Fombombo/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
AS THE GENERAL led the way into the palace, through a broad entrance hall, the cry of the peon girl still clung to the fringe of Thomas Strawbridge's mind. He put it resolutely aside, and assumed his professional business attitude. That is to say, a manner of complimentary intimacy such as an American drummer always assumes toward a prospective buyer. He laid a warm hand on the general's arm, and indicated some large oil paintings hung along the hallway. He said they were “nifty.” He suggested that the general was pretty well fixed, and asked how long he had lived here, in the palace.
“Ever since I seized control of the government in Rio Negro,” answered the dictator, simply.
For some reason the reply disconcerted Strawbridge. He had not expected so bald a statement. At that moment came the ripple of a piano from one of the rooms off the hallway. The notes rose and fell, massed by some skilful performer into a continuous tone. Strawbridge listened to it and complimented it.
“Pretty music,” he said.
“That is my wife playing—the Señora Fombombo.”
“Is it!” The drummer's accent congratulated the general on having a wife who could play so well. He tilted his head so the general could see that he was listening and admiring.
“Do you like that sort of music, General!” he asked breezily.
“What sort!”
“That that your wife's playing. It's classic music, is n't it!”
The general was really at a loss. He also began listening, trying to determine whether the music was of the formal classic school of Bach and Handel, or whether it belonged to the later romantic or to the modern. He was unaware that Americans of Strawbridge's type divided all music into two kinds, classic and jazz, and that anything which they do not like falls into the category of classic, and anything they do is jazz.
“I really can't distinguish,” admitted the general.
“You bet I can!” declared Strawbridge, briskly. “That's classic. It hasn't got the jump to it, General, the rump-ty, dump-ty, boom! I can feel the lack, you know, the something that's missing. I play a little myself.”
The general murmured an acknowledgment of the salesman's virtuosity, and almost at the same moment sounds from the piano ceased. A little later the door of the salon opened and into the hall stepped a slight figure dressed in the bonnet and black robe of a nun.
For such a woman to come out of the music-room gave the drummer a faint surprise; then he surmised that this was one of the sisters from some near-by convent who had come to give piano lessons to Señora Fombombo. The idea was immediately upset by the general:
“Dolores,” and, as the nun turned, “Señora Fombombo, allow me to present my friend, Señor Strawbridge.”
The strangeness of being presented to a nun who was also the general's wife disconcerted Strawbridge. The girl in the robe was bowing and placing their home at his disposal. The drummer was saying vague things in response: Very grateful… The general had insisted… He hoped that she would feel better soon…“ Where under heaven Strawbridge had fished up this last sentiment, he did not know. His face flushed red at so foolish a remark. Señora Fombombo smiled briefly and kindly and went her way down the passage, a somber, religious figure. Presently she opened one of the dull mahogany doors and disappeared.
The general stood looking after his wife thoughtfully and then answered the question which he knew was in his guest's mind:
“My wife wears that costume on account of a vow. Her sister was ill in Madrid, and my wife vowed to the Virgin that if her sister were restored she would wear a Carmelitish habit.”
“And she's doing it?” ejaculated Strawbridge, in an amazed voice.
The general made a gesture.
“Her sister was restored.”
The American began impulsively:
“Well, I must say that's rather rough on… Why, her vow had nothing to do with… You know her sister would have…” It seemed that none of the sentences which the American began could be concluded with courtesy. Finally he was left suspended in air, with a slight perspiration on his face. He drew out a silk handkerchief, dabbed his face, and wiped his wrists.
“General,” he floundered on to solider ground, “now, about how many rifles are you going to want?”
The dictator looked at him, almost as much at loss as the drummer had been.
“Rifles?”
“Yes,” proceeded the drummer, becoming quite his enthusiastic self again at this veering back to business. “You see, it will depend upon what you are going to do with 'em, how many you will need. If you are just going to hold this state which you have… er… seized, why, you won't need so many, bnt if you are going out and try to grab some more towns, you 'll need a lot more.”
With a penetrating scrutiny the dictator considered his guest.
“Why do you ask such a question, Señor Strawbridge?” he inquired in a changed tone.
“Because it's your business.”
“My business!”
“Why, yes,” declared Strawbridge, amiably and with gathering aplomb. “You see, General, when my firm sends out a salesman, the very first rule they teach him is, ‘Study your customer's business.’ ‘Study his business,’ said my boss, ‘just the same as if it was your own business. Don't oversell him, don't undersell him. Sell him just exactly what he needs. You want your customer to rely on you,’ says my old man, ‘so you must be reliable. When you sell a man, you have really gone into partnership with him. His gain is your gain.’ ”By this time Strawbridge was emphasizing his points by thumping earnestly on the dictator's shoulder. “A hundred times I've had my old man say to me, ‘Strawbridge, if you don't make your customer's business your own, if his problems are not your problems, if you can't give him expert advice on his difficulties, then you are no salesman; you are simply a mut with a sample case.’”
