The Science of Color (Part two)
By H. Lee Barnes

“In perpetrating a revolution, there are two requirements: someone or something to revolt against and someone to actually show up and do the revolting.”
—Woody Allen, “A Brief, Yet Helpful Guide to Civil Disobedience”


After an awkward pause, I said, “We are not businessmen.”

“You intend to trade me for money. I am your commodity. You are businessmen.”

“We are not,” I said.

“Then you are bandits.”

“We are soldiers at war,” Raul said. “Revolutionaries.”

The American thought about this. “A matter of style,” he said. “Bandits, businessmen, both the same. Do you intend to win this war?” he asked. “It seems to me that you treat it more like sport. Perhaps you are sportsmen.”

“Revolutionaries,” I insisted.

“I see a lot of aging men. Where are the young ones? Aren’t wars fought by young men? Do you intend to win without young men?”

It was sad truth to hear. The revolution was a sinking buoy. The ones we fought for had abandoned us for television and SeZor MacDonald’s. They had forgotten Alquier, when hundreds rallied against the federales. Those who had survived and were with us now were graying in their beards. It seemed like a dream now, the shouted curses of hundreds of enraged students and blood flowing from fresh wounds, human entrails spilled on the stone roadway, and the air filled with the smell of cordite and gunpowder. We had intended to win that day. That had been the start of our course. “We intend to,” I said.

“And just how do you intend to do it without a plan?” he asked.

“We have a plan,” Raul said.

“Oh? What plan is that?” Adam asked.

I stepped forward to slap his impertinent face. “Our plan is none of your business,” I said but did not strike him.

That evening as we camped on top of a granite peak overlooking the Plane of Maidens, I took our hostage a bowl of sopa and a salt biscuit. He sat against a boulder. I untied him and handed over his meal, then crouched beside him. “How can I get them to ransom you?” I asked.

He broke his biscuit in two and bit into it, then looked at me and shook his head.

“Surely, you must know how.”

He swallowed. “It was her idea to come here,” he said. “She’s not going to come up with the money.”

At that moment I saw him as a man. “Are you prepared to die?” I asked.

“She probably has a lover by now,” he said, nodded to himself, and blew over the bowl. He sipped some soup and paused. “I have an account with the international bank in your capital.”

“You expect me to take you there?”

“No, I expect you to put a bullet in my head, which is what she expects as well.”

I recalled her last glance the morning I had departed. She had looked at me as if I were her savior.

“If I can get you a draft, will you sign it?” I asked.

He set the bowl aside and wiped his chin with his thumb-less hand. “So that you can stack the money in front of me before you blow my brains out?”

“It is the only chance you have,” I said and asked if he wanted more soup.

“Does the food ever get any better?” he asked.

“No, I am afraid it doesn’t.”

I took the bowl and bound his hands. As I walked away, I looked back and saw that he was staring off, his face neither sad nor happy, but lost as a face seems lost when it has found a dream. This was very troubling. I knew then I must put speed to events.

When I told Raul about Adam’s account at the international bank, he said I was getting soft.

“Soft? We must be patient,” I said.

“You cannot fill your stomach with ideals, but you can feed off the flesh of your enemy,” he said with a sneer.

The words sounded familiar. I asked where he had heard the expression.

“From you the week before Alquier.”

He asked if I had forgotten what had brought about the revolution. I told him of course not. But I had forgotten. I did remember something about leaflets and the price of soccer tickets and the exploitation of coffee growers. I was losing my hold. Was I no longer a true revolutionary? To save face, I ordered the ambush of a government bus from the capital, one that transported prisoners to do labor in the lead mines. Raul asked who would stay with the American.

“We will take him along and show the world he is alive.”

“The world doesn’t give a shit,” Raul said.

We were fortunate. It rained heavily that day and the road was slick. The bus slowed to make the curve and skidded into the timber that blocked its path. We fired only enough bullets to inform the guards that they were outgunned. Revolutionaries waste nothing in the sacrifice of their lives. The soldiers threw aside their weapons and came out, hands high over their heads. We removed the shackles from the prisoners and clamped them on the guards. Their corporal wanted to know if we were going to kill them. I said that depended on something and marched them to the rear where Adam Silbaugh was tied to a sapling.

I motioned for them to kneel down. “See him?” I said, pointing to Adam.

“Yes,” the corporal in charge said.

“Tell the world he’s alive.”

“Why?” the corporal asked.

“So that you won’t die.”

