The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [3]
The man dressed in black crosses the front office of the Jornal de Notícias, his heels resounding as though he were shod in horseshoes. As he enters the small office in the rear, full of papers, periodicals, and propaganda of the Progressivist Republican Party—a United Brazil, a Strong Nation—he finds waiting for him a man who looks at him with friendly curiosity, as though he were some sort of rare animal. Dressed in a gray suit and wearing boots, the man is sitting behind the only desk in the room; he is young, dark-haired, with a dynamic air about him.
“I am Epaminondas Gonçalves, the editor and publisher of this paper,” he says. “Come in.”
The man dressed in black bows slightly and raises his hand to his hat, but he does not take it off or say a word.
“You want us to print this, is that right?” the editor asks, waving the little piece of paper.
The man in black nods. He has a little beard as red as his hair, and piercing bright blue eyes; his broad mouth is firmly set, and his flaring nostrils seem to be breathing in more air than his body requires. “Provided it doesn’t cost more than two milreis,” he murmurs in broken Portuguese. “That’s my entire capital.”
Epaminondas Gonçalves sits there as though not quite certain whether to laugh or fall into a rage. The man simply stands there, looking very serious, observing him. The editor resolves his dilemma by raising the piece of paper to his eyes.
“All lovers of justice are invited to attend a public demonstration of solidarity with the idealists of Canudos and with all rebels the world over, to be held in the Praça da Liberdade on the fourth of October at 6 p.m.,” he reads aloud slowly. “May I ask who is calling this meeting?”
“For the moment, I am,” the man answers forthwith. “If the Jornal de Notícias wants to lend its support, wonderful.” (The last word is spoken in English.)
“Do you know what those people up there in Canudos have done?” Epaminondas Gonçalves murmurs, banging on the desk. “They’re occupying land that doesn’t belong to them and living promiscuously, like animals.”
“Two things worthy of admiration,” the man in black asserts, nodding his head in approval. “That’s the reason why I’ve decided to spend my money on this public announcement.”
The editor sits there in silence for a moment. Before speaking again, he clears his throat. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
Without braggadocio, without arrogance, with the merest trace of solemnity, the man introduces himself in these words: “A freedom fighter, sir. Will you publish the announcement?”
“Impossible, sir,” Epaminondas Gonçalves, master of the situation now, replies. “The authorities in Bahia are merely waiting for an excuse to close down my paper. Though they’ve paid lip service to the Republic, they’re still monarchists. I take it you’ve realized that we’re the only true republican daily in this entire state.”
The man in black gestures disdainfully and mutters between his teeth: “So I thought.”
“I advise you not to take this announcement to the Diário da Bahia,” the editor adds, handing him back the piece of paper. “It belongs to the Baron de Canabrava, the rightful owner of Canudos. You’ll end up in jail.”
Without one word of farewell, the man in black turns round and leaves the office, pocketing the announcement. He crosses the outer office of the paper without looking at anyone, without so much as a nod as he takes his leave, his footfalls resounding, merely casting a glance out of the corner of his eye—a funereal silhouette, fiery-red wavy hair—at the journalists and the customers placing paid advertisements. The young journalist with the thick eyeglasses