Guano (18 page)

For fear of being recognized, Simón had ignored the mayor's pleas. His remorse at not having helped an art lover in distress was assuaged by his aesthetic sense. The portrait would be better off out of this world, preserved solely in memories that would embellish and descriptions that would lend it a bit of mystery. Who could say whether the painting, once it was gone and left to the devices of memory, would not become a work of art?

Simón came to the street he was looking for. The afternoon was fading, the battle along with it. Only sporadic gunfire and cries were exchanged. The sun was setting on the hills; the ruins of strongholds made strange geometric figures against their gentle slopes. A few flames punctuated the dusk, creating enough light to be able to make out a slight limp on a wounded shadow, the shadow of a rescuer, more shadows coming back down to the city to rest. Simón would have to be quick. The chaos of combat and therefore his camouflage were slowly but surely disappearing. Calm would be restored, with all of its danger.

Montse's house was the only one in the area destroyed. It offered passersby an almost perfect cross-section view. The front door was gone, as was the living room, for all intents and purposes. The sofa sat boldly enthroned on a pile of boards. The hallway with its shadows that used to cloak Montse's pallor had been transformed into a stage open onto the street, with no curtain. No actors either. The staircase was still holding, like a snake charmed by the emptiness, rising up to meet the remains of the second floor – beams, a room suspended in the air.

Simón thought again of the heaviest rocks on the most fragile body parts, felt a jolt in his heart, then it waned, then he was angry, and finally sick. He ran toward the house to avoid throwing up. He started searching through the debris, tore his clothes, tried to find a body he could cry over in the dust and the rubble.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Smooth with delicate joints, lily white, manicured nails – he felt a spark of hope.

Slowly, he turned his head.

The hair was in a chignon, the chin was double.

It was the Ortuños' maid.

Eyes glazed with sorrow stared at Simón, white like two hosts. Blink, would you? Her round face was covered in soot. She blinked:
only her eyelids were clean. Can you hear me? She had the disquieting look of a great grey owl, with the colours reversed, its plumage mixed up, moon eyes and night face. Everything in this country is backward.

Mademoiselle had already left with her brother for the hacienda when the shelling began.

There's no point in digging, the maid murmured. Well, maybe for the cutlery or the oak sideboard that are down there, if you really want them.

And her bedroom?

That's what's still holding on the second floor; that's what's suspended, her bedroom.

Simón moved toward the staircase – careful, it's not safe – and then went up – the stairs are collapsing, you see. He listened to the maid's cries and the wood cracking. Come back, Sir, come back, there's no point in going up there. Simón studied each of the stairs, stepped across those that wouldn't hold his foot while clinging to great, hanging swaths of wallpaper to steady himself.

Finally he entered the bedroom, which was unstable. It was like being in a tree, in a treehouse, the curious feeling of childlike seclusion that was rather pleasing. The loss of several joists gave the floor more spring. The weight of the bed made it sag dangerously and turned one corner of the bedroom into a sort of giant hammock. Burns dotted her sheets, as if embers had slept on them, or someone had smoked copiously and negligently.

The small table was still in front of the window, the frame of which was shaky but hanging on in a half-collapsed wall. Simón went to it to look out over the bay.

The sea was filled with Spanish ships, some of them in flames, others with broken masts that looked like arms punished for having wanted to touch, let's say, the sky. No, that's not it. How about punished for having wanted to avoid getting wet, having gotten
wet. It was foolish to hope to stay dry, yes, that's it. Hope, foolishness, life.

Simón realized that the Spanish fleet was packing up its cannonballs. The ships were slowly shrinking in the distance. Soon they would be too far to reach. Good, he said to himself, we're leaving. Love ends as war ends.

He looked down at the table. A psychology book was open on it.
The human mind contains all worlds, except the one we live in.

Simón closed his eyes, concentrated, concentrated some more, looked through the window again. Nothing had changed. Except the ships, which were becoming indistinct shapes. He picked up the book and left in its place the most beautiful letter ever written. He hoped that the bedroom would survive, that it would hold, suspended like this, until Montse's return, so that she would know that he had been there, see that her book had disappeared, notice the …

No. The letter was too much: pompous, fleeting, the words, the seal, to say nothing of the salt and the blood. He took it back – it was madness. The book's absence would be enough.

He turned on his heel, clung to the wallpaper and, at the bottom of the stairs, thanked the maid. She seemed sorry. She had seen Montse's face as she left for Lambayeque. You have the same look on your face, she said, the same! Where are your eyes?

He said his goodbyes and walked slowly down the middle of the street. His shadow followed him.

