Guano (11 page)

It was odd that this anthem broke their routine. Even more so since the trumpet player didn't play it very well. Nothing like the quality of the trumpet player in Callao who had so irritated them. But they appreciated it, and their chests did a fair imitation of the swell of the flag. Because they were the ones playing this time. Not an imposter.

They finished taking the island with a few hurrahs. Then the locals came out on their porches, went back about their business, which looked a good deal like aimless wandering. They stared at the occupiers without any real hatred; sadness, rather. For themselves, for the Spaniards blinded by heedlessness, for other reasons.

Pinzón was thrilled to see the people go back about their business as if nothing had happened. A master is a master. They caught on quickly at least, these Peruvians. No need for fires or terror campaigns. Maybe we'll distribute a few rifle butts in a bit. But nothing more.

Simón was still wondering.

What sort of work did they do? Where did the ones who were leaving the town in a group go, with their spades over their shoulders?

He went to Pinzón for an explanation. It would help him with his report. He couldn't see the point of occupying such a remote, hostile, dirty place.

You couldn't be more wrong, rejoiced Pinzón, contemplating his conquest.

These small islands, Lieutenant, represent 60 percent of the enemy's revenue. This is a serious blow. It's the arrow in Achilles' heel.

Although not in Achilles', in Peru's, he clarified, more the dart in the heel of a premature baby.

Simón was still confused.

Pinzón led him to the centre of the square where a fountain lay dormant. He ran his index finger along its stone border. It was covered with the same dust as everywhere else. His finger turned grey as though it had instantaneously rotted.

This dirt is used to make gunpowder, he said. It's used to make war.

Pinzón brought his finger close to Simón's face. Smell it. Smell it. You didn't say no to the admiral. Simón breathed in the index finger, which didn't smell like anything. So what was it?

Shit, Pinzón said.

And he headed back toward the ships, asking for his hanky.

Simón scanned the square, the village with its ashy tones. It was on the rocks, the buildings. On the men's hands.

He glimpsed the countryside in the distance. Residents and soldiers were starting up a game of orders and acrimony – some of the cries carried all the way to the fountain. Faster, harder.

The shit pervaded their hearts.

Occupying three rocks wasn't enough. Life in Peru was pretty good: enough potatoes, sufficient vines, undisturbed peace. Most of the droppings collected on the islands were for export. Without conquering Lima, which could hold for a while, Spain was irritating the English, the Americans and Napoleon III, who had been abandoned in Mexico two years before. He had been insulted, backs had been turned on him on the pretext of a lack of funds, and, suddenly, we will forgive him for getting annoyed, Spain found the money to finance an expedition.

The Spanish Ambassador in Paris explained that this was for science and was surprised to see traces of doubt on the emperor's face.

Would he prefer we remain stuck in the Dark Ages?

We'll force their hand, Pinzón decided, the other hand. He left a few men behind and blockaded the main Peruvian ports. So few ships, so many places to land: sealing off the sea would be difficult. Ships simply sailed around the Spanish fleet. They slipped rather rudely past it in the night. So it was impossible to inspect anything other than a pleasure craft here, a fishing boat there, particularly since the
Triunfo
had had the poor judgement to sink. The Peruvians had nothing to do with the incident; it had been a drunken sailor indisposed by the north wind blowing down from the mountains. He thought it would be a good idea to light a fire in the rigging, and in the sails, to warm up even faster.

Panic spread faster than the flames. The crew evacuated the ship before the order was given. They had plenty of time to admire it as it went up in flames, telling themselves that maybe they could have, with buckets …

After drying off, Simón wrote his report. This time, no additions were requested. He even edited it down to make it more vague. The
pyrotechnics became a mysterious accident that could have been caused by a seagull, a fish, the hand of God.

But God was on Spain's side. So at the palace in Madrid, the latest report was considered most regrettable. Was that ridiculous Pinzón up to the job? Was Peru that well prepared?

Questions to which Ramón María Narváez y Campos, the new prime minister of Spain, answered no and no. In 1838, he had swept La Mancha clean of swarms of bandits. He didn't see the difference between them and the Peruvian armed forces: it was a question of organization, cleanliness, bad guys. Pinzón seemed to be cutting corners, botching the job; he didn't seem to know where to begin. To prove his worth, he was waiting for a battle that was no more likely to come to him than a genie. Why couldn't he understand that cockroaches don't stay in formation, that they don't confront the broom? You have to eliminate the shadows where they hide and annihilate them one by one by crushing them.