This eruption of American business philosophy came from Strawbridge as naturally and bubblingly as champagne released from a bottle. He had at last got his prospect's ear and had launched his sales talk. With rather a blank face the general listened to the outburst.
“So you were inquiring through considerations of business?” he asked.
“Exactly; I want to know your probable market. Perhaps I can think up a way to extend it.”
“I see.” The general was beginning to smile faintly now. “Because I am going to buy some rifles from you, you ask me what cities I am going to attack next.”
A slight disconcert played through Strawbridge at this bald statement, but he continued determinedly:
“That's the idea. If you are going to use my guns, I'm partners with you in your… er… expansion. That's American methods, General; that's straightforward and honest.”
General Fombombo drew in his lips, bit them thoughtfully, and considered Strawbridge. No man with a rudimentary knowledge of human nature could have doubted the drummer's complete sincerity. The general seemed to be repressing a smile.
“Suppose we step into my study, here, a moment, Señor Strawbridge. We might discuss my… my business, as you put it, if you will excuse its prematurity.”
“That's what I ' m here for—business,” said Strawbridge, earnestly, as he passed in at a door which the dictator opened.
A wall map was the most conspicuous feature of General Fombombo's library, a huge wall map of Venezuela which covered the entire west wall of the room. As the two men entered, only the lower third of this cartograph was revealed by reading-lamps ranged along tables, but the general switched on a frieze of ceiling lights and swept the whole projection into high illumination.
The general stood looking at it meditatively, glanced at his watch as if timing some other engagement, then pointed out to Strawbridge that the greater part of the chart was outlined in blue, while the extreme western end of the Orinoco Valley was in red.
“That is my life work, Señor Strawbridge—extending this red outline of the free and independent state of Rio Negro to include the whole Orinoco Valley. I want to consolidate an empire from the Andes to the Atlantic.”
Strawbridge stood nodding, looking at the blue-and-red map, and began his characteristic probing for detail:
“How many square miles you got now, General?”
To Strawbridge's surprise, the dictator repeated this question in a somewhat louder tone:
“How many square miles does the state of Rio Negro now contain, Coronel Saturnino!” and a voice from the north end of the study answered:
“Seventeen thousand five hundred and eighty-two, General.”
The general repeated these figures to Strawbridge.
At the first words uttered by the voice, Strawbridge turned, to see a third person in the library, a young man behind a reading-lamp at the other end of the room, busy at some clerical work. Strawbridge turned his thoughts back to the figures and fixed them in his mind, then set out after more details.
“How much more is there to be consolidated!”
This question in turn was relayed to the clerk, who said:
“Two hundred and thirty-two thousand four hundred and eighteen.”
The American compared the two figures, looked at the map.
“Then it will take you a long time, a number of years to finish,” he observed.
“Oh, no!” objected the general, becoming absorbed in his subject. “Our progress will be in geometrical, not in arithmetical ratio. You see, every new town we absorb gives us so much human material for our next step.”
“I see that,” assented the drummer, looking at the map; “and your idea is to absorb the whole Orinoco Valley!”
The general's answer to this was filled with genuine ardor. The Orinoco Valley was one of the largest geographical units in the world, a great natural empire. It was variously estimated at from two hundred and fifty thousand to six hundred and fifty thousand square miles in area. It was drained by four hundred and thirty-six rivers and upward of two thousand streams. These innumerable waters would convert the whole region into a seaport. With such cheap transportation the Orinoco country could supply the world with cocoa, tonka-beans, cotton, sugar, rubber, tropical cabinet-woods, cattle, hides, gold, diamonds.
“But what I have just traveled over is almost a desert,” objected Strawbridge. “The cattle were dying of thirst.”
“Precisamente!” interjected the general, with a sharp gesture; “but right at this moment I am driving a canal from here to here.” He took a long ruler and began to point eagerly on the map.
“Yes, I saw your… your men at work.” The drummer stuttered as the ghastly “reds” recurred to his mind.
“That canal will furnish water in the dry season. In the wet season it will form a conduit to impound the waters in this great natural depression here.” The dictator pointed dynamically at the configuration showed on the map. “Young man, can you imagine such a development? Can you fancy the Nile Valley magnified thirty times?” He waved at the brilliantly lighted map. “Can you imagine league after league lush with harvest, decked with noble cities, and peopled by the aristocrats of the earth? I refer to the Spanish race. You must realize, señor, there have been but two dominant races in modern history—the English and the Spanish. We two divided the New World between us. You will agree with me when I say that the English North Americans have cultivated the material side of civilization to a degree that has never been approached in the sweep of human history. Is it unreasonable to suppose that the other great segment of humanity, the Spanish South Americans, will cultivate the immaterial side, will establish a great artistic, intellectual, and spiritual hegemony in the world? By such a division our imperial races will supplement each other. One will show the world how to produce, the other how to live. We shall be the halves of a whole.”
