The Campaign by Carlos Fuentes Page A

the Indians of the plateau from servitude, something he was now doing formally. The horse, jumpy, wanted to twist around and did so, but Baltasar never turned his back on his audience; they were all around him, mute, impassive, patient. Thus, the orator felt powerful and at ease, talking about justice to an oppressed people while mounted on one of the marvels of nature, a black shining horse joined to an eloquent rider. Baltasar Bustos held up for all to see, grasping it firmly (although the stiff paper persisted in rolling up again, adopting the comfortable form in which he’d carried it, tied with a red ribbon, ever since Dorrego had it borne by messenger to Jujuy), the decree he read aloud: All abuses are abolished; Indians are freed from paying tribute; all property is to be divided; schools are to be established; and the Indian is declared equal to any other Argentine or American national.
    Baltasar saw some Indians kneel, so he dismounted, touched their heads covered by Indian caps, offered his hand to each one, and told them, in a voice not even he recognized, an infinitely tender voice he was saving for the first woman he ever loved, Ofelia Salamanca, whose blond, naked, perfumed image blended uneasily with the reality of this ragged, inexpressive people, whom he raised from their prostrate position, saying to them: Never again. We are equal. Never kneel again. It’s all over. We’re all brothers. You should govern yourselves. You should be an example. You are closer to nature than we are …
    Father de las Muñecas took Baltasar by the arm, saying, That’s fine, that’s enough, you’ve been heard. In that instant, Baltasar reacted with a strength he didn’t know he had, just as he hadn’t known the tenderness that had just manifested itself in him.
    â€œThat’s a lie, Father. I haven’t been heard. How many of these Indians even speak Spanish?”
    â€œVery few, almost none, it’s true,” said the priest, without changing his expression, as he stared, not at Baltasar or the Indians, but at the coaches stopped at the edge of the plaza. “But they know the truth from the tone of voice of the speaker. No one ever spoke to them like that before.”
    â€œNot even you, Father?”
    â€œYes, but only about the other world. That’s where I hope to find the justice you have just proclaimed. Not here on earth. You spoke to them about the earth. It’s never belonged to them.”
    He shrugged and looked again at the coaches.
    â€œIt doesn’t belong to those people over there either. But, on the other hand, I do think these Indians own heaven.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œRich creoles. They live off the mita. ”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    De las Muñecas didn’t even smile. He decided to respect this envoy of the Buenos Aires junta, respect him even if he felt sorry for him.
    â€œThe mita is the great reality and the great curse of this land. The mita authorizes forced Indian labor in the mines. A lot of them actually run away and seek refuge on the plantations, where the owners seem like Franciscans compared to the mine overseers.”
    The priest kissed his scapulary.
    â€œNo. This is a rebel cleric speaking to you. There is something better for these people. I only hope you and I can help them. On the other hand, look at the faces of those merchants and plantation owners over there. I think we’ve just lost their confidence.”
    â€œWhy did they come?”
    â€œI alerted them: Come and hear the voice of the revolution. Don’t fool yourselves.”
    â€œBut, when all is said and done, are you my friend or my enemy?”
    â€œI don’t want anyone deluding himself.”
    â€œBut I depend on you to put the edicts I’ve just proclaimed into practice.”
    â€œYou, my boy?”
    â€œNot me, the Buenos Aires junta.”
    â€œHow far away that sounds. As far as the viceroy