Read Online Face to the Sun by Geoffrey Household - Free Book Online

Indians have always been communists, but only now have they latched on to the name. Soak the rich. That’s their politics. In Europe you would call them left-wing
socialists. Now, is it true that you took that troop carrier single-handed?’
    ‘Let your men take the credit for that, my commandant. I was the only prisoner who had a rifle.’
    ‘You have been a soldier?’
    ‘Never. But I was taught to shoot by an expert.’
    ‘Then you will have to learn the trade. You will understand that you have seen too much for me to let you go.’
    ‘Thank God for that, Major! I do not know how we got here or in which direction is the city, and it is very likely that I should end up in one of those valleys on the way to the
sea.’
    ‘So would most of my men. Few of them can read a map and the contour lines are mostly wrong anyway. Well, I must do my round of the pickets, and when I return perhaps you will give us the
pleasure of entertaining you in the mess.’
    He fixed me up with a blanket and a pup tent where I soon fell asleep in spite of bruises. To put it mildly, it had been a hard day.
    I was awakened by the same orderly who brought me a much needed bucket of water with which I cleaned off some of the blood of my fellow prisoners who had been packed with me into the rescuing
van, and the clean but clinging dirt of vegetable and mineral. It was far from a regimental mess to which I had been invited. The major himself had evidently had no more than a bucket, and that was
yesterday.
    The major, three of his officers and a priest were round the table. They had excellent bread from the camp baker, plenty of eggs, corn and potatoes. No meat, since they would not deprive the
Indian farmers, scattered in the ravines outside the perimeter, of the few beasts they had. I was in luck, they told me, a barrel of wine had arrived from Chilean sympathisers and been spirited
from the docks to the mountains by the priest and a donkey. They could keep it for the mess without arousing any resentment since the
guerrilleros
preferred rum and water.
    ‘Has the major told you that we have something to celebrate tonight?’
    ‘I have too,’ I answered politely. I was longing to know whether the raid on the watchmaker had been successful.
    ‘May we tell him why?’
    ‘Why not? But Don Edmondo will not know what the Punchao is.’
    ‘I know what it was, and I have read somewhere that a model of it was made.’
    ‘Good! Well, Heredia stole that model from the museum and intends to use it as an emblem of the unity of his state. Now, we have, as you would expect, some loyal agents in the city and one
of them informed us that Heredia had dispatched it to his clock repairer. Now, it is ours. Would you like to see it?’
    The thought passed through my head that I wished to God I had never seen it. But was that true? I had to admit that I was enjoying myself.
    The major picked up a parcel from his desk and undid the soft and careful wrapping. The exquisite little golden suns of the Punchao flashed back the light of the paraffin lamp. Here it seemed to
be rejoicing in a more rightful setting than the bedroom of the Richmond hotel where I had last seen it.
    ‘Can you tell us who made the original?’
    ‘Nobody knows.’
    That was true enough; but it was a subject I had to avoid. Apparently I could pass as an amateur
guerrillero
, but never as an archaeologist.
    The priest made over it the sign of the Cross. Smiling, he noticed and remarked on my surprise. I replied that I was completely ignorant of church policy and assumed that they were for the
government of Heredia.
    ‘Some perhaps. What we are for is that the peasant and worker should be contented and earn enough to feed and educate his children. Or do you think that I should not bless this symbol of
the Rising of the Sun because the original was the supreme god of Indians who knew no better? To the Christian, it is a manifestation of the Holy Spirit like all the glories of the arts.