The corporal seemed to treasure the idea. He smiled and nodded to the others who in turn nodded. All were enthusiastic about their unexpected reprieve. That was when Raul said that I had forgotten the spirit of the revolution, and he and Esteban unloaded their weapons into the kneeling captives.

Adam stared down at the bodies. He shook his head and muttered in English, “You have no acumen for business.”

Later, before we moved out to establish camp for the night, Raul told me the men wanted the money or the American’s death, said he had burdened us long enough and must be killed to send a definitive message to the government. I asked for one day. The moment demanded some theatrical act on my part, but what?

Adam saved me.

“If you kill me,” he said, “who finances you? The few communists countries left are struggling to eat and too poor to support you. They lost their ambition for world revolution. You have bullets enough for one good battle. You need what I offer.”

“What is that?” Raul asked.

“Organization. A plan.”

He said we were pathetic throwbacks to some arcane vision. He said he could march us to the steps of the capital in one year, and if we wanted anything less to go ahead and shoot him now. He stood tall, shoulders back, and waited defiantly. Raul lifted his pistol and took aim.

What actually constituted a revolution? Not sitting on the steps of the capitol smoking American cigarettes. But revolutionaries are romantics. We admire nothing more than stupid courage. My men were infatuated with bravado and obviously moved by Adam’s dare. On the other hand, 20 million pesos would allow us to hide in the mountains and raid endlessly. The amount was more than we needed to conduct a revolution. I realized that I’d thought conduct a revolution. Suddenly, I was a desperate man. I wanted Adam shot, but Raul lowered the pistol.

“We will talk about it,” I said.

“And what? Shoot a railroad guard?” Adam said.

Now he mocked us. I aimed a finger at his nose and I said, “We will discuss it.”

He smiled and nodded slowly. “The Japanese would love to assemble car parts here,” he said softly, “and Koreans manufacture computer parts. There are French speculators and Swiss bankers who’d finance the right men, men who promise to bring stability to the country. I assure you I am not without connections.”

“We will talk later,” I said and ordered him taken away, but no one moved to do my bidding.

“I was a Marine,” Silbaugh said. “But too late for Vietnam. I know how to soldier. I was robbed my war. Yours is good enough, but it needs what I can offer.”

I knew these men well. They were good, simple men who embraced ideals and romance. Several had been at Alquier, where the revolution began. Their foreheads were wrinkled, their beards gray, and they stood on sandals mended with cord from clotheslines. They were aging and pathetic but good men nonetheless. Their weakness lay in their empty stomachs and empty minds. They were easily persuaded. I said that I was going to urinate. “You may shoot him if you wish,” I told Raul. He nodded, but when I returned, the American stood untouched.

Raul whispered in my ear, “She has your balls.”

“Who?”

“The huera.”

Later, after a dinner of boiled snake and black beans, I sat with my back against a tree. There was the matter of the woman to think on, and what to do with Adam. He offered hope, and hope is a dangerous thing. Revolutionaries must be desperate men. Raul tries to be a pragmatic, and Esteban is a sad romantic. And I? Well, I am a foolish romantic, neither sad nor pragmatic. I sat and studied the problem. The revolution had become a conundrum. The longer I thought on the problem at hand, the more vexing it became, and I knew I was not clearly seeing the matter at hand, not seeing the true color of events. Something of a cunning nature lay behind the American’s courage. I must act.

I remembered the legend of the snake that swallows itself and is reborn again and again, having fed off itself. That was what we, as revolutionaries, had been attempting. And now there was nothing of substance left. The revolution must be a predator. It must grow large. She had made me lose sight of matters. I understood what I must do to rid myself of her.

I waited until long after dark and crawled up behind Adam as he slept. I slipped my hand over his mouth. Except for two guards on the perimeter, the camp was bedded down. I whispered for him to remain quiet as I untied his ankles and helped him to his feet. I left his hands tied and jammed the revolver in his ribs. I told him he could become a revolutionary after he withdrew the money from his account and a dead man if he did not, then I marched him away from camp past a dozing guard.

Safely out of sound of the camp, he asked why I opposed him joining the revolution.

“The money is why you are alive,” I said. “That and only that.”

He said, “I can help. I’ll be your lieutenant. I was a Marine officer, infantry. Business is war without bullets. Trust me. I want to join.”

“Impossible.”

“Do you know what it was like, those years of training, of knowing others who’d served? The ribbons on their uniforms. The eyes that . . .”

