Free Guano by Louis Carmain

admiral had spoken highly of his calligraphy, and a meeting was planned with Peruvian officials. They wanted to settle the crisis, but it seemed likely it would be aggravated instead, and hopes were turning to dust. Pinzón stayed with his charts to scribble on them some more.
    They were received in the mayor’s office in Callao by Juan Ribeyro.
    He was the minister of foreign affairs.
    They asked for Pezet. Pezet was off somewhere chasing his dreams They demanded to see Vivanco. Vivanco had had enough of the Spaniards: he was in Lima seeing to his dogs, recent acquisitions he was trying to train.
    The meeting was unproductive. Simón was there in body but not in spirit. He jotted down a few snatches of a conversation that never really got off the ground. Greetings, absence, silence. Carpets of silence that unfurled longer and longer. Simón barely noticed them. He was thinking of himself – well, of what was alive insidehim, a long way from the carpets, his head too full of sounds and the occasional image. Yes, that one.
    They commented on the chubby portrait. Nice roundness, nice rendering. Then the commissioner officially introduced himself. Ribeyro replied that he would have liked to receive an
ambassador
within these walls. That Peru was getting a bit offended by this selective memory.
    What was that supposed to mean?
    That they remembered independence when it came to debts, but not when it came to protocol. That they were giving themselves phony titles, if you really must know.
    Ah, retorted Salazar, look who’s talking. A minister of foreign affairs, when everyone here is a son of Spain. The only thing that seemed foreign was the attitude of Mr. Pezet, who preferred the theatre to diplomacy.
    They drank some Tokay to lighten the mood. It became so light that they talked only about the portrait, a little about the tempestuous palm trees in Tarapoto, from time to time about the president of Chile, deemed eccentric. Everything had already been said, but no one dared admit it. So a second Tokay, small talk, clearing of throats, waiting for half past the hour to make it seem as though the meeting had had a point. At half past, it was hard to cut things short without admitting to themselves that they had failed, so they drank more to summon the courage to make the failure official and leave.
    After the fourth drink, their heads started spinning, and they felt that control of the future had slipped from their grasp. They understood that war could no longer be avoided. What they understood less was why. Once the insults were exchanged, the grievances itemized, the subject changed, what was left other than reconciliation? But war is a slippery slope, they thought; once declared, there was no going back without the great effort of climbing back up the hill. So let’s let things run their course, not so much because our differences are insurmountable but because, we might as well admit it, we are all lazy in our ownways – imagine explaining it to the newspapers. And wasn’t it almost heartening to pick up a long-dormant conflict right where we left off? It was like an old couple giving in, a couple who no longer work to stay together, who are essentially bored by peace, and who for lack of anything better to do fan the flames.
    But this time to the bitter end, they promised, until someone surrenders. Deluding themselves about the well-being and the sense of levity that would follow, fantasizing about the post-apocalyptic peace that castle ruins offered a taste of.
    For the time being, all was calm. They said nothing. They needed inspiration before the shouting and the blame. They were just waiting for someone to stand up and get things rolling. Or a noise that would snap them out of their bitter reverie, in which they were already preparing new accusations.
    Simón didn’t know it right then, but History had begun its march in front of his eyes, a bit idiotic and mad, germinating with things