Thing to Love Read Free

and the Pacific. Impassively he received the general salute of the Presidential Guard, then corrected himself and followed his normal, more friendly custom. He never passed a guard which had been turned out for him without a smile and a word. He did not inspect it. That would have been officious and a waste of time. He greeted it.
    The courtesy was an effort. He was tingling with shame. He felt dirtied and embarrassed by Vidal’s implication that his loyalty would be more assured if he took a hidden commission on purchases for the army. It was not of course the first time that he had been offered a bribe. How could it be? But those attempts to influence him had come from armament and motor salesmen, from building contractors, from clothing manufacturers. None ofthem had managed to leave with him a taste of dishonor. Business morality did not affect him. It was out of his world.
    As he settled himself into his staff car and was driven north along the new coast road to the Citadel, Miro helplessly tried to analyze the reason for his angry disgust. It was not as if there were any complications to be feared. The President and his agents would see to it that the commission was well hidden, unprovable, and so delicately credited to him in Zurich or New York that one could think of it as an irregular raise of pay — to be refused, of course, but with a laugh.
    Then was it that his pride was injured by the suggestion that his loyalty could be improved? Perhaps it could. His unquestionable, hitherto unquestioned, duty was to the State, which had offered him a home, rewarded him, encouraged him to give a service that he loved to give. But the State, till the next election, was Vidal. So his offer could hardly be considered an insult, when the man justifiably needed his support and the Managerial Society believed in such incentives. Understanding all that, why should he feel he wanted a bath? He got the answer at last. It was not he who had been put up for sale, but his Division. And that was unforgivable. Fifth Division was a proud, professional body. It was trained to be out of politics, out of the Latin-American vicious circle. Its interest was in the art of war. His officers could not be bought.
    He passed under the veranda into the even twilight of his office. His working life seemed to be a continual flight from one pattern of shade to another. Well, it had to be. Yet over that one point he was not and never could feel himself a Latin American. Patio, tree, colonnade — a townsman could pretty well live all his days without ever entering the sun at all or ever noticing that he did not. Miro, however, grew weary of these exquisitely patterned darknesses. He was a man of the light.
    â€œAnything in, Salvador?” he asked.
    Captain Salvador Irala, who had sprung to attention as his chief entered, relaxed with conscious grace.
    â€œThe Captain General wishes to be informed how many mules equal one jeep.”
    â€œFor the love of God, what a question!” Miro exclaimed. “For what purpose, in what country? And are we to assume that the jeeps are fueled by mule or the mules are fed by jeep?”
    â€œI don’t know, my General,” answered Irala. “The impact of science upon Don Jesús-María is always disconcerting. But I have drafted a reply for you to sign. You regret you have no statistics. You suggest very politely that for the glory of the Republic he should take the requisite number of mules and jeeps and experiment. You would be deeply grateful if he would communicate to you in due course the results of his research.”
    â€œYour tact is incredible, Salvador. I would never have thought of that.”
    â€œAnd this is a case just come in. Morale. Referred to you as garrison commander.”
    â€œWomen, gambling, officers improperly dressed in public places . . .” the general grumbled. “Processions. I am entirely unfitted to be a military policeman, and I wish