The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [235]
Instead of answering, Epaminondas Gonçalves rose to his feet and paced about the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The baron affected indifference. The owner-publisher of the Jornal de Notícias did not try to conceal the indefinable feeling that had taken possession of him. He was both gravely thoughtful and excited, and in his eyes, along with his usual restless energy, there was also uneasiness, curiosity. “Though I may not have your experience, at this point I’m not a greenhorn either,” he said defiantly, looking the baron square in the eye. “I know you’re putting one over on me, that there’s a trap somewhere in what you’re proposing.”
His host nodded, without showing the least sign of irritation. He rose from his chair to pour another finger of cognac in their empty glasses. “I understand your misgivings,” he said, glass in hand, starting on a tour around the room that ended at the window overlooking the garden. He opened it: a breath of pleasantly warm air entered the study along with the loud chirping of crickets and the sound of a distant guitar. “That’s only natural. But there isn’t any sort of trap, I assure you. The truth is that, given the way things are going, I’ve become convinced that the person best suited to be the political leader of Bahia is you.”
“Ought I to take that as a compliment?” Epaminondas Gonçalves asked in a sarcastic tone of voice.
“I believe that we’ve seen the end of a style, of a certain way of conducting politics,” the baron went on, as though he had not heard him. “I admit that I’ve become obsolete. I functioned better in the old system, when it was a question of getting people to follow established customs and practices, of negotiating, persuading, using diplomacy and politesse. That’s all over and done with today, of course. The hour has come for action, daring, violence, even crimes. What is needed now is a total dissociation of politics from morality. Since this is how things stand at present, the person best suited to maintain order in this state is you.”
“I suspected that you weren’t paying me a compliment,” Epaminondas Gonçalves said, going back to his chair.
The baron sat down next to him. Along with the chirping of the crickets, sounds of coaches, the legato call of a night watchman, a foghorn, barking dogs came in through the window.
“In a certain way, I admire you.” The baron looked at him with a fleeting gleam in his eye. “I’ve been able to appreciate your fearlessness, the complexity and cold-bloodedness of your political maneuvers. Yes, nobody in Bahia has your qualifications for confronting the situation we shall find ourselves in all too soon.”
“Will you tell me once and for all what it is you want of me?” the leader of the Republican Party said. There was a dramatic note in his voice.
“To replace me,” the baron stated emphatically. “Will it put an end to your distrust of me if I tell you that I feel defeated by you? Not factually speaking, since the Autonomists have more possibilities than the Bahia Jacobins of coming to an understanding with Moraes and the Paulistas in the federal government. But psychologically speaking, yes, Epaminondas.”
He took a sip of cognac and his eyes stared into space. “Things have happened that I never would have dreamed of,” he said. “The best regiment in Brazil routed by a bunch of fanatical beggars. How to explain it? A great military strategist wiped out in the first encounter…”
“It’s beyond explaining, I agree,” Epaminondas Gonçalves said. “I was with Major Cunha Matos this afternoon. It’s much worse than what’s been revealed officially. Are you aware of the figures? They’re unbelievable: between three hundred and four hundred casualties, three-quarters of the troops. Dozens of officers massacred. All the arms lost, from cannons to knives. The survivors are arriving in Monte Santo naked, in