The maid knelt in the rubble. She watched him go and, telling herself that someone should, she cried. Poor children who do not know how to suffer, who do not know how to change the course of destiny. Poor children swept along by the century. You sleep. You sleep and you die.

Her tears washed her face. They turned black, soaking up the soot, and left white rivers in their path.

The sun, which was setting, still stained the horizon blue; the main part of the battle was over. Simón, accompanied by a few saboteurs who had survived the operation, rowed in the direction of the Spanish ships that were clustered on the horizon.

They were tallying losses, examining the hulls, counting the wounds Admiral Núñez had sustained. One, two, three … a bit of quiet please, one, two, three … hurrah! The sailors' joy kept interrupting the doctor's attempts to count. Spain has conquered, dear doctor; come on, a bit of enthusiasm, Admiral, no? Tousled, dishevelled heads leaned over the wounded man. Núñez was patient.

The other side were congratulating themselves as well, for having staved off the invasion, for having died for the cause, for having saved the mayor's portrait at the eleventh hour.

Calls of
Viva Peru
rose from the far side of the bay, came down from the hilltops, reached the retreating ships. It was a bombardment of voices that perpetuated the hostilities. Núñez, whose pain made him intransigent, believed this enthusiasm to be unwarranted.

After all, it was Spain that had regained her standing, was it not? There was smoke rising from the coast, and buildings were collapsing in the city. And we never even wanted to invade the place. It was to punish South America and impress Europe.

Americans were contemplating the scene on sea and on land: a painter, a businessman and a commodore. They commented on the course of events. Over so quickly and the damage to the city was minimal. Quite right, Mr. Rodgers, I would even venture that the Peruvian batteries contained Núñez so effectively that he wasn't able to shell its infrastructures. Nicely done.

Yes.

Yes.

Basically, they were joining the citizens of Callao in their calls of
Viva
and in cursing imperialism.

It's untrue, patently untrue, Núñez would defend himself months later in Madrid. The city was hit hard, Callao was ravaged. I am told that the city hall went up in flames. And that at least one house was destroyed.

He scratched his sideburns. He had been wounded nine times.

Well done, Mr. Núñez.

But there was no mention of a statue.

For the time being, Núñez ordered his men to set a course for San Lorenzo Island. It was Peru's largest island, opposite Callao; its highest point – at 396 metres above sea level – gave them a view of enemy movements and other minute geographical details, and they could repair their ships there.

Hoisted aboard the
Villa de Madrid
, Simón paced the decks. He wrote while walking, crossed out while standing, continued writing the report of his expedition, omitting a good number of details – the mayor's whimpering, the maid's whimpering, his own whimpering, which he replaced with cool and calm. But his report could wait. The captain, now a one-armed man, was fighting for his life; the ship, which was hit in the bilge, was fighting to stay afloat. So much fighting, and yet the crew was basking in the sun. Having sealed the hull, bailing the hold every half-hour, they let themselves be gently towed. We'll play cards, bet with matches, watch Callao disappear in the distance. And hey, we should ask Simón about his mission.

So, Lieutenant?

Nothing.

Rape?

Not by me.

And the lady?, those who were in on it asked. The gentlewoman? Did you see her?

Simón explained that he had found her dead under a pile of debris and that now, if you please, he would pace the deck at night like a ghost and shut himself away in his cabin during the day like a madman. Never again would he look for love. He had lost the heart. His heart was buried next to the woman, where it was budding to make her a tree, a tomb, some shade. So leave me alone now, it's over.

But Lieutenant, was she still beautiful in death?

Was she wearing a nightie?

Was she naked?

In San Lorenzo, they were able to repair the ships well enough and enjoy the beach a little. Then the island became more dangerous, and the war more difficult:

1.
The allied fleet was gathering.

2.
Spanish morale was flagging.

3.
The beach was no Costa Brava.

4.
They had no source of supplies.

All the South American ports were now closed to them. The chart at the back of the cabin was scarred with red Xs: where they had been turned away, hostile territory and a treasure that the natives had spoken of, or at least one native. Núñez smoked, and then smoked some more, but he could still see the crimson marks through the haze, showing past operations and pointing to future obstacles. The conflict cannot be redone, Núñez thought. To persist would require scribbling too many borders, oceans, cities. Out-and-out war, a semi-world war. It was unthinkable.

And anyway, they had already restored some of their honour, almost enough.

He scratched his sideburns, left his cabin and went to address his men on deck. His forehead and his eyes were haloed by a cloud of grey smoke; only his mouth could be seen clearly. It twitched, whispered, couldn't form the words and then could: he ordered the return to Spain. We'll pick everyone up at the Chincha Islands, maybe a mollusc specimen or two for the Academy of Science, and then we'll be back in Madrid.