Authors: Geoffrey Household
‘Her father’s, of course. She doesn’t approve of his methods but she would never agree to his being deprived of the Punchao.’
Before I had an opportunity to tell him of my adventures and that I had the Punchao, we heard the solemn footsteps of, apparently, all three of the assistant curators escorting Doña
Carlota down the passage. The door was thrown open. She was evidently surprised to find me in her husband’s office.
‘Ah … Mr … er …’ she began. ‘Excuse me, but what is your name now?’
‘Edmond Hawkins, as it has always been, Doña Carlota.’
‘My husband tells me that you are now the only person who knows where the Punchao is.’
‘I wish I did, Lady McMurtrie. The Retadores captured it in their raid in the capital and displayed it when they were attacked. But after the battle the survivors apparently took it away
with them.’
‘Why the hell does it matter so much to them?’ Carlota asked impatiently. ‘Anyway, it’s a horrid little country.’
I couldn’t entirely agree with her, remembering the courtesy with which all the people of Malpelo had treated me, except of course that porter of the London Retadores who was probably
still in hospital. I wondered what account he had given of the broken window.
‘And a horrid little democracy, you would say?’
‘Look here, Mr Hawkins! I have a feeling that you and my husband know more than you are saying. Is there any reason why you cannot give the Punchao back to my father secretly? He would be
immensely grateful and Hector and you would be the cat’s whiskers. Have you thought of that? What about a ranch on the Pacific as a reward?’
‘What about Juana?’
‘She will keep her mouth shut. You recovered the Punchao single-handed or with Hector, if you like. There is no reason why you need mention that the Punchao was ever in England. You and I
have never met before.’
Well, that would take care of my future, but I did not jump at the solution. Nobody, not even Hector, knew that at that moment the Punchao was up a tree near the camp, and my instinct was that
it should stay there until the position was clearer. I would not send a message to the Retadores that I had it and was eager to deliver it. I had to know more of the absolute integrity of my
messenger and I was not prepared to let Heredia know that I had it. Hector? Well, if Carlota had not appeared when she did I should have told Hector all the truth and asked his advice. Anyway, I
knew what it would be: to keep Heredia in power and to clip his wings if at all possible – a position by no means unknown to normal politicians in democratic parliaments everywhere.
Well, I was indecisive. I had continually in mind that poor woman searching among the dead for her vanished love, and then I would remember my pet dictator, the Father of his Country, who had at
least given peace at the price of corruption. My duty – if I had one – was to bring Heredia down and restore the Punchao to its proper place as nothing more than a fascinating museum
exhibit. At least I should have cleared my conscience of the first and only theft of my life.
For the time being, we left the fate of the Punchao out of our conversation. Carlota would have made an admirable diplomat; she knew that when a seed was implanted it needed time to grow, and
turned our conversation to the political aims of the Retadores. I gave her a truthful eyewitness account of the utter defeat of their troops which left the fate of the Punchao up in the air, giving
both Carlota and Hector the impression that the Retadores had recovered it.
Eventually she returned to the presidential palace, leaving us alone. Hector gave a sigh of relief.
‘What I was just going to ask you when we were interrupted by my wife,’ he said, ‘is did you or didn’t you leave it behind the waterfall?’
‘When we escaped by swimming, I had to leave it. On my second visit, the battlefield was swarming with looters and I hadn’t a hope.’
That was my only deliberate lie.
‘That girl hasn’t got it?’
‘I don’t see how she could have done when she is under house arrest and the police are keeping an eye on her.’
I returned to my tent at the former dig and cooked myself a meal. I had settled down with the remains of a bottle and an excellent native cigar when I noticed a footprint which had certainly not
been there when I left. I rushed to the bird’s nest. The Punchao had gone. Teresa or the cook had found it. My only deliberate lie had turned out to be something near the truth.
I realised that at last I was entirely free of any connection with the Punchao; Teresa had it and was convinced of her ability to deliver it to the Retadores. That had been my intention, too,
but I was far from confident that I could carry it out. Then, should I leave Malpelo alone – politics, the civil war, the whole damned lot of them – and take the first plane to anywhere
or, if my air passage were blocked by Heredia, sneak on board any available ship bound for any country and then go home and enjoy my ill-gotten gains while looking for a job.