He looked off, but I knew he was looking into himself and the sadness of an unfulfilled life. I remembered what had sparked me to join the revolution. I had to remind myself that he was not our blood, not us, but merely an asset to fill our war chest.

He sighed and said, “I smelled the gunpowder again. Let me join.”

“A crazy idea,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “when you consider the food, it is pretty crazy.”

I knew the only way to remedy the situation was to rid myself of him and either return with the money or use it.

I needed to get quickly to the Hotel Valencia where we had first sighted the American. Was Adam not their most famous guest? The staff was bound to recognize him. From there Adam could use the telephone. Surely, he would welcome a chance to return to her, if not for love, then for revenge. No man knew the jungles better than I, but Raul and the others knew them equally well. We had to move fast. I urged him into the jungle.

Two nights later we came upon the hotel. All was quiet. The mongrel growled at me. I ignored it and pushed Adam toward the door. The desk clerk was napping as we entered. I kicked the arm of the couch. The clerk saw my gun. He looked at the American but apparently did not recognize him from the photo behind the counter of a more portly Adam. I waved the gun and said, “SeZor Silbaugh wishes to call to America.”

The clerk squinted at my prisoner and then at me. He nodded, walked to the counter, and asked the number and who to charge the call to.

Adam looked bewildered. “I’ve forgotten. My secretary always dialed the number for me.”

I told the clerk to call the long distance operator and get the Silbaughs’ number in Beverly Hills. He was nervous but followed instructions, held the telephone, and waited to be given the number. He kept glancing over at the wall beside him. I shoved Adam to the counter so that I could better see. There were two posters, both bearing my image, a reward displayed on each, one for 1 million pesos, dead, the other for 5 million, alive. The second was sponsored by an American corporation. I stuck the barrel of my revolver to the clerk’s head.

“Connect me with that number,” I said, pointing to the $5-million reward poster.

She sounded as if she had been waiting for the call. I told her I had her husband with me. She asked that I listen carefully, said arrangements had been made with certain authorities. She spoke slowly as if talking to a deaf man or an ignorant peasant. As she spoke, I watched Adam. They would put me on a plane to Guatemala. A private aircraft would then fly me to the Bahamas and from there to France. She would meet me in Provence.

If Adam was curious, he hid it well. Occasionally, I would answer yes or no, indicating only that I did or did not understand what was said. She said she had not forgotten that night in the hotel room, that the reward was for me to come forward. She asked if I understood what I had to do, that the rest was up to me. I told her I fully understood what she expected of me.

Before hanging up, I asked Adam if he wanted to talk to her. He shook his head. I handed the receiver to the clerk, turned Adam about, and leaned him over the counter. He objected, only to say there was money, plenty, and he could get his hands on it within hours. I said he did not understand. But he did. He saw matters in all their colors and shades, especially black.

“I understand,” he said. “She wants you to kill me.”

“Yes,” I said as I untied his hands. Keeping the pistol aimed at him, I backed away. I told the clerk he would be a rich man if he called the American Consulate, that there was a hefty reward for the gringo. Adam was as puzzled as on the night we kidnapped him.

“I returned to the hotel the night we took you,” I said. “She welcomed me into her bed.”

It is not possibility we must understand but events. We must understand that moment of first choice. He had known all along, of course. After that he did not speak. Nor did I. What would words have added?

I left him to do as he chose. He was not the same man whom we had taken prisoner. Kill her, love her; one was the same as the other. I was the one now who was cursed. I wanted the two of them behind me. It was simple enough being a revolutionary — the jungles, the raids, bean soup, the sounds of birds after a downpour. I hid until dawn, then made my way back into Jardin de Fuego. I did what we must all do, and returned to who I am. Where else was I to go? What else was there for me but the revolution?

Do not be surprised that Adam returned to the jungle. I was not. Human nature, after all, is the science of color. And all he was doing was what I had done. What we all must do, which is return to what we are.

I expect them any minute. Their decisions are limited, and whichever they make will likely mean a blindfold. If wise, they will surrender me to the government, dead of course, for who knows how much torture a man can endure before he breaks. But it is unlikely they will turn my body over to the authorities. That would be too practical. If there is one fault with revolutionaries, it is that we are seldom practical.

Knowing what will come, do you not think it strange that still I see her? Still imagine the trickle of moonlight coming through the window and the luster of her pale flesh against the white sheets in a darkened room. If given a last request by Adam, I will ask her name. That seems like something small I deserve to know.