Guano (10 page)

All right, Montse answered.

But their thoughts took them elsewhere. Another fist was squeezing them. It was their own little drama, so close that it blinded them.

Engulfed by this sea of worry, they preferred to swim in the pool of their own desire. They believed they were in danger of drowning in it, maybe wanted to, to avoid the tragedy that Spain was going to visit upon Peru. One storm protected them from the other.

So they spoke of Pinzón to get back to Diego, mentioned Madrid
to talk again about theatre, or about the umbrella and the lights of the port.

Do you remember?

They headed toward a coastal battery, the only building in sight. They soon reached a steep path, and Simón had to help Montse, to hold her hand as she jumped over a wooden barrier. He remembered the first evening, when she had surprised him in the doorway of her house to lead him inside, further into an adventure that he had believed over. The alabaster of the dress may be gone, he thought, and perhaps the alabaster of her soul too, but the alabaster of her hands certainly was not, nor was their softness. Some bodies can survive the extinction of the soul. And some souls can survive the disintegration of the body. One or the other was inevitable, Simón thought, just as Juvenal dreamed. Which should we hope to lose first?

They approached the battery. Fog rose up from the sea. The fortifications were being watched less than diligently by two men smoking outside. They were walking and disappearing behind patches of fog that skimmed the hilltops like great nets and then moved on, having caught nothing.

Simón and Montse sometimes passed through these diaphanous walls. They lost sight of each other in them and then reappeared to one another, thrilled to find themselves together again, to be reunited, to know that they were still indeed there, despite the fact that it would have been impossible to disappear. It was ridiculous, really, just as it was ridiculous to doubt for a moment. But their hearts were glad.

They walked along the beige cement wall surrounding the fortification. They had run out of small talk. So they stopped talking, perhaps out of fear of dissipating a dream that was rolling in with the fog.

Now they were side by side, and the rocks and the uneven ground caused them to bump into each other every so often. They didn't even try to walk straight. They gently collided, hips, shoulders. Heat found heat, mingled before separating, leaving a subtle glow on their skin, and a not-so-subtle blaze in their minds.

Montse finally leaned back against the beige wall. It was uncomfortable because it was rough. She slid her hands under her bottom. Her black dress looked like a new opening in the low, pale wall, a dark door to the other side that had suddenly appeared.

I imagined a few of your letters.

And what did they say?

They talked about your travels.

A cloud shrouded Montse. When she reappeared, they were looking each other in the eye, each with the impression that this lovers' game was only perpetuating the pain and indecision. Simón saw that Montse's eyes were growing dull, the sparkle was gone. And Montse noticed in Simón the ever-so-slight doleful moistening of the eye, a welling up of the expectation that she no longer had the strength to fill. It is easy to understand why people close their eyes to pluck up their courage – which they did at the same time.

Uneasiness enveloped them more than the fog and the dream. Simón wanted to kiss Montse. It was a noble desire: to catch hope before it fell, to break through the mask of routine, to seize the truth before propriety returned, to never go back to life. But all the black that Montse had on, on her body, in her face, her eyes, was an obstacle to his desire. Simón was afraid of falling into it, like the other night in the harbour water.

And then there were the clouds that were coming lower, dusting their shoulders; there was the wind that tore his cocked hat from the head and the will from his mind. There was the wall she was leaning
against, melted, transformed, surrounding her like a nun watching. The world was conspiring against their kiss.

There was to be no further movement, either in body or mind. They would have to try in words.

Write me, Montse said, write me.

So you're giving me another chance.

Well, the second and last one.

He thanked her. And it was only natural that they go back down, because there was nothing more to do up there and the fog was growing thicker, keeping them shrouded longer and longer.

They were exhausted.

Maybe something was rolling in with the fog. It was just something invisible: enthusiasm or hope or desire.

They took the same detours that they had taken the first night, replayed the silences. Once they were in front of her door, Montse squeezed Simón's arm gently. He hoped she would take him inside. If only hope were enough.

The maid was waiting for them. She opened the door, and Montse disappeared into the hallway. The maid closed the door slowly. She looked at Simón, who didn't meet her eye. Instead he saw Montse disappear into the darkness of the hall as if her dress, becoming unstitched with each step, were returning to the fabric of the night. A black, starless night, but so beautiful in spite of it all. A beautiful darkness, oh my.

Simón took the road back to the
Triunfo
. He wondered why all those years of study, travel and chess had not helped him read his own heart. What did it want? What should he do? Would this lesson one day end?

He wanted to see her again. And he made every deal possible with God. He promised to give his future fortune to beggars, to go
to church every Sunday and to be strict with himself at Lent. He offered a solemn vow to protect her. He swore on his soul.

He had done this only four times before.

Then he went back to his big dreams of love. Ideals long dead were resurrected, he was an adolescent again. To see her again that way, to want to see her yet again, ah, Simón knew he would have a hard time sleeping.

They weighed anchor two days later, after the meeting with the Tokay, at dawn and without warning. It surprised Peru as much as it did Simón. History was intermingling with his own smaller story.

See, Pinzón has a plan, Salazar explained. It was hard to decipher on the chart, after so much rage and so many red circles. But the drawing was pretty.

They saw three fingers pointing, the fingers of a large cadaver that had been buried at sea and partially exhumed by the currents. It was the Chincha Islands. It was hard to fully comprehend that after so much archery and acrobatics with the charts, the Spanish intervention could boil down to a pile of loose stones.

