be unhappy too — comfort the strong — tough guys also sometimes lose — forget the Third World — send consolation to the capitalists — and please don’t forget the white folks because of all those blacks. Ignore the sick, the prisoners, the lonely — award a title to a successful prostitute — increase the robber’s haul — give the terrorists a hand — democrats can stand on their own feet, so let’s do something for a fascist government. The conservationists, the disabled, the elderly and the homosexuals get quite enough attention as it is, so let’s give healthy people more vitality — turn all the water into wine again, drunks are the salt of the earth! All those kids who masturbate on the sly, give them exciting fantasies — and while we’re talking about children, let all the pompous schoolmasters suffocate in their sleep — or if that’s not possible, then let the Holy Ghost reveal the exam questions in advance. Let a notary win the jackpot in the lottery — bless all royal houses — give every prince a beautiful princess — give a bonus to every rapist — encourage the sadomasochists and the Christian Socialists too — let landslides and volcanic eruptions happen only in poor, densely populated regions — no more trains full of suntanned tourists must be derailed. Anoint those in authority — be particularly munificent to dictators, slave owners and the CIA — give bigger profits to drug dealers and more oil to the Arabs — give us a pope who is thirty, as well as thirty pieces of silver for everyone — strengthen the arm of the executioner — give the pyromaniac a steady hand — and don’t forget all the majorities. Organise a gigantic festival where smugglers and alcoholics, usurers and politicians, chain-smokers and tax dodgers, bank managers and atheists, environmental polluters and pornographers, plane hijackers and book reviewers, pickpockets and child molesters can win cups and gold medals!”