Strawbridge followed this dithyramb keenly in regard to the irrigation and development project; the artistic end sounded rather nebulous to him.
“And you've got this far with it,” he particularized, pointing at the red boundary; “what's the next step ?”
The dictator was riding his own hobby now, and he answered without reservation:
“This town, San Geronimo.”
“When are you going to do it?” “We will absorb San Geronimo… Let me see,… Coronel Saturnino, on what date do we attack San Geronimo?”
“On the twenty-third of this month,” came the voice from the back of the study.
“Exactly. We want to incorporate that town with the state of Rio Negro before our flotilla returns up the Amazon from Rio Janeiro.”
“When do you expect them back?”
“Inside of two months.”
“Are they the boats Gumersindo was talking about? He spoke of my going up the Orinoco, crossing to the Amazon, and then going down to Rio Janeiro.”
“Those were the instructions I gave Señor Gumersindo.”
Strawbridge stood looking up at the map. A sudden plan popped into his head.
“Since I 'll be here,” he said, “it wouldn't be a bad plan for me to run along with your army to San Geronimo and see how the trick of absorbing it is done. Give me some notion of the working end of this business.”
“Do you mean you desire to accompany my army to San Geronimo?”
“Would n't be a bad idea.” “You would be running a certain risk, señor.”
“Is it dangerous?” The salesman was surprised. The general had talked so comfortably about “absorbing” San Geronimo that it sounded a very peaceable operation. “Anyway,” he persisted with a certain characteristic stubbornness, “this will be a good opportunity to learn about actual conditions down here, and if you can make a place for me, I believe I 'll go.”
The dictator became grave.
“It is my duty to advise you against it.”
Strawbridge considered his host.
“Your objections are not to me personally, are they, señor?” he asked bluntly.
“No, not at all. My resources are entirely at your disposal.” “Then I think I ought to go,” decided the American. “You see, when my old man started me out, he said to me, ‘Study conditions first-hand, Strawbridge. Find out what your customer has to meet. Make his problems your problems, his interest your interest.’ So, you see, I am very glad of the chance to see just how this absorption business works.”
All this was given in a very enthusiastic tone. The dictator smiled faintly.
“You are personally welcome to go. You may speak to Coronel Saturnino. He will arrange your billet.”
“Good! Good!” Strawbridge was gratified. Then he dropped automatically into the follow-up methods taught him by the sales manager of the Orion Arms Corporation.
“And now, General,” he continued intimately, “about how many rifles do we want shipped here!” As he asked this question he used his left hand to draw a leather-covered book from his hip pocket, while with his right he plucked a fountain-pen from his vest pocket. With a practised flirt he flung open his order-book at a rubber-band marker. Thus mobilized, he looked with bright expectation at his prospect.
The general seemed a little at loss.
“Do you mean how many rifles I want!”
Strawbridge nodded, and repeated in an intimate, confident tone, “Yes; how many do we want?” The pronoun followed up the impression of how thoroughly he had identified himself with the interest of his customer.
Fombombo hesitated a moment, then asked aloud:
“Coronel Saturnino, how many rifles do we want?”
The young colonel did not pause in his work.
“Twenty-five thousand, General.” His brain seemed to be a card-index.
“Twenty-five thousand,” repeated Fombombo.
A jubilant sensation went through the drummer at the hugeness of the order. He jotted something in his book.
“When do you want them delivered?”
“As soon as I can get them.”
Strawbridge made soft, blurry noises of approval, nodding as he wrote.
“And how shipped?”
All through this little colloquy the general seemed rather at sea At last he said:
“We can arrange these details later, Señor Strawbridge.”
The drummer suddenly turned his full-power selling-talk on his prospect. This was the pinch, this was where he either “put it across” or failed. For just this crisis his sales manager had drilled him day after day. He turned on the dictator and began in an earnest, almost a religious tone:
“Now, General, I can make you satisfactory terms and prices. Every article that leaves our shop is guaranteed; the Orion Arms brands are to-day the standards by which all other firearms are judged. You can't make a mistake by ordering now.” He pushed the pen and the book closer to the general's hand. All the general had to do now was simply to close his fingers.
“Señor, we can hardly go into such details to-night.” The dictator moved back a trifle from the drummer, with a South American's distaste of touching another human being of the same sex. “There is no necessity. You will be here for weeks, waiting for my canoes from Rio. They will bring drafts, some gold, some barter. When all this is arranged I will send you down the Amazon to embark at Rio for New York, but we have a long wait until my flotilla arrives.”
