Untitled--Joseph

 

The meeting was supposed to be scheduled in Quito. But circumstances didn’t allow it, and now

it was the newly captured Guayaquil that served as the host. Jose de San Martin was looking

forward to it. Escape from his recent and complicated promotion to liberator of Peru proved to

be a diplomatic nightmare. He was king of half a country, where the enemy in greater numbers

and murdering ability lay ready to martyr him. To encapsulate him as a true defender of Peru,

who died too soon.

This imminent danger and his desire to escape from it, brought him to this very place. Guayaqui

Where he now waited for the liberator of Gran Colombia to liberate him. He knew both sides

would frown upon his meeting with him. Each man had his own war to fight, and to beg to

another for freedom of his own. Was characteristic of cowards and fools. But he saw no other

option, as his own patrimony turned its back on one of it’s most blindly feverish constructors. He

resolved to join forces with a force much greater than him. More than ready to give up absolute

command if necessary. Of course, he saw a reason for (the man) to turn him away. After all, it

felt like asking Atlas to also balance Mars on top of Earth. But he had some hope in his chest

that whatever came of this meeting, would give him a faint glimpse of the path to his desired

catharsis.

He sat back in his chair, and glanced around the surprisingly regal room. A subtle shade of

hypocrisy, when you think of their shared antithesis and common enemy. They fight for the

downtrodden people of their country.

He walked in with what can be described as a slight tropical breeze. And fixed his eyes on san

martin. His lips formed a crooked but courteous smile. He looked down as he shook his hand.

Eager to learn as much about the man before he said a single word. He made a motion for San

Martin to sit down again, to which he promptly obeyed. He wanted no tension to present itself in

the room. A childish notion considering the two men most responsible for leading the Southern

portion of the Americas into war, were now congregated in the same (room).

San Martin observed the man as he paced slowly around the room. His hands grasped tightly

behind his back. And his head turned away from him, as if he was looking at paintings on the

wall.

“You have 3 days to get out of Guayaquil. After that my men will hunt you…….You’ll have a

month to set things straight and get out of Peru……..I wouldn’t plan on staying in Argentina for

long either…”

At this San Martin laughed, for up to this point he still thought of him as a man. Of flesh and

bone, and capable of routine humor. And he took this as an attempt to lighten the mood.

But when he saw him close his eyes and take his head into his hands and run his hands

through his hair with a half pained and ecstatic look on his countenance. San Martin’s heart

started on a downward descent. Which brought a terrible feeling in his stomach. Despair.

The liberator of the better part of the Western South Americas was before him. And the first

thing out of his mouth was a morbidly indelicate comment. He was either serious, or unwilling to

help him. Both possibilities deeply bothered San Martin.

After this brief moment of transparency shown by his host. He kept on his slow orbital stroll

around the room.

“Do you know why I fight?”

Unable to quickly find a satisfactory concept to reply, San Martin stayed quiet. Until he managed

to utter a single but pathetic word: “freedom”.

    

“Freedom is a lie, no one will ever be truly free; try again”

    

“The people”

“The people here aren’t worth fighting for. If anything they're the reason for their own suffering.

As well as mine.”

    

“Justice”

“Justice never existed, nor is it in the best interest of man for it to exist. If true justice ever

manifests itself in a human-led government, it’ll be the end of man. You can only repress a man

for so long. It goes against human nature you see”

At this point, San Martin was neither disappointed or scared. If anything, he was drawn in by the

speech of this man. And instead of feeling alienated by his cynical remarks. He felt the kind of

comfort that old colleagues would have. After a lifetime of arduous joint-work. In this state of

drunken confidence he responded in a louder tone than he intended”

“I know why I fight and for who I fight, why do you fight…For who do you fight?”

Bolivar, seemingly unfazed by his question and his display of teeth, showed no changes in his

composure. And kept on strolling around the room. He began:

“I was once in your position. A desperate man, clinging onto his morals thinking them to be of

some higher enlightenment. I didn't understand why I felt that way. I thought it was right, I

thought it was beautiful. The human ideal in both its physical and metaphysical form.

You know I’m quite familiar with Europe. I know France and Italy intimately. I traveled both

extensively in search of the same thing you look for. Society. I grew to love it. Both it’s pretty

face and the salacious mask it wore at night. So you can understand why it hurt me, to find it a

plague on the face of God’s Earth.”

At this Bolivar turned his head, and upon eyeing the two remaining unoccupied seats in the

room. One in front of San Martin, and one to his right. Took the one alongside his guest. San

Martin didn’t turn his head to look at him. You couldn’t tell what he was feeling by looking at his

face. But by his tight grasp of both the armrests on the chair. You could get the sense that he no

longer felt intimidated by the man. But as his respect for his comrade slipped, he found in

himself the desire to go back to Peru, and fight with the Spanish Royalists till either of their

demise. He got up, with no intention of saying either a retort nor farewell to the man sitting

beside him. And as he proceeded.He felt a hand clamp his arm.

“Don’t you understand that they do not need you. It does not need you. The land, the country. It

alone decides what will happen. The people bow to its commands without knowing it,and think

they’ve dreamt up their own plans. It thinks for the masses. And those fine men who break free

are cursed. Condemned for fighting against nature. Their vices flower within them, as their own

country shuns them. The land need not do anything to them, because it knows they’ll devour

themselves. Run while you still can.”

San Martin shook off the firm grip, and turned to face (the man). He leaned forward and put his

nose in his collar. The bitter smell of alcohol quietly lay there, hidden by floral perfumes.

Knowing all he needed to know. He turned around once again and was gone.

--------

He lay in bed on the board that was assigned to him while he stayed in guayaquil. His two

bodyguards. The best pick of his Andean army, where fast asleep. At the behest of San Martin,

who urged them to rest claiming they had a long day tomorrow. He felt no need for bodyguards

anymore. He was safe.

A knock on the door interrupted his dozing off. A noise to which neither of his guards woke to.

He got out of bed and opened the door.

“An urgent letter for Jose de San Martin”

“Thank you”

He sat back in bed, and ceremoniously sliced the head off the correspondence. A piece of paper

was folded inside.

He opened it and examined the beautiful calligraphy. Fancy but done swiftly, as is characteristic

of lawyers.

It read..

My Fellow Compatriot,

I wish to apologize for our meeting earlier. I was not in my best state, and am sorry for any

discomfort caused to you. I am told I become emotional and nonsensical when not in sobriety.

And hope I did not offend you deeply.

However, I hope you understand that at my core I share the same sentiment as I believe I

expressed to you. You are not needed here. It would be in your best interest to take your family

with you and flee this wretched nation.

God knows the only reason I’m still here is because I’m bound by oath. Not to anybody, or

anything. I don’t fight for this nation. I’m only here until I pay off my debt to this continent.

Whether I’ll be liberated from her claws, or destined to die for South America. I do not know.

But I can tell you this: Although other men died around Jesus. It was only his blood that was

redeeming.

I see no reason for this to happen again. Let me fight alone.

For the people

-Simon Bolivar