Mandragon Read online

  Besides the codes, there was nationalization. Which meant confiscation by the Manduco family, or the Guardia general staff. Title passed to the Tinieblan state and people, but the wealth went into the satchels and the numbered accounts. Not wise to notice though. When La Patria was ordered nationalized, Lazarillo Agudo wrote that it was being “manduquized,” and he was put in prison, and later into the Pacific Ocean, from an altitude of two thousand feet, out the door of one of the new helicopters.

  All the newspapers were manduquized, and all the radio stations, and the three television stations. Profits stuffed into satchels, and their facilities used to tell the people how happy they were, what strides forward they were making under the general’s inspired guidance. And also to remind them that if their happiness wasn’t perfect, the reactionaries and the imperialists were to blame. The general made his sister Misalign minister of information, and she had a gift for describing the people’s happiness. And the vision to see progress where others saw decline. And appreciation for the—general’s virtues, his wisdom and selflessness, his patriotism, his courage and compassion and, despite all these, his modesty. And a knack for spotting reactionaries—anyone in Tinieblas with property worth manduquizing. And a talent for unmasking imperialists—anyone outside Tinieblas who might be blamed for the country’s problems. And limitless venom for denouncing their devilish crimes. But the imperialists didn’t mind being denounced. On important matters the general was always obedient. They sent more helicopters and more exciting weapons, and also grants and loans, most of which ended up in the satchels.

  Mesalina’s work was a great comfort to the general, and to the rest of the family, and to the members of the government and the Guard. Gave them so much to be proud of, and someone to blame whenever things went wrong. But her venom filled people’s daily lives with rancor, and curdled their dreams so that they went around scowling and snarling, though no one except those in power believed the newspapers, or the radio or television. Rumor became the only means of communication. Tinieblans inhaled and exhaled rumors day and night. A cloud of rumor hung from coast to coast, and a rumor breathed on the Costaguanan border reached the Ticamala border in a matter of minutes. Not by telephone either. People were too smart to use the phone.

  The telephone company was manduquized, along with the power company and the gas company, and all the rates were raised. The bus companies were manduquized, and the fares were raised, and a contract on new buses was let at the high bid to a manufacturer represented by the general’s brother Nero, who was minister of transport. Many more companies were manduquized, and large sums were extorted from others under threat of manduquization.

  After the Revolution had been striding forward for a while, the general took stock. His family was prospering, as were the other high officials of the government and the higher-ranking officers of the Guard. The troops were happy with their modern weapons and their tax-free stores, with insulting citizens and knocking them about. The people were happy, as anyone who glanced at a newspaper knew instantly. And he was beloved. His portrait was everywhere throughout the country. Children sang “Genghis Will Save Us” in all the schools. And yet, things weren’t perfect. There were still problems, the problems Tinieblas always had. If anything, they’d grown worse, with so much being shipped out in the satchels. But the newspapers blamed them on the reactionaries and the imperialists, and promised that the Revolution would solve them, so that they didn’t disturb the general very much. The real trouble was the lower-ranking members of the government, and the members of the government-sponsored unions and student groups. They believed the general’s speeches and the newspapers. Mesalina’s venom had them all worked up. They supported the general but wondered why he pampered the reactionaries—as if he could manduquize all their property, or even most of it, without cutting tax revenue and drying up the source of bribes and having less to stuff into the satchels. They wondered why he didn’t drive the imperialists from the Reservation—as if he were actually valiant, as if he wanted a bullet in his breast. These people were restless and unsatisfied, but the general couldn’t put them all in prison just for believing his speeches and his sister. He had to please them somehow—but not by interfering with the satchels! The satchels came first! So he stepped up his denunciations of the gringos, which pleased his supporters and took the people’s minds off their real troubles. And the more he denounced the gringos, the more they gave him—since all he did was talk, since when it came to important matters he was still obedient, Besides that, the Reservation had outlived most of its usefulness, was costing too much money and should be scaled down. They could get rid of the useless portions and appear generous, and they proposed that sort of arrangement to the general. They didn’t have to ask him to pretend it was his own idea. He convinced himself of that without any prompting and undertook to gain international support for his liberation struggle.

