Woes of the True Policeman

dark houses and wouldn’t rise until past noon. When they were asked, the peasants said that the soldiers had gone. Where, which way? inquired Emilio Hernández. Home, said the peasants. Though dauntless, Emilio Hernández’s men—half of them ranchers and gentlemen, the other half cowboys and hired men—grew uneasy, feeling watched, as if they were on the threshhold of something better ignored (this is made plain by José Mariño, an excellent narrator of boudoir scenes and opera finales and an amateur translator of Poe). But Emilio Hernández refused to give up and sent half of his men after the soldiers while with the others he set out to comb the town. The first group found a horse hacked to death by machete. The second found only sleeping people, children with a dazed look, and women washing clothes. As the afternoon wore on, a smell of decay crept into everything. At dusk, Emilio Hernández decided to return to Santa Teresa. The Belgians of Villaviciosa had vanished into thin air. Concludes Mariño: “the town seemed one thousand, two thousand years old, the houses like tumors blooming from the earth; it was a lost town and yet it was haloed with the invincible nimbus of mystery…”

8
    In Mariño’s telling of the story, in what might be called a curious aside, there is something that stands out.
    Mariño describes Emilio Hernández’s conversation—his labored conversation—with the town elders. Hernández, impatient and ill at ease, doesn’t dismount. His horse prances in front of the doorway where the old men of Villaviciosa are taking shelter from the sun. The old men speak with indifference and reserve. They speak of time, the seasons, the harvest. Their faces seem carved from stone. Hernández, meanwhile, shouts and erupts with ambiguous threats that even he doesn’t understand. Mariño hints that Hernández is afraid. His face is covered in sweat and dust from his long ride. His pistol remains holstered, but several times he moves as if to draw it. The old men spook him. He’s tired and he’s young and impetuous. Still, a glimmer of caution tells him that it’s best not to back himself into a corner. His men reluctantly search the town for something vague, hampered by the villagers’ passivity and absolute lack of cooperation. Hernández admonishes the villagers for their attitude. We’ve come to help you, he says in reproach, and this is how you repay us. The old men are like turtles. Then Mariño puts the following question in Hernández’s mouth, simple and unambiguous: what do you want? And the old men respond: we want to improve ourselves . That’s all. The elders of Villaviciosa have spoken and their words will go down in history: they want to improve themselves.

9
    Her mother instilled in her a love of the French poets. Rosa remembered her sitting in a green armchair, a book in her hands (long, thin, very white hands, almost translucent), reading aloud. She remembered a window and the silhouettes of three modern buildings, her parents knew the names of the architects, behind which lay the beach and the sea. The three architects hated each other fiercely and her parents joked about it. When the sun went down her mother would sit in the chair and read French poems. Rosa couldn’t remember the names of the books but she could remember the names of the poets. Sometimes her mother cried. The tears rolled down her cheeks and then she left the book open on her lap, smiled at Rosa (who was next to her, sitting on a pouf or lying on the rug, drawing), dried her tears with a handkerchief or with the sleeve of her blouse, and for a few seconds, not crying anymore, sat quietly gazing at the silhouettes of the three buildings and the rooftops of the lowest buildings. Then she picked up the book and began to read again as if nothing had happened. The poets were Gilberte Dallas, Roger Milliot, Ilarie Voronca, Gérald Neveu …
    When they left Rio they abandoned the books, except for Neveu’s Fournaise obscure . In Paris (or Italy?) she came across the poets again: they were all in the anthology Poètes maudits d’aujourd’hui: 1946–1970 , by Pierre Seghers. A bunch of suicide victims and failures, alcoholics and head cases. Her mother’s poets.
    True, her mother also read her the poems of Éluard, Bernard Nöel (whom she liked very much and who often made her laugh), Saint-John Perse, even Patrice de la Tour du Pin, but it was the maudits d’aujourd’hui whom she remembered or