On Heroes and Tombs
They were little green eyes, crisscrossed with red and black streaks, as though they were cracked, buried deep in their sockets, surrounded by the parchmentlike folds of a mummified, immortal face.
“Were you asleep, grandfather?” Alejandra shouted in his ear.
“What, what? Asleep, you say? No, my girl, I was just resting.”
“This is a friend of mine.”
The old man nodded his head with a sudden decelerating motion, like a weighted doll set to bobbing. He offered Martín a bony hand in which huge veins seemed to be trying to work their way out of skin as dry and transparent as the head of an old drum.
“Grandfather,” she shouted at him. “Tell him about Lieutenant Patrick.”
The weighted doll moved again.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered. “Patrick, that’s right, Patrick.”
“Don’t worry, it’s all the same story,” Alejandra said to Martín. “It’s the same every time, no matter what it is. He always ends up talking about the Legion, until he forgets and falls asleep.”
“Ah, yes, Lieutenant Patrick, that’s right.”
His little eyes grew teary.
“Elmtrees, son, Elmtrees. Lieutenant Patrick Elmtrees, of the famous 71st. Who would ever have thought he’d die in the Legion?”
Martín looked at Alejandra.
“Explain to him, grandfather, explain to him,” she shouted.
The old man cupped his enormous gnarled hand around his ear, leaning his head toward Alejandra. Underneath the mask of cracked parchment well on its way to death, what remained of a pensive, kindly human being seemed to be just barely surviving. The lower jaw hung down slightly, as though it no longer were strong enough to stay shut, revealing toothless gums.
“That’s right, Patrick.”
“Explain to him, grandfather.”
He lost himself in thought, looking back toward far-distant times.
“Olmos is the Spanish for Elmtrees. Because grandfather got tired of being called Elemetri, Elemetrio, Lemetrio, and even Captain Demetrio.”
He gave a sort of tremulous laugh, raising his hand to his mouth.
“That’s right, even Captain Demetrio. He was sick and tired of it. And he had taken on so many of the ways of the country that he didn’t like it when they called him the Englishman. And so he upped and changed his name to Olmos. The way the Islands took the name Isla and the Queenfaiths Reinafé. It rubbed him the wrong way—a sort of little laugh—. He was a man who got his dander up very easily, so that was a smart move, a very smart move, yessiree. And what’s more, this was his real country. He’d taken himself a wife here and his children were born here. And seeing him sitting on his South American horse with his silver-studded riding gear, not a soul would have suspected he was a foreigner. And even if anyone had suspected—again a little laugh—he wouldn’t have opened his trap because Don Patricio would have brought him low with one lash of his whip the minute the words were out—little laugh—Yessiree, Lieutenant Patrick Elmtrees. Who would ever have thought it? No, fate, is more complicated than a Turkish business deal. Who would ever have thought that his fate would be to die for the general?”
He suddenly appeared to be dozing, his breath wheezing slightly.
“General? What general?” Martín asked Alejandra.
“Lavalle.”
Martín didn’t understand at all: an English lieutenant serving under Lavalle? “When?”
“In the civil war, stupid.”fn8
One hundred seventy-five men, ragged and desperate, pursued by Oribe’s lancers, fleeing toward the north through the great valley, ever northward. Second Lieutenant Celedonio Olmos rode along thinking of his brother Panchito Olmos, dead in Quebracho Herrado. And with a growth of beard, miserable, ragged, and desperate, Colonel Bonifacio Acevedo too rode toward the north. And another hundred seventy-two now-unrecognizable men. And one woman. Fleeing night and day toward the north, toward the border.
The lower jaw hung down, quivering: “Uncle Panchito and grandfather, run through with lances in Quebracho Herrado,” he murmured, as though in assent.
“I don’t understand anything of all this,” Martín said.