  There were a number of countries ruled more or less like Tinieblas, by blustering thieves who’d stolen power and kept it by force. The general toured these countries. He was everywhere received by cheering multitudes. He was deeply touched. He might have remembered that whenever one of the other blustering thieves had visited Tinieblas, the general had arranged a touching reception—peasants dragooned from their fields; state employees mustered at their offices; children assembled in the schools and issued bouquets: the lot dispatched by truck and bus and lockstep, and anyone who didn’t cheer was in bad trouble. The general forgot all that and took those welcomes for outpourings of love. The world, he judged, agreed with Mesalina. His speeches were always greeted by clamorous applause, although his translators, even members of his own party, had trouble making out his phrases. His voice was graveled by whisky, and further distorted by the pressure of his vest, but every time he paused, the crowds applauded. The trip did wonders for the general’s spirits.

  But on his return his elder brothers had distressing news. Not much was going in the satchels lately. Farms and businesses produced less once they’d been manduquized, and the nonmanduquized sector was floundering too. Caligula’s codes had crippled industry, and maimed commerce, and left agriculture for dead. All sorts of concerns were going bankrupt. Their owners had stopped paying taxes and bribes. Many people were out of work and had stopped spending, even on slot machines and lottery tickets. Not much was going in the satchels.

  The general wasn’t sure the troops would continue to love him if their officers stopped prospering. He was for getting out while there was time. He was greedy only because he was fearful. He’d shipped plenty of money out, and he was for joining his money, before his nightmares caught up to him. Timur was greedy because he was greedy; he wanted more. Mangu pointed out that some of the younger brothers and sisters, some of the cousins and laws, hadn’t got their fair share yet. He and Timur tried to dissuade the general, but the general was resolute. Was going to cut and run, but Kublai told him shut up, stop being a baby. The cash was gone, but the country still had credit. They all could keep prospering if the credit held. The thing was not to lose confidence. They’d go to the foreign banks, and bankers liked confidence. Liked stability too, and God knew the Tinieblan government was stable. All the opposition was in exile or prison, if not in the ocean or ground. The thing was not to lose nerve. The thing was to keep a firm grip on the country,

  With that, the general took heart. If Kublai said so, things would be all right. Kublai was the shrewdest one in the whole family.

  The general embarked on a great program of public works. Roads especially, superhighways through the jungle, with bridges even where there were no rivers. And also office buildings, a skyscraper for each ministry. And a sports stadium for every town, and a new airport right beside the perfectly good old one. And a gigantic dam that flooded half La Merced Province when it collapsed, and a more gigantic one on the ruins of the first. All financed by foreign banks at whatever rate they felt like charging. No point, Kublai said, in haggling. Showed lack of confidence, and
the thing was to get cash. Money poured into Tinieblas, and prosperity was restored.

  Prosperity raced on. Whenever it faltered, whenever it slowed to a gallop, Kublai said the thing was to keep the momentum, and devalued the currency. Prices rose, of course, and people suffered, but Mesalina told them they were happy. Those who still complained were put here and there. But the satchels were full again, that was what counted. The satchels were full and the numbered accounts were groaning.

  In this way the general and his fake revolution smashed the productive sectors of Tinieblas, and ruined its currency, and wrecked its credit; sent thousands into exile or to prison; put hundreds in the ocean or the ground; taxed the people into penury and mortgaged the country to foreign banks to the fourth generation. Then came the drought.

  But first the general had his agreement with the gringos. Under it they kept exactly what they wanted and relinquished what they had no use for. The general announced it as a great victory and held a huge rally to celebrate.

  On the day the agreement took effect, thousands of Tinieblans entered the Reservation. Gates swinging open, no foreign soldiers demanding to see a pass, and people roamed about, picnicked on what had been the Fort Shafter parade grounds, strolled through the woods where my mother was raped (if that version of the birth is true, not just a dream of Apple’s). People trampled the lawn of the Reservation Club, where for years there had been a sign: “NO DOGS OR TINIEBLANS.” Went up on the porch and broke down the screen doors, swarmed inside and overturned the mahogany tables. They went out to the beach, where (461 years before) the shark-chewed head of the discoverer of Tinieblas had been washed up, and waded fully clothed into the surf. Or simply wandered about, speaking in hushed voices.