It seems unbelievable to me now that I decided to stay on. There were, I think, two reasons. The first was my vivid memory of that poor woman searching the corpses of the Retadores for the man
who had loved her. There was nothing I could ever do for her, but for the sake of her bewildered little son it had become my self-conceived duty to see that the Punchao never became the swastika of
Heredia.
The second reason was to dissuade Teresa from being murdered by one side or the other. To do that I had to win her trust – and how the hell was ‘the bastard’ to do that when
nobody would believe that I was not firmly on the side of the Heredistas or at least a neutral like Hector? The only person to have doubts about that was Heredia himself.
In the morning my former cook came to me, wanting to know if Hector and I intended to continue the dig, in which case he would lay in some food and drink. I told him that we had decided to
abandon the present excavation and try elsewhere, but that I needed him that evening and, if he were free, till further notice. I also told him that in my absence somebody had been at my tent and a
shirt was missing. He looked startled. Was I sure, he asked. Nobody had been up at my tent while I was away.
‘The police were here the night I arrived.’
‘Yes, we knew that, but it was when Your Mercy first came.’
‘If you knew, you did not tell me.’
‘Not worth telling. The swine are everywhere.’
‘Someone is suspect?’
‘We are all suspect,’ he replied, and spat.
‘And I will show you a more recent footprint. Come with me!’
I led him to the tree where I had hidden the Punchao and watched his face. The footprint was still visible in the patch of damp close under the leaves. It was obviously made by the same
alpagatas as he was wearing.
‘I did not take your shirt,’ he replied nervously.
‘I have not accused you. But what did you take from an old vulture’s nest? A putrid egg?’
‘I took nothing. I wanted to see if the nest was still occupied.’
‘And was the vulture wearing a shirt?’
‘The nest. The nest needs a lining sometimes. Yes, Yes. That must be it.’
‘So you did take the shirt?’
‘Yes, yes. I will climb up and wash it and give it back.’
‘Friend, you must be an honest man to be such a bad liar. Now go back and speak to the Señorita Molina secretly. Tell her that I know she has the Punchao and that the President,
too, will be delighted to know it. I shall be here below the tree after the sun has set.’
‘For the love of God, Don Edmondo, do not harm her.’
‘I shall not harm her. You may come with her, if she wishes it.’
Of all the idiotic remarks I have ever made in my life that was the most half-witted. I meant it to give both of them confidence, but what I had done was to put my life in his hands. All I knew
of him was that he was a passionate supporter of the Retadores and all he knew of me was that I was a friend of Hector and therefore of Heredia.
I passed the afternoon in my tent resting from my long walk and dividing my time between dozing and wondering what line I should take with Teresa and whether I should tell Hector what had really
happened. I could come to no decision except to talk to her and the cook from hiding and let the game play itself.
When the sun had set, I climbed the tree which was next to that which had held the Punchao, and settled down where the leaves hid me completely from the ground. If Teresa or the cook were to
fire at the nest they would miss me by miles and reveal their intention. The sun set in its usual streak of fireworks, and I was almost at once in twilight that for half an hour gorgeously lit the
western sky while the land of forested hills to the east sullenly prepared for night. Teresa appeared, stepping daintily like a fawn, and then vanished. I heard her steps wandering about. She had
evidently forgotten the exact bearing of the camp. The cook was not with her; it might be that he was too loyal to be trusted and likely to fire at a raised voice. She had decided to face me
alone.
I lost patience and sang out, ‘Over here, señorita!’
Even so she had trouble. The right tree was a mass of black set against dark grey. If the great leaves had not swayed in the light breeze I should have been uncertain myself.
She stood below me, a slim, unreal figure in the gathering darkness.
‘Now, Mr Hawkins,’ she said. ‘Will you torture me to find out where it is? I shall only tell you lies and you will never find it.’