“On June 27, 1806,” Alejandra told him, “the English were advancing through the streets of Buenos Aires. When I was this big—she put her hand down near the floor—grandfather told me the story a hundred and seventy-five times. The 9th Company brought up in the rear of the famous 71st.” (“Why famous?”) “I don’t know, but that’s what they always said. I think it had never been defeated, anywhere in the world. The 9th Company was advancing down the Calle de la Universidad.” (“Calle de la Universidad?”) “Of course, silly, the Calle Bolívar. I’m telling it to you the way grandfather does; I know it by heart. When they arrived at the corner of Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Venezuela for those who are backward, it happened.” (“What happened?”) “Keep your shirt on and I’ll tell you. They threw everything. From the roof-terraces, I mean: boiling oil, plates, bottles, pots, even furniture. They also shot bullets. They were all shooting: women, blacks, kids. And that was how he got wounded.” (“Who?”) “Lieutenant Patrick. On that corner was the house of Bonifacio Acevedo, grandfather’s grandfather, the brother of the man who was later General Cosme Acevedo.” (“The one the street is named after?”) “Yes, the one with the street named after him: that’s all we have left, street names. This Bonifacio Acevedo married Trinidad Arias, from Salta,” she went over to a wall and brought back a miniature, and in the light of the kerosene lantern, as the old man seemed to assent to something that had happened long ago and far away, with his jaw hanging down and his eyes closed, Martín saw the face of a pretty woman whose Mongolian features seemed to be the secret echo of Alejandra’s, an echo amid conversations between Englishmen and Spaniards. “And this woman had a whole bunch of kids, among them María de los Dolores and Bonifacio, who later was to be Colonel Bonifacio Acevedo, the man with the head.”
But Martín thought (and said) that he understood less and less as the story went on. What did Lieutenant Patrick have to do with this whole confused tale, and how had he died serving Lavalle?
“Wait, dummy, here comes the way it all fits together. Didn’t you hear grandfather say that life is more complicated than a Turkish business deal? Fate this time took the form of a ferocious big black, one of my great-great-grandfather’s slaves, a black named Benito. Because Fate doesn’t manifest itself in the abstract—sometimes it’s a slave’s knife and other times it’s the smile of an unmarried girl. Fate chooses its instruments, then it incarnates itself, and then the shit hits the fan. In this case it incarnated itself in Benito the black, who struck the lieutenant such an unlucky blow (from the point of view of the black) with a knife that Elmtrees was able to turn into Olmos and I was able to be born. My life, as they say, hung from just a thin thread and the situation was a very delicate one, because if the black hadn’t heard María de los Dolores’s shouts from the rooftop terrace, ordering him not to do the lieutenant in, the black would have liquidated him in due and proper form, as was his desire, but not that of Fate, because even though it had incarnated itself in Benito it didn’t think exactly the way he did, it had its little differences with him. That’s something that happens very often, because naturally Fate can’t choose the exact means suited to the people who are going to serve it as an instrument. Just as when you’re in a hurry to get to a certain place, when it’s a matter of life or death, you aren’t going to notice if the car has green upholstery or the horse has a tail you don’t particularly like. That’s why Fate is something that’s confused and a little ambiguous: it knows very well what it really wants, but the people who are its agents don’t know quite so much. Like those half-witted subalterns who never execute perfectly the orders given them. So Fate is obliged to act like President Sarmiento: doing things, even though they turn out badly, but nonetheless doing them. And lots of times it has to get its agents drunk or drive them out of their wits. And that’s why people say
that someone was as though he were beside himself, that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he lost control. Naturally. Otherwise, instead of killing Desdemona or Caesar, heaven only knows what sort of silly clown act the person would pull. So, as I was explaining to you, at the moment that Benito was about to decree that I would never exist, María de los Dolores gave such a loud shout from up above on the terrace that the black stayed his hand. María de los Dolores. She was fourteen years old. She was pouring down boiling oil, but she shouted in time.”
“I don’t understand this part either; wasn’t it necessary to keep the English from winning?”