  Amazement, then jubilation. More than five thousand collected in front of what had been the headquarters at Fort Shafter, around the flagpole where, for eight decades, a foreign flag had flown. Made and cheered impromptu orations on the greatness of the occasion. Perfectly orderly and democratic, but after a time the orators forgot themselves and began denouncing Mangu and his taxes. The cheers grew louder, and speakers began denouncing the general himself. Then two companies of guardias arrived and smashed a few hundred heads and hauled a hundred or so off to prison and truncheoned the others back into the city. Then they locked the gates and posted sentinels until the newly recovered property could be divided up among the general’s family and friends.

  Jubilation, then disillusionment. And almost as soon as the agreement went into effect, the drought began.

  21

  The rains quit right on schedule, the fourth week in December. They weren’t necessarily scheduled to quit entirely. A few showers during the first months of a year are normal here. None came though, and no one really minded, but April, when the rains were scheduled to resume, was dry.

  Schools reopened. Children sang “Genghis Will Save Us.” The dummy assembly reconvened briefly to praise Revolution and the general. Wind shifted too, for that matter, as it was scheduled to, and the Humboldt Current swung back out to sea. But no rain fell. It wasn’t even cloudy.

  All through May the sun sizzled in an empty sky. In June, at dawn on the sixth anniversary of the majors’ coup, a light mist was seen on the Caribbean coast, but it burned off before midmorning. In July, a cloud the size of a lady’s handkerchief appeared over Córdoba, hung there just long enough to be inspected by the general’s brother Nebucodonosor, who was minister of agriculture, and Lieutenant Colonel Fidel Acha, chief of intelligence of the Guardia Civil. The general dispatched them to Córdoba by helicopter the instant news of the cloud reached him, and they inspected it and reported to a council of state. Acha said it was backed like a weasel. Nebucodonosor found it very like a whale. Dropped no rain, but the ministry of information squeezed a few lies from it. Announced that meteorological engineers, working under the immediate direction of General Genghis Manduco, Life President of the Blah-blah-blah and Blah of the Government, Commander in Chief of the Blah-blah-blah-blah and Blah-blah of the Revolution, were conducting experiments in Salinas, and that results were encouraging, and that the drought would soon be broken. But August, September, and October brought no relief.

  From the air, the rice and cane fields of La Merced looked boarded over. The banana groves of Tuquetá were baked ocher. The hills of Otán, pastureland, sat crusted in the sun like huge dog lumps, and in Selva Trópica the jungle rivers shrank to trickles, then turned to empty ditches of cracked mud. Tinieblas was drying up like an old maid.

  The worst was that Tinieblas had been singled out. The rest of Central America had plenty of rain. In the south, peasants gaped in fury at the thunderheads that billowed beyond the Costaguanan border. North, across the Rio Agrio in Ticamala, rain fell in torrents, and the rice stood shoulder high. At Tres Olmos, where the Pan-American Highway crosses, where I crossed with my tribe the next year, the Rio Agrio is only fifty yards wide, yet there were days when no one could see across it for the downpour. Not a drop fell on the Tinieblan side though. The rain stopped right at midstream, hung there like a curtain, and a man could stand on the bridge, on the Tinieblan side of the black stripe that marked the frontier, and reach his hand across and get it drenched, while the rest of him stayed dry as an oven.

  Experts took atmospheric samples. Priests said special masses. Congregations paraded saints through the fields. The Indians in Remedies staged rain dances, and the Indians in Selva Trópica sacrificed iguanas, and then tapirs, and then boys and girls. Witches like La Negra stopped brewing love potions and cast rain spells, hired themselves out to chant incantations. The West Indian community in Bastidas imported a voodoo wizard from Jamaica, and a voodoo superwizard from Haiti. Don Julio Abeja, a devotee of Hermes Trismegistos, drew a pentagram in chalk on the pavement in front of the palace, and sat down inside it with a stack of ancient tomes, and spent three nights there conjuring in Greek and Latin. Nothing worked.

