Reasons of State by Alejo Carpentier Read Free Book Online Page A

palace, had so often called him his benefactor, providence, more than a father, a friend, godfather to my children, flesh of my flesh, to be rebelling thus, in the Bolivian style or that of the sudden risings of a past era, clamouring for respect for a constitution that had never been observed by any government since the Wars of Independence, because as we say
over there
: “theory is always buggered by practice” and “a leader with any spunk pays no attention to documents.”
    “The cunt! The son of a bitch!” repeated the Head of State, who had now returned to the large drawing room andwas pouring himself great swigs of Santa Inés rum—a rum that no longer seemed merely the nostalgic breath of patriotic feelings in
laissez-vivre
Paris, but had suddenly become the wine of battle, hot and strong, foretelling hard, rough marches and counter-marches in the near future, the smell of horses, soldiers’ armpits, and gunpowder. And all at once, blotting out Jean-Paul Laurens’ blessed Radegonde, Elstir’s seascape, and Gérome’s gladiators, they were in the middle of a council of war. Forgotten was the adolescent hero of the Arc de Triomphe, although it was true that on its walls was inscribed the name of Miranda, precursor of American independence, who had refused to imitate the treachery of the infamous Dumouriez—another version of Ataúlfo Galván; forgotten was Monsieur Musard’s
Bois-Charbons
, where the Prime Minister and Doctor Peralta were so fond of taking a glass of Muscadet in the mornings, an aperitif at noon, and a Pernod in the evening, because that establishment with its aroma of charcoal, its modest counter set parallel to a wall covered with out-of-date almanacks, its allegorical picture of the Ascent and Descent of the Ages, its advertisements for Géraudel pastilles and Vino Mariani, reminded them of the bars and taverns of
over there
—with the same ambience, and decorative posters, and the cheerful sallies of clients fuddled on red wine, but always ready to discuss questions to do with cycling, recent films, women, politics, boxing, the passing of a comet, the conquest of the South Pole, or whatever they liked …
    Council of war. Three silhouettes thrown on the walls and pictures by the lamp on the writing desk: as in a cinema, the cholo Mendoza’s restlessly revolving shadow, the slender form of Doctor Peralta, busy with papers and ink; the thickset, broad-shouldered, slow and choleric figure of the Head of State, gesticulating as he sat in his armchair dictatingletters and plans. To Peralta: cable to his son Ariel, Ambassador in Washington, ordering the immediate purchase of armaments, gun emplacements, logistic supplies, and observation balloons like those recently adopted by the French Army (they would have a tremendous effect over there, where they had never been seen before); proceeding, since all wars cost money and the National Treasury was in a bad way, to hand over the banana zone on the Pacific to the United Fruit Company—a transaction that had been too long delayed because of the doubts, arguments, and objections of professors and intellectuals who talked a lot of foolishness and denounced the greed—inevitable, good God, inevitable, fated, whether we like it or not, for geographical reasons and historical necessities—of Yankee imperialism. To the cholo Mendoza: cable to Hoffmann, ordering him to defend the communications between Puerto Araguato and the capital at all costs. Shoot whoever must be shot. To Peralta, again: cable a Message-to-the-Nation declaring our insuperable determination to defend Liberty following the example of the Founders of Our Country, that (“well, you know the sort of thing …”).
    And the cholo Mendoza had already telephoned Cook’s agency: a fairly fast ship, the
Yorktown
, would leave Saint-Nazaire at midnight. They would have to take the five o’clock train. Another cable to Ariel, announcing their arrival time so that he should find means