Chapter 23
War Funeral
Coinciding with the 238th attempt on the life of the Monitor, on the fields of the Chanchin del Sur war, as already mentioned, a technocratic field marshal died. Military funeral for the burial of a field marshal.
"Soldier: the Monitor has ordered me to come here to bid you farewell. My marshal: your soldiers." The deceased marshal, surrounded by birds with their wings forming a fold. Or crossing like swords. "Death has wanted to cover you with its flag. But Technocracy does not forget you." It begins with a slowly resonating drum, gradually joined by timpani and cymbals; spaced beats according to an obsessive recurrence. "The lids of your double coffin have closed: like an eagle covering its chest with its wings, one after the other. We are ready to fight to the end. To fight for this emblem and this portico, homeland of the technocrats; for our land eternally alive on earth, in water, in air, and in fire." Behind them, cannon salutes accompany in a spaced-out fashion, always solemnly following a mathematical law. Little by little, marching and percussion effects are added. "As the highest-ranking officer in the technocratic army, the Monitor has sent me here to greet you." With other instruments, the orchestra makes a reference to Siogfrid's Funeral. "Attend, cion . . . Attend, cion . . . Attend, cion . . .." After the solemn balance of forces, the previous instrumental crescendo returns to reach the climax. When this happens, the silence of the brass and woodwinds abruptly ensues. "Technocracy Monitor Triumph."
The Soriator laughed; he even made an almost technocratic joke: "They'd have to kill one of them a day, that way they'd be out of pocket." The "Pitchforks," for their part, weren't impressed in the least by this overabundance of military mystique. The Russians were; they were curious. After the funeral, the Technocracy remained almost silent, vibrating dully, with a monotonous, barbaric squeak. Enrique Esteve, the Catalan prime minister, made a strange statement: "Narciso looks in the mirror at his atrocious and austere violence. Let them sort it out among themselves. I, for one, am glad to be in Catalonia."
Delirious realism, anyone?
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