Dance of the Dwarfs Read Online Free Page B

any time I might. I offer you silence on condition that I am left in peace to get on with my work.”
    The Cuban listened to all this as if he were longing to slice me open and search for truth in my bowels. The Colombian’s eyes were flickering with amusement.
    â€œWhat an excellent intelligence officer you would make!” he said. “But do you think you would notice this supposed movement to market?”
    â€œNo. The only route would be north of the marshes. And they don’t like grazing cattle even there.”
    â€œSo the presence of cattle would be exceptional and worth reporting,” the Cuban declared.
    Pedro must have put them on to this. If he could persuade the llaneros to drive a herd round the marshes, they could then continue on, through parkland providing easy going and patches of cover, right to the foot of the Cordillera.
    I asked the Cuban with some contempt whether he thought I was prepared to spend weeks on horseback with a pair of field glasses for the sake of political convictions or a hundred pesos’ reward.
    The Colombian waved him down—in fact, back into his chair.
    â€œThis is all conjecture,” he said. “But I observe, doctor, that you are not accustomed to control your curiosity. Please do so! You might find yourself involved in reprisals against Santa Eulalia, and then it would be hard to guarantee your life. Or you might have to jump on the first boat back to Liverpool.”
    I replied that I was not going to be scared out of work which I enjoyed.
    â€œForcibly deported was what I meant,” he answered. “It would be easy to convince the government that you are on our side. You’re an intellectual, you see. And policemen always consider that the sympathies of an intellectual must be far to the left. Very odd, but there it is!”
    He was still amused and cordial. We might have been at a café table with an old waiter hovering around and smiling discreetly at the talk. I don’t see how these fellows can mix a sense of comedy with a cold disregard of human life. That comes naturally to the gaucho or llanero, but their disregard is not cold; it is hot and passionate.
    â€œThen may I assume that my life, my guns and my horses will remain with me?”
    â€œOf course! Why not? And we shall hope someday to employ so sympathetic a character.”
    â€œI can’t speak Chinese.”
    â€œYou revolt me, brother! What’s for dinner?”
    â€œStuffed pimientos and a roast.”
    â€œBy God, you’re lucky round here!” the Cuban exclaimed, greed or hunger breaking his startled silence. “Well, no more politics—and be at ease!”
    Thereafter their relaxation was genuine. We did not, however, arrive at any convivial relationship. It stands to reason that they were not so eager for companionship as I. They probably longed for privacy and for freedom from the unending duty to their troops. Still, I could sleep soundly and I hope they did.
    They were off at dawn after a cup of coffee. The Colombian, before he left, took me to the corral on the excuse that his horse’s pastern was cut. On examination I found little or no damage. It was clear that he wanted to talk confidentially.
    â€œI don’t understand the llaneros,” he said. “Few of us do. Are they much influenced by superstition?”
    Every llanero would declare himself a good Catholic, devoted to the Virgin and the Saints. But since he rarely rides so far as a church and there are few missionaries to correct his errors, what he really worships and fears is a Mother Goddess with her attendant spirits. Even so he is less influenced by superstition than the settled Indians who know just enough Christianity to have lost respect for their own myths. The human longing for faith goes unfulfilled in both, leaving a void through which writhe the misty fears of spirits, the dead and magic. Joaquín at least hangs on to his old traditions,