The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [92]
“It is indeed,” the head of the Progressivist Republican Party agrees. “And what is even more so is that those people who seemed to be a bunch of fanatics could decimate and rout a battalion equipped with cannons and machine guns. Extraordinary, yes. But, above all, terrifying for the future of this country.”
It has become hotter and the nearsighted journalist’s face is bathed in sweat. He mops it with the bedsheet that serves him as a handkerchief and then wipes his fogged eyeglasses on his rumpled shirtfront.
“I’ll take this to the compositors myself and stay while they set the type,” he says, gathering together the sheets of paper scattered about on the desk top. “There won’t be any printer’s errors; don’t worry. You may sleep in peace, sir.”
“Are you happier working with me than on the baron’s paper?” his boss asks him, point-blank. “I know that you earn more here than on the Diário da Bahia. But I’m referring to the work. Do you like it better here?”
“In all truth, yes.” The journalist puts his eyeglasses back on and stands there for a moment petrified, waiting for the sneeze with his eyes half closed, his mouth half open, and his nose twitching. But it is a false alarm. “Political reporting is more entertaining than writing about the damage wreaked by fishing with explosives in the Ribeira de Itapagipe or the fire in the Magalhães Chocolate Factory.”
“And, what’s more, it’s helping build the country, contributing to a worthwhile national cause,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. “Because you’re one of us, isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know what I am, sir,” the journalist replies, in that voice that, at times piercingly high-pitched and at times deep and sonorous, is as undependable as the rest of his body. “I don’t have any political convictions and politics don’t interest me.”
“I like your frankness.” The owner of the newspaper laughs, rising to his feet and reaching for his briefcase. “I’m happy with you. Your feature articles are impeccable. They say precisely what needs to be said, in just the right words. I’m glad I turned the most ticklish section over to you.”
He picks up the little desk lamp, blows the flame out, and leaves the office, followed by the journalist, who, on going through the door leading to the outer office, stumbles over a spittoon.
“Well then, I’m going to ask you a favor, sir,” he blurts out. “If Colonel Moreira César comes to put down the Canudos insurrection, I’d like to accompany him, as the correspondent of the Jornal de Notícias.”
Epaminondas Gonçalves has turned around to look at him and scrutinizes him as he puts his hat on.
“I suppose it’s possible,” he says. “You see—you really are one of us, even though politics don’t interest you. To admire Colonel Moreira César, a person has to be a republican through and through.”
“To be honest with you, I don’t know if it’s admiration exactly,” the journalist confesses, fanning himself with the sheaf of paper. “Seeing a flesh-and-blood hero, being close to someone very famous is a very tempting prospect. It would be like seeing and touching a character in a novel.”
“You’ll have to watch your step. The colonel doesn’t like journalists,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. He is already heading toward the door. “He began his public life by shooting down a penpusher in the streets of Rio because he’d insulted the army.”
“Good night,” the journalist murmurs. He trots to the other end of the building, where a dark passageway leads to the print shop. The compositors, who have stayed on the job till this late hour waiting for his article, will surely invite him to have a cup of coffee with them.
III
[I]
The train whistles as it enters the Queimadas station, decorated with streamers welcoming Colonel Moreira César. A huge crowd has congregated on the narrow red-tile platform, beneath a large white canvas banner wafting out over the tracks: “Queimadas