“You’re really mentally retarded: haven’t you ever head of a coup de foudre? That was precisely what happened, amid all the chaos. So you can see how Fate works. Benito the black obeyed his mistress’s orders reluctantly, but he dragged the young officer inside, as ordered by the grandmother of my great-grandfather Pancho. And then the women in the house gave him first aid while they waited for Dr. Argerich to come. They took off his uniform jacket. ‘But he’s just a child!’ Mistress Trinidad said in horror. ‘He can’t be a day over seventeen!’ she said. ‘How dreadful,’ they lamented as they washed him with clean water and cane alcohol and bandaged him with strips of sheets. Then they put him to bed. During the night he was delirious and kept saying words in English, as María de los Dolores, praying and weeping, changed his vinegar compresses. Because, as grandfather told me, the girl had fallen in love with the young foreigner and had already made up her mind to marry him. And you should know, grandfather said to me, that when a woman gets an idea like that in her head there’s no power on earth or in heaven that can stop her. So while the poor lieutenant was delirious and no doubt dreaming of his country, María de los Dolores had decided that that country had ceased to exist, and that Patrick’s descendants would be born in Argentina. Afterwards, when his mind became clearer, it turned out that he was none other than the nephew of General Beresford himself. And you can imagine the scene when Beresford came to the house and the moment when he kissed Mistress Trinidad’s hand.”
“One hundred seventy-five men,” the old man mumbled, nodding.
“And what’s that?”
“The Legion. He keeps thinking about the same things all the time: either his childhood or the Legion. I’ll go on with the story. Beresford thanked them for what they’d done for the boy and it was decided that he would stay there in the house till he’d recovered completely. And so, as the English forces occupied Buenos Aires, Patrick came to be a friend of the family, which wasn’t all that easy when you think of it, since everyone, including my family, hated the occupation. But the worst part began with the reconquest: there were great scenes with weeping and all the rest. Patrick naturally rejoined his army unit again and was obliged to fight against us. And when the English were forced to surrender, Patrick felt both great happiness and great sadness. Many of those who had been defeated asked to stay here and were interned. Patrick, of course, wanted to stay and they interned him at La Horqueta ranch, one of my family’s estates, near Pergamino. That was in 1807. A year later he and María de los Dolores were married and lived happily ever after. Don Bonifacio gave him part of the family holdings as a present, and Patricio began the task of converting himself into Elemetri, Elemetrio, Don Demetrio, Lieutenant Demetrio, and then suddenly Olmos. And it was a thrashing for anyone who called him English or Demetrio.”
“It would have been better if they’d killed him in Quebracho Herrado,” the old man murmured.
Martín looked at Alejandra again.
“He means Colonel Acevedo, do you understand? If they’d killed him in Quebracho Herrado they wouldn’t have beheaded him here, at the very moment that he was hoping to see his wife and daughter again.”
“It would have been better if they’d killed me in Quebracho Herrado,” Colonel Bonifacio Acevedo thinks as he flees northward, but for another reason, for reasons he thinks are horrible (the desperate march, the despair, the misery, the total defeat), though they are infinitely less horrible than those he was to have twelve years later, at the moment he felt the knife at his throat, there in front of his house.
Martín saw Alejandra go over to the glass case, and cried out in terror. But saying “don’t be such a sissy,” she took out the box, took the cover off, and showed him the colonel’s head, as Martín hid his eyes. She laughed harshly and put it away again.
“In Quebracho Herrado,” the old man murmured, nodding.
“So,” Alejandra explained, “once again I owed my birth to a miracle.”
Because if they had killed Second Lieutenant Celedonio Olmos in Quebracho Herrado, as they had killed his brother and his father, or if they had beheaded him in front of the house, as they had Colonel Acevedo, she would not have been born, and at this moment she would not be there in that room, remembering that past. And shouting in her grandfather’s ear, “tell him about the head,” and announcing to Martín that she had to leave and disappearing before he could even try to follow her (perhaps because he felt utterly confused), she left him alone with the old man, who kept repeating “the head, that’s right, the head,” bobbing like a weighted doll. Then his lower jaw moved and hung there quivering for a few moments, as his lips mumbled something unintelligible (perhaps he was making a mental resumé, like children about to be called on to recite their lesson) and finally he said: “The Mazorca, that’s right, they threw the head right inside the house, through the parlor window. They dismounted with great bursts of laughter and joyous shouts, they came over to the window and yelled ‘watermelons, ma’am, nice fresh watermelons!’ And then they opened the window and threw in Uncle Bonifacio’s bloody head. It would have been better if they’d killed him in Quebracho Herrado too, the way they killed Panchito and grandfather Patricio, I do believe that.” Something that Colonel Acevedo also thought as he fled northward through the Humahuaca Valley, with one hundred seventy-four comrades (and one woman), pursued by the enemy, in tatters, defeated and overcome with sadness, not knowing that he was to live twelve long years more, in distant lands, waiting for the moment when he would see his wife and daughter again.