The salesman made a flank attack, almost without thinking. He gently insinuated the book and pen into the general's fingers.
“Now, your Excellency,” he murmured, raising his brows, “you sign the dotted line, just here; see?” He pointed at it absorbedly. “I want you to do it to protect yourself. If the prices happen to advance, you get the benefit of to-day's quotations; see? If they fall—why, countermand and order again; see? I'm trying to protect your interests just the same as if they were mine, General.”
The dictator returned pen and book.
“We will discuss these details later, señor.” He again drew out his watch and seemed struck with the hour. “I am sure you are weary after your long ride, Señor Strawbridge. I myself, unfortunately, have another engagement. Allow me to introduce to you Coronel Saturnino.” He moved with the salesman toward the man at the desk, a moment later presented the colonel, and bowed himself away.
The drummer was discomfited at his prospect's escape; nevertheless he shook hands warmly with Coronel Saturnino. The colonel was a handsome young officer, in uniform, and his sword leaned against the desk at which he sat writing. Saturnino's face tended toward squareness, and he had a low forehead. His thick black hair was glossy with youth. His square-cut face was marked with a faintly superior smile, as though he perceived all the weaknesses of the person who was before him and was slightly amused by them. He was of middle height. Strawbridge would have called him heavy-set except for a remarkably slender waist. When the colonel stood up and shook hands with the drummer, Strawbridge discovered that he was in the presence of an athlete. The salesman put himself on a friendly footing with this officer at once, just as he always did with the clerks in American stores. He seated himself on the edge of Coronel Saturnino's desk, very much at ease.
“Well, I thought I was going to land the old general right off the bat!” he confided, laughing.
“Yes?” inquired Saturnino, politely, still standing. “Why your haste?”
“Oh, well—” Strawbridge wagged his head—“push your business or your business will push you. Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day. Why, there might be a German salesman in here to-morrow with another line of goods!”
“Is a German salesman coming?” asked the colonel, quickly.
“Oh, no, no, no! I said there might be.” Strawbridge reached into an inner pocket, drew out and flipped open a silver case. “Have a cigar.”
“No, thank you.” The colonel hesitated, and added, “I don't smoke after twelve o'clock at night.”
Strawbridge jumped up.
“Good Lord! is it as late as that?”
The colonel thought it was.
"By the way," interrupted the drummer, “I' m to go with you to San Geronimo. The old man said so. I'll get the hang of things down there. I suppose it pays—this revolting —or the old man would n't stay in the business."
As the colonel simply stood, Strawbridge continued his desultory remarks:
“The old man's got a grand scheme—has n't he?—canalizing the Orinoco Valley. Say, this goes: when you fellows put that across, this beautiful little city of Canalejos will just have a shade on any damn burg in this wide world. Now you can take that flat; it goes.” He made a gesture with his palm down.
Coronel Saturnino did not appear particularly gratified by this encomium heaped upon his home town. He picked up a paper-weight and looked at it with a faint smile.
"Did the general tell you about that?"
"Oh, yes," declared Strawbridge, heartily, "we buddied up from the jump. Why, I never meet a stranger. I'm just Tom Strawbridge wherever you find me."
The colonel passed over Mr. Strawbridge's declaration of his identity.
"Did the general's plan for canalization strike you as economically sound?" he asked, with a certain quizzical expression.
"Why, sure! That's the most progressive scheme I've heard of since I struck South America. I'm for it. I tell you it's a big idea."
The colonel laid down the paper-weight, and asked with a flavor of satire:
"Why should a colony of men canalize a semi-arid country when they can go to other parts of South America and obtain just as fertile, well-watered land without effort?"
With a vague sense of sacrilege the drummer looked at the young officer.
“Why—good Lord, man I—you 're not knocking your home town, are you?”
Coronel Saturnino was unaware that this was the cardinal crime in an American's calendar.
“I am stating the most elementary analysis of an economic situation,” he defended, rather surprised at his guest's heat. The drummer laughed in brief amazement at a man who would decry his place of residence for any reason under the sun.
“You certainly must never have read Edgar Z. Best's celebrated poem, ‘The Trouble Is Not with Your Town; It's You.’”
“No,” said the officer. “I 've never read it.”
“Well, I 'll try to get it for you,” said the drummer, in a tone which told Coronel Saturnino that until he had read “The Trouble Is Not with Your Town: It's You,” he could never hope to stand among literate men.
Having thus, one might say, laid the foundation of the American spirit in Cañalejos, Strawbridge yawned frankly and said:
“If you 'll be good enough to show me my bunk, I believe I 'll hit the hay.”
Coronel Saturnino pressed a button on his desk and a moment later a little palace guard in uniform entered the library, carrying a rifle. The colonel gave a brief order, then walked to the door with his guest and bowed him out of the study.