The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [236]
“I don’t know and I don’t understand,” the baron said gloomily. “It’s beyond anything I could imagine. And yet I thought I knew those parts, those people. The fanaticism of a few starving wretches is not a sufficient explanation for the rout. There has to be something else behind it.” He looked at him again, in utter bewilderment. “I’ve come to think that that fantastic lie you people spread about there being English officers and monarchist arms might have had an element of truth in it. No, we won’t even discuss the subject. It’s water under the bridge. I merely mention it to you so that you’ll see how stunned I am by what happened to Moreira César.”
“I’m not so much stunned as frightened,” Epaminondas said. “If those men can pulverize the best regiment in Brazil, they’re also capable of spreading anarchy throughout this entire state and the neighboring ones, of coming as far as Salvador…” He shrugged and made a vague, catastrophic gesture.
“The only explanation is that thousands of peasants, including ones from other regions, have joined that band of Sebastianists,” the baron said. “Impelled by ignorance, superstition, hunger. Because there are no restraints these days to keep such madness in check, as there once were. This means war, the Brazilian Army installing itself here, the ruin of Bahia.” He grabbed Epaminondas Gonçalves by the arm. “That is why you must replace me. Given the present situation, someone with your talents is needed to bring the right people together and defend the interests of Bahia amid the cataclysm. There’s resentment in the rest of Brazil against Bahia, because of what happened to Moreira César. They say that the mobs that attacked the monarchist dailies in Rio were shouting ‘Down with Bahia.’”
He paused for a long moment, nervously swirling the cognac in his glass. “There are many who have already been ruined there in the interior,” he said. “I’ve lost two haciendas. A great many more people are going to be wiped out and killed in this civil war. If your people and mine go on destroying each other, what will the result be? We’ll lose everything. The exodus toward the South and Maranhão will become vaster still. What will become of the state of Bahia then? We must make our peace, Epaminondas. Forget your shrill Jacobin rhetoric, stop attacking the poor Portuguese, stop demanding the nationalization of businesses, and be practical. Jacobinism died with Moreira César. Assume the governorship and let us defend civil order together amid this hecatomb. Let us keep our Republic from turning into what so many other Latin American republics have: a grotesque witches’ sabbath where all is chaos, military uprisings, corruption, demagogy…”
They sat in silence for some time, glasses in hand, thinking or listening. From time to time, footsteps, voices could be heard somewhere inside the house. A clock struck nine.
“I thank you for inviting me here,” Epaminondas said, rising to his feet. “I’ll keep everything you’ve told me well in mind and think it over. I can’t give you an answer now.”
“Of course not,” the baron said, getting to his feet, too. “Give it thought and we’ll talk again. I would like to see you before I leave, naturally.”
“You will have my answer day after tomorrow,” Epaminondas said as he started for the door. As they were going through the reception rooms, the black servant with the oil lamp appeared. The baron accompanied Epaminondas as far as the street.
At the front gate he asked him: “Have you had any news of your journalist, the one who was with Moreira César?”
“The freak?” Epaminondas said. “He hasn’t turned up again. I suppose he must have been killed. As you know, he wasn’t a man of action.”
They took their leave of each other with a bow.
IV
[I]
When a servant informed him who was asking for him, the Baron de Canabrava, rather than sending him back, as was his habit, to tell the person who had appeared on the doorstep