  Relief aid poured in from all over. The general set up a committee, Timur and Sulimán and Nero, to distribute it. They organized a black market that kept the satchels passably full, but Tinieblan energies were mainly spent placing blame. Some blamed God for deciding to begin the end of the world in Tinieblas. Some blamed the government for calling down God’s wrath. The government blamed the imperialists, that is, the CIA. The CIA had stationed special planes off the coasts, and was lassoing all the clouds that came near, and dragging them back out to sea so Tinieblas would wither. Those who managed, one way or another, to blame someone felt a bit better. Resentment canceled some of their despair. But the drought continued. On Discovery Day, a year after the Reservation agreement took effect, at what ought to have been the height of the rainy season, a few greasy gouts dribbled on the capital. But what did that count? Barely enough to dampen the pavements! No more than an insult and mockery! And December came and went without so much as a thick dew.

  Through January and February and into March the country waited. Trembling like a prisoner between torture sessions. No rain, but rain wasn’t scheduled for those months, but what about April? Would April be dry too? The terror was that it would be. The terror was that it had quit raining in Tinieblas once and for all.

  Scaredest of all was Genghis Manduco, Blah-blah of the Republic and Head of the Blah, Blah-in-blah of the Guardia civil and Maximum Leader of the Blah-blah-blah-blah. Supposed to be fearless, and that’s how he locked in his portraits. On highway billboards and huge posters hung on the main buildings. Eyes wide-set and froggishly bulged, so he seemed eager to confront things straight on. Smooth brow, because no disciplined activity went on behnd it, so he looked serene. Firm jaw and uniform suggested soldierly confidence, and he was tall for a Tinieblan and broad-shouldered, beefy but not too much run to fat. An imposing figure, but for all that scared almost senseless, trembling in terror.

  Poor Genghis. I’ve looked into your heart, seen it stewed in fear. All the Manducos were bullies, therefore cowards, but Genghis was the most craven of the lot. Afraid of
going to bed and of getting out of it, and of everything in between on either side. Mandragon’s seen it all, and pitied. That’s all he ever wanted, only safety. Poor Genghis. There isn’t any, not until you’re dead.

  Wangled a commission in the Guardia and rode the escalator up to major. Low-risk, low-prestige employment for low-caliber people. For parasites, for bullies and cowards. Scowled fiercely, spoke gruffly, swore foully. Sneered at softness. At love, that is, and religion and culture and art. Snorted and strutted, so no one suspected you were terrified all the time. All the time, though as safe as a person can get this side of a coffin. Decently salaried. Comfortably obscure. Best he could hope for, then the other majors ruined it. They took him for the brave fellow he pretended to be and invited him to join their conspiracy.

  Poor Genghis. More afraid than ever, but he had to join. Suspected him of courage, but if he didn’t join they’d suspect him of integrity, of loyalty to his oath. Unjustly, of course, but what did that matter? Slightest suspicion of integrity, and they’d do something unpleasant to him, to keep him from betraying their plot. So he joined it. Terrified it might fail and terrified when it succeeded. There he was, a member of a junta, basketed in with a bunch of ambitious scramblers. Fear sharper than ambition. Scrambled hardest, got to the top. But being on top didn’t bring safety, did it?

  Just made him more conspicuous, poor thing, just made him more threatened, like a roach when the kitchen light goes on.

  Everything in fear, then as before. Afraid of the people, so he strengthened the Guardia. Afraid of the Guardia, so he pampered it, made it a privileged caste. Afraid of the future, so he stole all the money he could. Afraid of betrayal, so he put his family in office and let them steal too. Afraid of the anger this caused, of everyone who wasn’t afraid, so he took repressive measures that made him enough enemies to scare someone brave. Afraid of being feared, so he invoked the spirit of revolution. Afraid of the risen spirit, so he ruled spasmodically, and got into fearsome situations. Afraid of the truth, so he wrapped himself in lies and made fearful blunders that damaged the country and made him less safe than ever. Poor Genghis. Look how he had to live.