The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [50]
“Did you also tell him that you’ll be bringing them arms?”
“Of course not. He’ll find that out once we’re on the way there.”
Epaminondas goes back to pacing up and down the terrace again, with his hands behind his back, leaving a wake of smoke behind him. He is wearing a peasant shirt open at the neck, a vest without buttons, riding pants and boots, and looks as though he hasn’t shaved. His appearance is not at all the same as in the newspaper office or in the inn at Barra, but Gall nonetheless recognizes the stored-up energy in his movements, the determination and ambition in his expression, and thinks to himself that he doesn’t even need to palpate his bones to know what they are like: “A man hungry for power.” Does this hacienda belong to him? Is this manor house one lent to him for hatching his conspiracies?
“Once you’ve handed over the arms, don’t come by this way to get back to Salvador,” Epaminondas says, leaning on the balustrade with his back turned to him. “Have the guide take you to Juazeiro. It’s the prudent thing to do. There’s a train that comes through Juazeiro every other day, and it will get you back in Bahia in twelve hours. I’ll see to it that you leave for Europe inconspicuously and with a generous fee for your services.”
“A generous fee…” Gall repeats after him, with a huge yawn that comically distorts his face and his words. “You’ve always believed that I’m doing this for money.”
Epaminondas exhales a mouthful of smoke that drifts in arabesques across the terrace. In the distance, the sun is beginning to hide itself beneath the horizon and there are patches of shade in the surrounding countryside.
“No, I know quite well that you’re doing it as a matter of principle. In any event, I realize that you’re not doing it out of love for the Progressivist Republican Party. But we consider that you’re doing us a service, and we’re in the habit of paying for services rendered, as I’ve already told you.”
“I can’t promise you that I’ll go back to Bahia,” Gall interrupts him, stretching. “Our deal doesn’t include that clause.”
The owner and editor-in-chief of the Jornal de Notícias looks at him once more. “We won’t discuss it again.” He smiles. “You may do as you like. In a word, you now know what the best way is to get back to Bahia, and you also know that I can make it easy for you to get out of the country without the authorities stepping in and putting you on a boat. So if you prefer to stay with the insurgents, go ahead. Though I’m certain you’ll change your mind when you meet them.”
“I’ve already met one of them,” Gall murmurs in a slightly mocking tone of voice. “And by the way, would you mind sending this letter to France off for me from Bahia? It’s unsealed, and if you read French, you’ll see that there is nothing in it that might compromise you.”
He was born, like his parents, his grandparents, and his brother Honório, in the town of Assaré, in the state of Ceará, where the herds of cattle that were being driven to Jaguaribe and those headed for the Vale do Cariri parted company. The townspeople were all either fanners or cowhands, but from a very early age Antônio gave proof of a calling as a merchant. He began to make business deals in the catechism classes held by Father Matias (who also taught him his letters and numbers). Antônio and Honório Vilanova were very close, and addressed each other, very seriously, as compadre, like adults who have been lifelong cronies.
One morning Adelinha Alencar, the daughter of the carpenter of Assaré, woke up with a high fever. The herbs burned by Dona Camuncha to exorcise the evil had no effect, and a few days later Adeinha’s body broke out in pustules so ugly they turned the prettiest girl in town into its most repugnant creature. A week later half a dozen townspeople were delirious with fever and covered with pustules. Father Tobias managed to say a Mass asking