Pinzón had been evasive when he addressed the crews.

1.
After many doodles and sleepless nights, the officers had reached a consensus.

2.
The islands were essential to Peru's economy; so they'd seize them.

3.
Spain would thus force those guilty of sedition to pay the compensation demanded; and of course there was the question of Honour.

If that didn't work, they would suggest trading the three rocks for a larger one: Gibraltar. We will remove this thorn from Spain's side, Pinzón enthused. Which would relieve a sixty-year-old malaise. Which would impose their way of thinking on the maps of the world and simplify matters for cartographers. The Portuguese aberration would follow.

Simón liked islands, in general. And these particular ones couldn't have been better timed. He gazed at them from the ship, his head filled with fantasies of escape, a simple life and love. Living there forever. Leaving the navy to just roam, forget Spain and think of nothing but Peru. With, deep down, the persistent idea of abducting Montse and building a hut out of palm fronds. Architectural prowess followed by passion in the sea.

The poor man had done too much reading, so now he was doing too much dreaming.
The Odyssey
, for example, had created an
association for him between islands and carnal pleasure. Although he was having a hard time incorporating Atlantis into his imaginings – sorry, Plato – but no matter. The two of them wouldn't be forming a civilization. The point was to escape civilization.

Because Simón believed that their love would grow best surrounded by the sea and cut off from the world. Nothing could threaten it there, not lovers, not jealousy. His closest competitor would be simian.

And he indulged in a few more detailed scenarios. Montse sitting by his side on the beach, near their palm frond shelter. Moments of contemplation, a head on the shoulder, a hand on the forearm, and the purity of the ocean in front of them, the purity of the vegetation behind them. His body getting lost in hers.

He kept daydreaming of half-naked frolicking, of hunting and fishing – always successful – of long embraces to ward off the cold and similarly interminable sunsets. It was all the things he had read back at school, interspersed with all the things he had later read one-handed. Sunsets would backlight the tip of a nipple, purify the skin in its orange glow, make the shadow of a breast seem bigger. Tender embraces leading to rancid sweat.

And climaxing in the jungle and on the beach, where his seed would be dwarfed by all the surrounding life, would lose its indecency far from the austerity of closed doors. It was absorbed by the foam, extinguished by the spray, melting into it until it disappeared. And similarly, perversity gradually disappeared from his thoughts. And the pleasure his mind derived from the fantasy was dwindling in the same way. It was good timing. The islands were coming closer. War would be starting soon.

The island where they berthed looked nothing like his dream island. Rock had formed on it like layers of an onion. Agitation frozen by waving a magic wand, fountains turned to sediment in the night.

The troops came ashore, initially worried about whether the ground was solid, because it seemed to be boiling. Feet tested the rock. Let's go, move it along; come on, step lively! The officers set an example by hopping over the stones, then by wading through the mud along the side of the road. Every quagmire has a bottom, you see, there is always something firm hiding under something soft. Salacious laughter all around. Debauched characters, sleazy crew members, this is mucky business. More laughter. And you'll clean my boots. Silence.

They walked warily toward the village. It was dirty; the houses seemed to have been built out of soot and spit. The only shows of resistance were scowling faces and shutters slammed shut.

They searched the homes looking for weapons and pitchforks. They didn't find much, so they confiscated everything, down to the forks. Simón observed the operation; Pinzón directed it. You could see the beginnings of disappointment in his terse, fitful gestures. No blood, no accolades. The report of the operation would probably need a few changes.

Simón was one step ahead of him. In his notebook, he substituted guns for forks. Then he sketched the general atmosphere. A strange coating covered maybe not everything but plenty of things. The bricks were glazed with it, as were the wagons, and the hats, and the women's dresses. Even skin seemed permanently stained by it.

It was mysterious, threatening. No, not quite.

Overpowering, yes, that was it.

The troops were definitely in great danger – period. New paragraph.

They might encounter more resistance when they captured the governor. Pinzón had given the order, buoyed by the idea of drawing gunfire.

They lay siege to the villa, and they found Governor Ramón Valle Riestra at the table in front of a vol-au-vent. A few bites,
gentlemen, if you don't mind. They allowed him the pleasure of finishing his peas, then he was led through the entrance hall, the square and the silence to the
Resolución
. His cabin was dark but comfortable. They took off his handcuffs to offer him a meal, but no thank you, he had already eaten.

The few scattered Peruvian troops that remained lay down their arms without protest. They had been discovered almost by chance, at a bend in a road, in the backyard of a municipal building, on the outskirts of the village, picking flowers. They had played a lot of cards.

Then came the traditional march and the raising of the Spanish flag. The march was a little embarrassing. They lacked the training for this sort of thing, the wherewithal as well. And, as everyone knows, sailors do not march well. Land is not their element. Stamping boots rather than snapping sails – we'll come back to it. Pinzón furrowed his brow and berated the captains, relieved that the only spectators were him and a handful of yokels peering from between the shutters.

The flag-raising was more successful. The wind did its bit, just enough. It blew without stealing the show. The flag curved like a proud, puffed-out chest, releasing its tension in the beautiful undulations of a belly dancer. Pinzón smiled. The captains did too. They struck up the
Marcha Real
. It rang through the silent air of the island – or almost silent because the sky was filled with birds. Strange birds that looked bizarre in flight and sang and cawed and kept circling without even noticing the Spaniards. Birds that just didn't care.