Morote sometimes does. Itâs quite untrue. But the name can do me nothing but good in Wall Street.â
Miro Kucera wished to God that he really did have an Intelligence service which could supply him with situation reports more accurate than the misconstructions of Vidal, the exaggerated nonsense of the police, the ironies of Irala and his father-in-law. Without a firsthand picture of what was going on it would be difficult to explore the possible futures. The struggle for power between Avellana and Vidal was all in the dayâs work and would not affect the indoctrination of Fifth Division. That had gone deep. The attitude of the troops towards their politicians was correctly neutral, not to say cynical. But Moroteâs intentions â whatever they were â could play the devil with morale. Maintenance of order during a General Strike was unfair to Fifth Division, without special training. It was bad enough if they had to police elections.
Feli could talk of setting an example, but all the same it was difficult to visit the headquarters of the opposition, whatever generals might be free to do in Europe and the United States. Should he ask Vidalâs permission to go to La Joya? It would be given, but on implied conditions which forced him into the false position of the Presidentâs spy. On the other hand, if permission was not asked at all the typewriters of the security police would be overheated with the news that General Kucera was conspiring with Gil Avellana.
Perhaps the right card to play was extreme military formality. He would ask Don Jesús-MarÃa for leave. The old boy might not be up-to-date with anything later than the magazine rifle, but he knew the devil of a lot about politics from the standpoint of the Army and the Ateneo. He would understand that the commander of the San Vicente garrison wanted a foot in both camps. Not quite the same thing as setting an example, but very wise from the point of view of the Army. The approval of the Captain General was certain.
CHAPTER IV
[ November 2 ]
I T WAS WITH a supreme sense of restfulness that Miro Kucera lay back in his basket chair on the terrace of La Joya and watched the brown shadow of the Cordillera race across the treeless plain towards the green of alfalfa and lucerne which surrounded the house and looked in so much emptiness like a carpet of moss. This long weekend seemed to him the final, crowning homecoming. In spite of his work, in spite of his love of Feli and her country, he still felt himself, in his rare moods of frustration, the foreign expert. His union with the active life and daily business of Guayanas was complete; but his union with the land itself, the land at leisure rather than at work, its abundance rather than its offices and parade grounds, had been emotionless, a thing of maps and military journeys.
He did not, to his surprise, feel in the least ridiculous dressed in that gay and easy cholo costume which had belonged to Gil Avellanaâs grandfather. All his fellow guests wore it except Juan, who admitted no connection between beef and clothes beyond those the well-dressed boulevardier would wear in a Paris restaurant. Even Pablo Morote was dressed for fiesta, as if he had never left his native pueblo. He too was resting, under the influence of Avellana, in a Guayanas of the past.
The general sympathized profoundly with Avellanaâs creed, but wondered if it could not best be put over by example and propaganda. The ballot box was the wrong place to deposit what was a movement â almost a religion â cutting through the middle of all traditional party lines. Morote, a Socialist, trusted him. Then there was Pedro Valdés, once a conservative of conservatives, whom the Ateneo had now nicknamed Valdeski. He was giving away his undeveloped land like a Tolstoi, and organizing agricultural colonies on it with the enthusiasm of a Khrushchev. Even Juan, the old-fashioned liberal who believed in
Miro Kucera wished to God that he really did have an Intelligence service which could supply him with situation reports more accurate than the misconstructions of Vidal, the exaggerated nonsense of the police, the ironies of Irala and his father-in-law. Without a firsthand picture of what was going on it would be difficult to explore the possible futures. The struggle for power between Avellana and Vidal was all in the dayâs work and would not affect the indoctrination of Fifth Division. That had gone deep. The attitude of the troops towards their politicians was correctly neutral, not to say cynical. But Moroteâs intentions â whatever they were â could play the devil with morale. Maintenance of order during a General Strike was unfair to Fifth Division, without special training. It was bad enough if they had to police elections.
Feli could talk of setting an example, but all the same it was difficult to visit the headquarters of the opposition, whatever generals might be free to do in Europe and the United States. Should he ask Vidalâs permission to go to La Joya? It would be given, but on implied conditions which forced him into the false position of the Presidentâs spy. On the other hand, if permission was not asked at all the typewriters of the security police would be overheated with the news that General Kucera was conspiring with Gil Avellana.
Perhaps the right card to play was extreme military formality. He would ask Don Jesús-MarÃa for leave. The old boy might not be up-to-date with anything later than the magazine rifle, but he knew the devil of a lot about politics from the standpoint of the Army and the Ateneo. He would understand that the commander of the San Vicente garrison wanted a foot in both camps. Not quite the same thing as setting an example, but very wise from the point of view of the Army. The approval of the Captain General was certain.
CHAPTER IV
[ November 2 ]
I T WAS WITH a supreme sense of restfulness that Miro Kucera lay back in his basket chair on the terrace of La Joya and watched the brown shadow of the Cordillera race across the treeless plain towards the green of alfalfa and lucerne which surrounded the house and looked in so much emptiness like a carpet of moss. This long weekend seemed to him the final, crowning homecoming. In spite of his work, in spite of his love of Feli and her country, he still felt himself, in his rare moods of frustration, the foreign expert. His union with the active life and daily business of Guayanas was complete; but his union with the land itself, the land at leisure rather than at work, its abundance rather than its offices and parade grounds, had been emotionless, a thing of maps and military journeys.
He did not, to his surprise, feel in the least ridiculous dressed in that gay and easy cholo costume which had belonged to Gil Avellanaâs grandfather. All his fellow guests wore it except Juan, who admitted no connection between beef and clothes beyond those the well-dressed boulevardier would wear in a Paris restaurant. Even Pablo Morote was dressed for fiesta, as if he had never left his native pueblo. He too was resting, under the influence of Avellana, in a Guayanas of the past.
The general sympathized profoundly with Avellanaâs creed, but wondered if it could not best be put over by example and propaganda. The ballot box was the wrong place to deposit what was a movement â almost a religion â cutting through the middle of all traditional party lines. Morote, a Socialist, trusted him. Then there was Pedro Valdés, once a conservative of conservatives, whom the Ateneo had now nicknamed Valdeski. He was giving away his undeveloped land like a Tolstoi, and organizing agricultural colonies on it with the enthusiasm of a Khrushchev. Even Juan, the old-fashioned liberal who believed in
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