I have the impression that all heroic women are masochists and look forward to resisting pain.
‘Dear Teresa, I am here to talk business. Will you please realise that “the bastard” and you are both on the same side? I want to deliver the Punchao to the general of the
Retadores, and a male can carry it across country undetected whereas a female cannot.’
‘You know where to find the general?’
‘No. But you do.’
‘I do not yet.’
‘Then where were you going to take the Punchao?’
‘We will find out his present headquarters on the way.’
‘Very well. And this time it is I who will be the stable boy and carry the Punchao, always riding behind you.’
‘To ensure your safety, I suppose.’
‘Quite right. At that range you could hardly miss.’
‘The only objection to your excellent plan is that I have not got the Punchao,’ she replied.
‘Then who has?’
‘Carlota? Hector? What is the point of all this planning when all you know is that it is no longer where you hid it?’
‘Why should you lie?’ I asked her.
‘And you? I believed that you really meant to give it to the Heredistas hoping for a reward.’
‘If they have it, why haven’t they shown it to the people? Why is there complete silence about their success? And remember, I would have got a bigger reward from President Heredia
than from that bunch of ragged patriots. No, nobody knows that I have the Punchao but you.’
I was fairly sure of that. If Heredia had it, why hadn’t he exhibited it with drums and trumpets? Why had Carlota preserved complete silence about her father’s success?
‘Show me where you hid it?’
I led her to the tree. Even the one print of Pepe’s alpagatas on the one damp patch was now only recognisable as a shapeless dent. Teresa bent down and circled the trunk.
‘What can this be?’ she asked, drawing my attention to little patterns of parallel strips on the bark.
I supposed they were made by the vulture returning to its nest, but birds flew up; they didn’t walk up. I wished I had the use of an African tracker from the Father of his Country. Myself,
I had never learned the skill. The shallow scratches faintly reminded me of the mess that a dog can make of furniture coverings.
A dog. Pepe’s precious dog. My shirt. Pepe’s guilty air. They all fitted. And he wouldn’t have had the faintest notion what to do with the Punchao even if he recognised it for
what it was.
The dog had nearly always remained out of sight of the camp. Hector, who considered all dogs filthy beasts unless they were born or bred in Scotland, would not allow her to enter the camp,
insisting that she would give us worms if she touched our food, hydrophobia if she slobbered on us and fleas in any case. Fleas were likely. Worms were swiftly dealt with by Pepe, and hydrophobia
– well, you risk that anyway in a tropical country if you do not immediately disinfect any breaking of the skin by a dog’s tooth.
So Donna had been exiled from the main party. She was an engaging beast with a home of her own hollowed out by Pepe from a thick clump of bushes a short walk from the camp. She was delighted to
be talked to and petted whenever I passed, for no doubt I carried with me half a dozen scents connected with Pepe who had bought her from an Italian immigrant when she was half-grown.
‘Come with me,’ I told Teresa. ‘I know now that Pepe gave the Punchao to a friend to take care of.’
She followed me through the undergrowth to Donna’s private enclosure. As soon as the bitch received my scent she started to give her little yelps of welcome. She was at home, and by her
side was my missing shirt folded neatly around the Punchao. I was received with a grumble of protest when I picked it up – only a grumble, for the shirt obviously belonged to me after five
days of pouring sweat into it. What had led to Donna’s clawing at the tree? Scent, nothing but scent. Did she expect to find me inside the shirt? Teresa was not allowed to touch it.
‘She’ll be useful on the march,’ I said, ‘provided Pepe comes too.’
‘What march?’
‘To the present headquarters of the Retadores.’
I folded back the shirt. Moonlight revealed a new glory of the Punchao. The golden disk displayed a ghost of the moon’s silver. I dreamed of telling Hector that he should arrange special
visits to the museum on the nights of full moon and take the Punchao from its case to receive the curious reflection.
‘Will Pepe come with us? I hardly know him.’
‘Of course. He is as passionate a Retadore as you. But I must wait here till he turns up to give Donna her breakfast.’
‘What shall we give her to eat on the march?’