Free The Campaign by Carlos Fuentes Page B

them out into the light of day, acknowledge them and say: Look, there are problems, difficulties, contradictions. The revolution’s sincerity gets mixed up with the revolution’s terror, brother Baltasar. The same thing happened in France. Remind anyone who argues against us of that fact,” his friend Dorrego wrote.
    â€œThe same thing happened in France!” exclaimed Baltasar to his father.
    â€œI have real fears about the freedom of the nation and the unity of our countries,” said the old man calmly. “I would have preferred the solution proposed by Aranda, Charles III’s minister: that we form a confederation of Spain and her colonies, which would be sovereign but united. Strong. Not weakened by uncalled-for excesses and fatal dissension.”
    â€œThings would not have gotten better without a revolution,” replied the son. “In France, neither the king nor the nobility would have given up an iota of their privilege if the revolution hadn’t wrenched them out of their hands. It was the king who set off the violence. You’re right—a civilized agreement would have been better. But it didn’t happen that way, not there and not here. What matters to me is that we consolidate some rights for the majority, where, before, there were only many rights for just a few. If we put an end to a single abuse, a single privilege, the revolution will have been justified.”
    Old José Antonio Bustos applauded in silence, with a gesture but without actually clapping his hands, as yellow as his poncho, their lines accentuated by the fluttering shadows of the dying candles during one of the longest after-dinner talks they’d ever had. Those hands were as thin as wafers but as yellow as the patriarchal poncho, not porcelain-colored like the hands of Ofelia and her husband. The applause meant: “Bravo! You’re addressing me as if I were a multitude.” His words were firm but tender.
    â€œI suppose you’ve made a decision, then,” said the father in his usual tone.
    â€œYes,” Baltasar lied.
    He realized that his father’s odd harshness in their political discussion had no purpose other than to oblige the son to reach a decision. Baltasar understood in that instant that his father wanted not to annoy or offend him but to force him to make up his mind. Obliged to review his options, the young Bustos had to choose, as he told us in a letter: “I am not going to stay here. It doesn’t matter to me whether the merchant destroys the rancher or if the pampa takes control of Buenos Aires. I’m interested in two things. First, to see Ofelia Salamanca again. And second, to bring the revolution to those who have not yet been liberated. But I can’t make an impression on her unless I act first. So I’ll start by attending to the revolution. I’ll join up with Castelli and the northern army to support the integrity of the republic against the royalist forces.”
    â€œTomorrow I’m going to join up with the revolutionary army in Upper Peru.”
    The old man sighed, smiled, stretched out a hand that not even the candles could warm anymore.
    â€œDo you believe so firmly in the final triumph of your ideals? I envy your faith. But don’t fool yourself, or you’re going to suffer a great deal. Have faith, but be sincere. Can you do that? Are you capable of modifying your own behavior before you change the world?”
    Baltasar Bustos sat down next to the old man’s armchair and told him what had happened the night of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of May in Buenos Aires. “Don’t let anyone tell you it was the revolutionaries who caused the fire. I did it, Father. It was my clumsiness. I knocked over a candle without realizing it when I was exchanging the children. I’m the guilty party. I caused the death of an innocent child.”
    [6]
    Sabina was outside the door. One never knew if she was