By the middle of September, people
began to feel the breath of spring and started to see who would be the first to
fly the flag outside his house as a sign of patriotism, that good old love of
country that history teachers encouraged in public schools . Urcisinio was
usually the first in the town, flying his flag from a six metre high flagpole, nailed to a cement monolith that he
had built himself.
His flag could be seen over his roof and fence, flaming in
the wind as high as the flag in the police station. Some neighbours imitated him, building
monoliths like his, but most of them still
kept to the tradition flying the flag from a diagonal pole over the upper threshold of
their door.
In those years, the size of the
flags varied from one house to another. But Urcisiano’s was considered to be the
largest, while Domínguez’s was the smallest. José Antonio Domínguez would defend himself, saying,
“ That is not the point, man,” “That’s not the point”, he would insist in a
tone of slight annoyance, blowing a thick plume of cigar smoke from his
mouth, But, the fact was that his flag
did contrast with the rest, and when seen from a distance, it looked like a
postage stamp stuck to the wall, when compared with the vigorous waving of the
other flags in the afternoon breeze.
Some said that Domínguez felt
Spanish, and for this reason didn’t have
a larger Chilean flag, Others said that
they had seen an enormous Spanish flag in his wardrobe drawers. He was the son
of Galician immigrants who arrived on the Winnipeg, and after a prolongued stay
in the capital, where he had learnt his trade as a baker when he was a mere
boy, one day he appeared in the village with the intention of opening a bakery,
when people still did their own baking at home, and only the laziest bought
their bread from a bakery. He started off working in tiny room in the modest house he rented on
Huamachuco Street; he later had three or four bakers working for him in his
bakery on Alejandro Cruz Street, opposite the main square. Some considered him
to be rich, but he definitely did not look like a rich man. He was simple in
his manner, friendly and trusting. And so hard-working: he got up a four in the
morning to fight for freedom, as he would carefully explain to anyone who asked
him for the reason for such early hours. He had two children Lucía and Rodrigo,
both of whom went to the Talca secondary school; he left them at the bus stop
every morning, His dream was that they should attend university. “It’s the only
chance for a poor man,” he would explain repeatedly when questioned about his
obsession with sending his children to the city to study. “Man is a slave if he
lacks an education,” he would add, while
he finished weighing bread, going on and on on his favourite subject when
somebody mentioned education. After saying goodbye to his children at the bus
stop, he would return to his bakery and stand behind the counter and stay there
for the rest of the morning. He closed
the shop steel shutter for a while to have lunch with his wife, but he was open
again before four in the afternoon, when he placed freshly baked bread the
baskets. He didn’t stop work until sundown, and on holidays he never closed the
shop, and this year he had started making meat patties on the 17th, although on
this date, most people made their own patties and baked them in their ovens at
home.
Independence Day festivities began
with the usual parade on the main square.
A grandstand was built on one side of the square and filled with chairs from the school for
authorities and their guests. Some public servants gave speeches, but the only
thing that really attracted people was the parade, because the whole village
ended up by joining in. The village considered that this parade, which was
solemn, and to a certain degree funny, was a mirror image of themselves, It was
led by the students of the Elementary School, followed by their teachers,
headmaster, and their corresponding standard; then came the representatives of
different civil organisations, the Huaso or Chilean Cowboy Club, the Cycling
club, Soccer Club, and Red Cross. The first part of the parade was closed by
the Fire Brigade in full regalia – white trousers and red jacket. They were
also definitely the noisiest group in the parade, as they rang their fire-truck
siren as they marched.
The second part always finished a battalion of the Talca Cuirassiers Regiment,
which marched into the village at dawn, waking them up with the sounds of their
brass band led by the clash of the drum
major. The children, as well as the adults were fascinated by the weapons, the
uniforms and synchronised step of the soldiers. There
were years that the Boy Scouts also joined the parade, with uniforms and
backpacks that were to some extent imitations of those of the troops, but whose
whistles and drums sounded very different from those of the soldiers.
In the afternoon, the crowd went on
to the “ramada” (arbour) installed on one side of the Media Luna (rodeo ground),
where wine, chicha (cider) and cueca ruled. Folk groups from other localities were also
present and played all day long. The victuals included empanadas (patties),
blood sausages, chancho en piedra, which
is a kind of guacamole, home baked bread, roasted meat, pork sausages,
spareribs varnished in hot chili sauce. Then came the dancing, where lots of people,
and especially the children, learned how to dance, imitating the most
expressive movements of the professionals. That year, there was a folk group
whose leader danced the “Lame man’s cueca”, which was his own creation; people
imitated him, and the children were the first to learn it, and then danced it on
their way on to their homes in the afternoon.
There was a rodeo at the Media Luna
at noon, with half a dozen couples
competing. The town was filled with
huasos on their horses that day; they appeared like ants, trotting down in
single file along the streets. There were huasos from nearby localities and
others from more distant places, from
lost hamlets hidden among the stones and
gulleys of the Andes Mountains. Some relatives from the capital also descended
on their country cousins for the event. The Nuñez house was invaded by most of
their relatives. They brought provisions from Santiago, and didn’t buy a kilo
of shortening in the village. More than thirty people convened here and spent
the day drinking under the grape arbour, as we were told by doña Celinda, the
grocer, after we interviewed her..
That 1968, the sudden demise of the
Galician José Antonio Domínguez would darken the celebrations. Domínguez was working in his bakery, behind
his showcase, when the story says that three strangers entered and insulted him
because of his flag. The baker got angry and told them to go to hell, as is so
typical of Galicians, but one of the strangers drew out a knife and slit his
throat, right under his chin; the man bled to death quite quickly, falling on his
sacks of white flour. The three strangers were drunk and nobody can still say
how Domínguez was unable to dodge the knife thrust. Now they say, that it was
his own rage that killed him, because he shot out like a lunatic, with a stick
in his hand, without even thinking of the consequences, instead of keeping calm
and doing nothing, and laughing at the flag as he had done before.
Everybody says that he might have
avoided being killed if he hadn’t moved, but he
charged on, sure that he could hit at least one of those ruffians. He was bored with the old story of the flag,
which was, according to him, embedded in the national conscience of a people he
considered ignorant. For him, the only important flag was the flag of individual independence, they
could keep the rest. He had shouted this
on uncountable occasions while arguing with the Navas family from the hardware
store, as all Spanish descendants tend to speak, without worrying about others
hearing what they have to say.
The village came to a standstill
that afternoon, nobody could believe what had happened. People thought of the
devil, as who else could be responsible for such an unfortunate event? The ramada was closed, and there was no
dancing that night. There was no rodeo the next day, and no nineteenth of
September parade. Everything turned into a huge funeral, with eulogies that
described the exemplary life of the Galician. Mention was even made of the
quality of his bread, and of how precise José Antonio Domínguez had been when weighing his wares. This is also the
tradition in San Clemente and in other villages, one should always praise the dead,
as if once they are buried in the icy sadness of their graves, they might be
able to hear such praise, as we were told by doña Celinda when we said goodbye
to her from her front door.
Cuento original: Tamaño de la Bandera, del
libro Cuentos Interprovinciales. Autor: Miguel de Loyola . Proa Amerian
Editores, Buenos Aires, 2012.
Traducción de Jane Elliot Somerville.
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