The Orchids

SPLENDID TO SEE you again, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says. He roots himself in his chair. I can see a revolver bulging slightly under each arm of his three-piece suit.

“Good to see you, also,” I tell him.

Don Camillo looks off the verandah at the light dancing on the river. “A beautiful morning. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Yes.”

Don Camillo turns to me. “Well, let me say that El Presidente is very much looking forward to his visit.” He smiles expansively. Don Camillo is a man of smiles and expansiveness, both closely related to his personal control of the Republic’s stock of copper.

“Please give El Presidente my regards,” I tell him.

“You will soon be able to give them to him yourself, Don Pedro.”

“Of course.”

Don Camillo glances about. “And where, may I ask, is my good friend Dr. Ludtz?”

“In his cottage.”

“I hope he is well.”

“Quite well. He is reading, I suppose.”

“A well-read man. I noticed that right away about Dr. Ludtz,” Don Camillo says.

“A product of culture’s refinements,” I add agreeably.

“Refinements, yes,” Don Camillo says, nodding his head thoughtfully. “A man of refinements.” He takes a deep breath and exhales with affected weariness. “Men of state, regrettably, have little time for such things, such refinements.” He laughs. “But then, I suppose we have our place in the world.”

“We?”

“Men of affairs. Like yourself. Like me.”

“My kingdom is rather small, Don Camillo,” I say.

Don Camillo shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t diminish yourself. To run an estate such as this — particularly with the rather backward population of El Caliz — that is no small matter, believe me.”

Here in the Republic, no man must be diminished. That would debase the sanctity of individualism upon which the totalitarian state is founded. Here in the Republic each man must be free to grab what he can, be it horse or maid — or copper.

“Speaking of men of affairs, Don Camillo,” I say, “how is El Presidente?”

“Very well,” Don Camillo replies delightedly. He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Of course, we’ve had a little trouble in the northern provinces.”

As he speaks, I can see the “trouble in the northern provinces” trudging wearily through the jungle, a small, bedraggled army infested with lice and infected with disease. They amputate their gangrenous limbs with penknives and machetes.

“I’m disturbed to hear about the trouble.”

“Nothing serious, you understand,” Don Camillo hastens to inform me. “Mere irritations, but they plague El Presidente. They keep him from the sleep he deserves, wear down his strength.” He slaps at a mosquito near his ear. “Damn pests.” He rolls his shoulder, the revolvers eating into his armpits. Here in the Republic, men of state must bear such aggravations.

“Well, perhaps his visit here will relax El Presidente.”

“I profoundly hope so, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says worriedly. “As I say, he’s not been sleeping well. Bad dreams, I think. Do you ever have bad dreams?”

“Sometimes I dream that in the end all the innocent blood that has been shed will be gathered in a great pit and those who spilled it will be forced to swim in it forever.”

Don Camillo’s face pales. “Dios mío. How horrible.”

“One cannot help one’s dreams.”

The light seems to have withdrawn from the two gilded medals that adorn Don Camillo’s breast pocket. “Such dreams. Horrible,” he says. His eyes are full of imagined terrors.

“Perhaps El Presidente’s dreams are better suited to his person,” I say comfortingly.

Camillo glances apprehensively toward the river. The guards who stand below, near his limousine, stiffen as he looks toward them, then relax as he returns his gaze to me. “Such a vision. Horrible.”

“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” I tell him.

The monkeys have begun to screech wildly in the trees across the river. Don Camillo turns to his guards and instructs them to fire a burst into the trees. They do so, and I hear the bullets slapping into the thick foliage. One monkey drops from the tree and splashes belly down into the river.

Don Camillo turns slowly to face me. There is a smile on his face, but something dark behind it. “You seem to have become somewhat morbid of late, Don Pedro,” he says. “I hope you will try to be in better spirits when El Presidente visits.”

The monkey’s arms slowly rise from the surface of the water, then drop, then rise again. “You should kill it,” I tell Don Camillo.

