Free Birth of Our Power by Victor Serge Richard Greeman

impression of seeing nothing.
    â€œThe son of a bitch,” whispers José through clenched teeth.
    Just then, as if that were the magic word, a door opens noiselessly between the two portraits and His Honor, the Señor Deputy Domenico y Masses (a fine name—with a hexameter resonance) appears, both hands outstretched, a smile beaming from his eyes, his sensual mouth, his well-tailored frock coat and even, it seems, from his glistening patent leather shoes. The two visitors might have thought they were his intimate friends, he seems so overjoyed by their presence. In his study, bathed in the green light of a rose-studded garden, a pink marble Aphrodite with raised arms stands over the desk. There is also the portrait of a young boy, like one of Van Dyck’s little English princes. From the depths of a red leather armchair a bald man, freshly shaven, rather stout with bushy white eyebrows, half rises and bows ceremoniously to the visitors. A double chain of gold is strung across his white polka-dotted vest. José Miro smiles, imagining himself as amiable, but only succeeds in uncovering a set of teeth that makes him look like a young wolf.
    â€œHere is the government of tomorrow,” Señor Domenico is saying, his palms outstretched, “or most of it.”
    They talk, for an hour, resorting at times to euphemisms and circumlocutions, interrupting themselves at just the right moment to light a cigar (Señor Domenico surprised them by opening a little safe hiddenbehind a tapestry, and, smiling resplendently, bringing out his most precious Havanas). A map is spread out at Aphrodite’s feet; the ex-stevedore outlines a wide semicircle around the city with his thumb. A heavy envelope with a number in four figures in the corner is swallowed in the pocket of the gray-jacketed visitor. Dates are worked out.
    Señor Domenico personally shows his guests to the door. The other man had hardly budged from his armchair. At the age of fifty-six Don Ramon Valls would say, not with out pride: “I got my start at the age of twenty-three with two hundred thousand pesetas; I’m worth a couple of million today. O.K.! By the time I’m sixty, I’ll have doubled my capital.” He exports oil from Tortosa, wood from Galicia, ore from the Asturias, books from Madrid. His character combines a certain American touch with the good-natured simplicity of a former ship owner who has no objections to mixing business with pleasure so long as he is able, as the evening wears on and the air grows thick with off-color stories, to innocently strike the most telling and treacherous blows against his antagonist with admirably feigned cordiality. This “old hog,” as he was cruelly nicknamed by some young businessmen (whom he cheated while leaving them the satisfaction of thinking they were much smarter than he) was able to pick up 30 per cent of his seemingly reasonable profits off the carpets of drawing rooms and private studies. His forte was his ability to judge men, and to bring off a big copper deal, paying less attention to the probable fluctuations of the market than to the temperament of the prospective buyer.
    Now, left alone, he raises his eyebrows (with him a sign of the greatest perplexity), and his eyes, the eyes of a great, melancholy dog. Dealing with men unlike any he had ever known has left him angry with himself. “Smalltime hoodlums,” he thinks. On the other hand, that self-assurance, that clearheadedness, that grip on something bigger—bigger, actually, than any juicy deal in the millions … As the deputy returns, the exporter grumbles:
    â€œFormidable allies. Are you sure we’re not better off with our enemies?”
    â€œDon Ramon, it’s people like that who make revolutions. The riffraff begin the job, the parliaments finish it.”
    â€œâ€¦ by finishing off the riffraff,” said Don Ramon in that toneless voice he uses for dubious