The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [284]
“On July 18 I was in London,” the baron said. “I’m not acquainted with all the details of the war. What happened that day?”
“They’re going to attack tomorrow,” Abbot João said, panting for breath because he’d come on the run. Then he remembered something important: “Praised be the Blessed Jesus.”
The soldiers had been on the mountainsides of A Favela going on a month, and the war was dragging on and on: scattered rifle shots and cannon fire, generally at the hours when the bells rang. At dawn, noon, and dusk, people walked about only in certain places. Men gradually grow accustomed to almost anything, and establish routines to deal with it, is that not true? People died every day and every night there were burials. The blind bombardments destroyed countless houses, ripped open the bellies of oldsters and of toddlers, that is to say, the ones who didn’t go down into the trenches. It seemed as though everything would go on like that indefinitely. No, it was going to get even worse, the Street Commander had just told them. The nearsighted journalist was all alone, for Jurema and the Dwarf had gone off to take food to Pajeú, when the war leaders—Honório Vilanova, Big João, Pedrão, Pajeú himself—met in the store. They were worried; you could smell it; the atmosphere in the place was tense. And yet no one was surprised when Abbot João announced that the dogs were going to attack the next day. He knew everything. They were going to shell Canudos all night long, to soften up its defenses, and at 5 a.m. the assault would begin. He knew exactly which places they would charge. The jagunço leaders were talking quietly, deciding the best posts for each of them to take, you wait for them here, the street has to be blockaded there: we’ll raise barriers here, I’d better move from over there in case they send dogs this way. Could the baron imagine what he felt like, hearing that? At that point the matter of the paper came up. What paper? One that one of Pajeú’s “youngsters” had brought, running as fast as his legs could carry him. They all put their heads together and then asked him if he could read it. He did his best, peering through his monocle of shards, in the light of a candle, to decipher what it said. But he was unable to. Then Abbot João sent someone to fetch the Lion of Natuba.
“Didn’t any of the Counselor’s lieutenants know how to read?” the baron asked.
“Antônio Vilanova did, but he wasn’t in Canudos just then,” the journalist answered. “And the person they sent for also knew how to read. The Lion of Natuba. Another intimate, another apostle of the Counselor’s. He could read and write; he was Canudos’s man of learning.”
He fell silent, interrupted by a great gust of sneezes that made him double over, clutching his stomach.
“I was unable to see in detail what he looked like,” he said afterward, gasping for breath. “Just the vague outline, the shape of him, or, rather, the lack of shape. But that was enough for me to get a rough idea of the rest. He walked about on all fours, and had an enormous head and a hump on his back. Someone went to fetch him and he came with Maria Quadrado. He read them the paper. It was the instructions from the High Command for the assault at dawn.”
That deep, melodious, normal voice read out the battle plan, the disposition of the regiments, the distances between companies, between men, the signals, the bugle commands, and meanwhile he for his part grew more and more panic-stricken, more and more anxious for Jurema and the Dwarf to return. Before the Lion of Natuba had finished reading, the first part of the battle plan was already being carried out: the bombardment to soften them