“They shouted ‘nice fresh watermelons!’ and it was the head, young man. And poor Encarnación fell into a dead faint when she saw it, and in fact never came to and died a few hours later. And poor Escolástica, who was a little eleven-year-old girl, went clean out of her mind. That’s right.”
And nodding his head, he began to doze off, as Martín stood there paralyzed by a strange silent terror, in the middle of that nearly dark room, with that old man a hundred years old, with the head of Colonel Acevedo in the box, with the madman who might very well be prowling round about. The best thing to do is to leave, he thought. But the fear of meeting up with the madman paralyzed him. And then he told himself that it would be better to wait for Alejandra to come back, that she wouldn’t be long, that she couldn’t be long, since she knew that there was nothing he could do with that old man. He felt as though he had gradually entered a strangely calm nightmare in which everything was unreal and absurd. From the walls the gentleman painted by Prilidiano Pueyrredón and the lady with the big curved comb in her hair seemed to be watching him. The souls of warriors, of conquistadors, of madmen, of municipal councilors and priests seemed to fill the room with their invisible presence and murmur quietly among themselves: stories of conquest, battles, attacks with lances and beheadings.
“One hundred seventy-five men.”
Martín looked at the old man: his lower jaw nodded, hanging down, quivering.
“One hundred seventy-five men, yessiree.”
And one woman. But the old man does not know this, or does not want to know it. This is all that is left of the proud Legion, after eight hundred leagues of retreat and defeat, of two years of disillusionment and death. A column of one hundred seventy-five mute, miserable men (and one woman) galloping northward, ever northward. Will they never reach the border? Does Bolivia exist, there beyond this endle
ss valley? The October sun beats down and rots the general’s body. The cold of night freezes the pus, arrests the army of worms. And then it is daylight again, with the rear guard firing at their pursuers, with the threat of Oribe’s lancers.
The smell, the frightful smell, of the general’s rotten body.
The voice, singing now in the silence of the night:
Palomita blanca
que cruzas el valle,
vé a decir a todos,
que ha muerto Lavalle.fn9
“Hornos abandoned them, confound him. He said ‘I’m going to join Paz’s army.’ And he left them, and Major Ocampo did too. Confound him. And Lavalle saw them going off with their men, toward the east, in a cloud of dust. And my father said the general seemed to have tears in his eyes as he watched the two squadrons going off. He had one hundred seventy-five men left.”
The old man sat there pensively, still nodding his head.
“The blacks were fond of Hornos, very fond of him. And papa finally ended up receiving him. He came here to the quinta and they drank matéfn10 together, and shared memories of what had happened during the campaign.”
His head nodded, his jaw fell, and he murmured something about Major Hornos and Colonel Pedernera. Then he suddenly said no more. Was he perhaps sleeping? Perhaps there flowed through him that silent, latent life, close to eternity, that flows through lizards during the long winter months.
Pedernera thinks: twenty-five years of campaigns, of battles, of victories and defeats. But in those days we knew why we were fighting. We were fighting for the freedom of the continent, for the Great Fatherland. But now … So much blood has been shed on American soil, we have seen so many desperate afternoons, we have heard so many battle cries between brothers …. And now Oribe is at our heels, ready to behead us, to run us through with lances, to exterminate us—didn’t he fight with me in the Army of the Andes? Brave, tough General Oribe. Where is truth? How marvelous those days were! How dashing Lavalle was in his uniform of a major of grenadiers when we entered Lima! Everything was clearer then, everything was beautiful, like the uniform we wore …