Isabelle II asked herself why not. It would be hard to do any worse than sinking your own ships. And Ramón María Narváez was neither hard on the ears nor the eyes. He had a moustache and big ears that his small sideburns didn't hide. He was also the first Duke of Valencia. He sold violence well; he sold it like mink. It was soft, it was warm and the animal hadn't suffered. On his death bed, four years later, the priest would ask him to forgive his enemies.

I don't have any, he would say. I had them all killed.

The diplomatic ranks were excited about this newcomer. Here is some of the fancy footwork that took place.

Those who had found Pinzón too tough now found him too soft. Narváez made even the most sullied hands appear lily white.
So they decided to replace the admiral – his distinguished bloodline would no longer suffice, and he wasn't spilling enough enemy blood.

Pinzón heard the news one evening as a Peruvian schooner was sticking out its tongue behind his blockade's back. He dismissed the officers from his quarters and shut himself in, waiting for his replacement. He would return to Spain aboard the first ship flying a neutral flag – or maybe he would go to the United States. Because John Rodgers had intrigued him. The civil war he had talked about did too.

His parting gesture was one of the eyebrow.

Juan Manuel Pareja and a few more ships arrived in Peru in December 1864. He was given command of the fleet aboard the
Villa de Madrid
, the new flagship, with no great pomp or enthusiasm. Sword, cracked note on the trumpet, raising of the flag – let's get on with it.

He was born in Lima but, after the Peruvian insurrections, everyone he knew went back to Spain. He had never followed fashion or sported a moustache. He hated what he called rebels and, more generally, anyone who wasn't a royalist.

His father had fought the Chilean revolutionaries in 1813. His death had had three acts:

1.
There was the fire in Old Lope's barn where he had taken refuge;

2.
There was the patience of revolutionary forces who surrounded the building;

3.
There were the guns fired at the burnt body emerging from Old Lope's barn, sword drawn.

Juan had cried.

When asked about it later, he denied it.

Settling a family matter, Narváez believed, required the help of a member of that family. And in addition to the flaw of being Peruvian, Juan Manuel Pareja had the quality of being heartless. People already perceived him as having the same skin colour and ideas as the prime minister.

Also there was widespread surprise when, dismissing the theatre that had been Salazar – Madrid needs you, my good man – the admiral struck up new negotiations with Lima. It was thought to be for appearances. And it was, although substance was stirred up anyway, and Pareja increased his grievances threefold, increased his insults fivefold, logically increasing sevenfold his consumption of Cuban cigars. His demands grew exponentially, his aims even more extravagant than those of Pinzón and Salazar combined. They involved resources, promises, throw in some women, why not, and some Inca gold while we're at it.

President Pezet's envoy, Manuel Ignacio de Vivanco, explained clearly that they would concede no more today than they did yesterday. His opinion of the men was still as harsh, his moustache still as smooth – he had come back against his better judgement. He had been promised that the meeting would be short. He had had his ego stroked – pause –and ballast added to his purse. People said he knew how to talk to men.

I talk to them like dogs, he explained.

Surprisingly, they reached an agreement.

Pareja wanted to declare victory as soon as possible.

Vivanco was worried about the fate of Caramba and Calíope, his dogs, who were teething.

President Pezet was still thinking about Juanita.

The paperwork was signed aboard the
Villa de Madrid
one fine afternoon in January – there is such a thing. It was sunny and not
too cold; the sea gave the men a chance to sleep in. It was calm to the point of being still, the energy hidden below the surface as if under a large white sheet. Sometimes the sea stirred with an eddy, or some backwash, as if shifting a knee or an arm.

It was 1865. The war had been going on for nine months already. The Spaniards had captured three islands and accidentally lost a ship. They had shot a man; their honour was intact.

Lima took a dim view of the treaty. Too much had been conceded to the enemy: the islands, compensation payments and a great deal of pride. Speeches in the Chamber pitted people against one other. They all threw another log on the fire of general indignation. It went beyond the usual debate.

In the streets, things were less metaphorical. Stakes were erected to burn Pezet and Isabelle II in effigy, each in turn. The effigy of a widely hated local bigshot was sometimes added to the fire, depending on how whipped up the demonstrators were and on the inventory of available straw.