BRADSHAW'S TOMBSTONE
329
But this grotesque statement, Bradshaw found to be true. At first
he had set his Russel Nype face (Bradshaw's wife, a New York girl,
spoke of him with fond, proprietary derision to her friends as a "Nype
type"),
in
incredulous disapproval of this; then he sternly told him–
self that it was all just a psychological curiosity of a certain stage of
Latin American history. Were there not people in the Lesser Antilles
or somewhere who spoke seventeenth-century (or was it Elizabethan?)
English? What right had he Bradshaw to feel superior to this unre–
constructed business booster, this anachronistic "go-getter." History,
the god Bradshaw dimly served, loves a jest--even a poor one like
Senor Orquienz.
It
was somehow pathetic, and the fact was that Senor Orquienz
was precisely what he represented himself to be-the big shot of San
Rafael. It was to Senor Orquienz that Bradshaw was obliged to tum
when he needed a car and
chofer.
Mysteriously, the one taxi of the
place was unavailable until Senor Orquienz intervened to make ar–
rangements.
The manager (the caretaker would have been a more accurate
term) of one of the abandoned properties of the United Fruit Com–
pany had been hostile and invincibly obtuse until Bradshaw had re–
turned to the place with Senor Orquienz, whereupon the man had
become fluent and informative in English.
This, however, left still unsolved the mystery as to why Senor
Orquienz should have attached himself to Bradshaw.
Thus, by degrees, Bradshaw had come to depend upon the good
offices of this grotesque dignitary; and he forgave himself any hypoc–
risy in his dealings by telling himself that he was making use of the
man for a cause better than he knew. "I have become altogether the
Machiavelli about Mr. Beeg," he had written to his wife. Besides his
instructions had urged "fullest cooperation with local elements," and
it was the sad fact that Senor Orquienz was the only local element
which showed any desire to be cooperated with.
The governor of the province was reputed to be half mad and
what was worse more than half Fascist. Bradshaw himself had seen
this tinpot
caudillo
escorted by a squadron of operatic motorcycle
cops for a few ear-splitting minutes in the town square. There would
be no help from this quarter.
Nor was the Church any help. Doggedly, Bradshaw had sought
