The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [131]
“As the old saying goes: ‘Smooth the way for an enemy on the run,’” the captain says jokingly.
“Not in this case.” The colonel has difficulty articulating the words. “We must teach them a lesson that will put an end to monarchist illusions. And avenge the affront to the army as well.”
He speaks with mysterious pauses between one syllable and another, in a quavering voice. He opens his mouth again to say something, but not a word comes out. He is deathly pale, and his eyes are an angry red. He sits down on a fallen tree trunk and slowly removes his kepi. The reporter from the Jornal de Notícias goes over and sits down, too, when he sees Moreira César raise his hands to his face. The colonel’s kepi falls to the ground and he leaps to his feet, staggering, his face beet-red, as he frantically rips off the buttons of his blouse, as though suffocating. Moaning and frothing at the mouth, writhing uncontrollably, he rolls about at the feet of Captain Olímpio de Castro and the reporter, who have no idea what has come over him. As they bend over him Tamarindo, Cunha Matos, and several aides rush up.
“Don’t touch him,” Colonel Tamarindo shouts with an imperious gesture. “Quick, a blanket. Call Dr. Souza Ferreiro. Don’t anybody come near him! Get back, get back!”
Major Cunha Matos pulls the reporter away and goes with the aides to confront the press. They rudely force the correspondents to keep their distance, as meanwhile a blanket is thrown over Moreira César, and Olímpio de Castro and Tamarindo fold their tunics to serve as a pillow under his head.
“Open his mouth and get hold of his tongue,” the old colonel instructs them, knowing exactly what must be done. He turns around to the two escorts and orders them to put up a tent.
The captain forces Moreira César’s mouth open. His convulsions continue for some time. Dr. Souza Ferreiro finally arrives, in a medical corps wagon. They have set up the tent and Moreira César is lying in it on a camp cot. Tamarindo and Olímpio de Castro remain at his side, taking turns keeping his mouth open and seeing that he stays covered. His face drenched with sweat, his eyes closed, tossing and turning, emitting broken moans, from time to time the colonel foams at the mouth. The doctor and Colonel Tamarindo wordlessly exchange glances. The captain explains how the fit came over him, and how long ago, as Souza Ferreiro meanwhile goes on removing his uniform jacket and gestures to an aide to bring his medical kit to the cot. The officers leave the tent so that the doctor may give the patient a thorough examination.
Armed sentinels ring the tent to seal it off from the remainder of the column. Just beyond them are the correspondents, spying on the scene from between the rifles. They have plied the nearsighted journalist with questions, and he has told them what he has seen. Between the sentinels and the camp is a no-man’s-land that no officer or soldier crosses unless summoned by Major Cunha Matos. The latter strides back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Colonel Tamarindo and Captain Olímpio de Castro join him and the correspondents see them pace round and round the tent. Their faces gradually grow darker as the great twilight conflagration dies away. From time to time, Tamarindo goes inside the tent, comes out again, and the three begin pacing about once more. Many minutes go by, half an hour, an hour perhaps, and then Captain de Castro suddenly walks over to the correspondents and motions to the reporter from the Jornal de Notícias to come with him. A bonfire has been lighted and somewhere in the rear the bugler is blowing the evening mess call. The sentinels allow the nearsighted journalist, whom the captain is escorting to the colonel and the major, to pass.
“You know this region. You can help us,” Tamarindo murmurs, in a tone of voice not at all like his usual amiable one, as though struggling to overcome a profound repugnance at being forced to discuss the matter at hand with an outsider.