Don Camillo’s eyes seem to recede into his skull. “What are you talking about?” he asks darkly.

I nod toward the river. “The monkey. It is still alive.”

Don Camillo turns toward the river and watches the arms rise and fall. Then he turns back to me. “Sometimes we catch one of those bastards from the northern provinces, those rebels. We tie a rope around his waist and hoist him up in a helicopter. Then we fly very low over the marshes, dragging him just above the water so that the reeds can do their work.” His lips curl down. “After a while there’s not much left to pull up, so we just cut the rope, you know?” He leans forward and stares at me menacingly. “You know why I am here, do you not, Don Pedro?”

“As always, my friend, you have come to make sure that all the proper arrangements have been made for El Presidente’s visit.”

Don Camillo traces his thin mustache across his lips with the tip of his index finger. “I must be sure about his safety, Don Pedro.”

“Why should he not be safe in El Caliz?” I ask. In the river, the monkey’s arms no longer rise and the body begins to drift downstream with the river’s lethargic flow.

“We are a free people in the Republic,” Don Camillo says. “People may travel as they like. Perhaps they may travel to El Caliz, perhaps enemies come here.” He smiles. “Perhaps already there are enemies living in El Caliz.”

“There are no enemies here, I assure you, Don Camillo.”

Don Camillo sits back in his chair. “The world is full of monkeys. Like the ones in the tree, you know. They chatter constantly. Big talk. Crazy talk. But one has to take it seriously.”

“El Presidente has always enjoyed his visits here,” I tell Don Camillo.

“Very much. Correct,” Don Camillo says. “He very much looks forward to it.”

“This will go well, I assure you.”

Don Camillo looks relieved. “I hope so.” He stares about as if looking for traces of copper. “I suppose you have already made plans for the visit?”

“Yes.”

“May I know what they are?”

“A large banquet. The whole village will be invited. I know how much they love El Presidente, and how much he loves them, as well.”

Don Camillo smiles happily. “Splendid. That should improve his spirits.”

“Such is my intent.”

Don Camillo eyes the wall of records inside my office. “There is a particular musician El Presidente admires, Don Pedro. I wonder if you might have any of his recordings.”

“What is the name?”

“Chop-pin.”

“Chopin,” I say gently.

Don Camillo smiles self-consciously. “Oh, is that how it is pronounced? I have only seen the name written on the albums. One does not hear such names pronounced very often here in the Republic.”

In the Camp, the orchestra was not permitted to play Chopin, because he was a Pole. “It wouldn’t matter if you did,” I tell Don Camillo.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It wouldn’t matter if you did hear such names pronounced here, Don Camillo. Pronunciations are of no importance.”

“Exactly,” Don Camillo says. “Although I’m sure El Presidente knows the correct form of speech.”

“A man of refinements,” I add.

“Profoundly so,” Don Camillo says. He slaps his thighs. “Well, I think my work is done here, Don Pedro. I’m happy to see that you have made the proper arrangements for El Presidente’s visit.”

“Everything will be taken care of, you may depend on it, Don Camillo.”

Don Camillo rises, draws a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and mops his brow. “This business in the northern provinces, it has exhausted me.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Ah, well, part of the job,” Don Camillo says. He replaces the handkerchief. “It’s those people up there. They are never satisfied. No matter what El Presidente does for them, they want more.”

“Perhaps if they had more copper —”

Don Camillo laughs. “Copper? No, there’s no copper to be had in that region of the Republic. Believe me, it has been investigated.”

“Something else then, perhaps.”

“No, nothing,” Don Camillo says with certainty. “It’s their nature, that’s all. Mountain people. Uncivilized. Sometimes I think that we will never have peace in the northern provinces until every last one of them has been killed.” He looks at me knowingly. “A process, I believe, in which you have some expertise, Doctor.”

My machine pistol rests in the top drawer of my desk. It is only a few inches from my hands.

Don Camillo laughs, but his eyes do not. “Perhaps you have a plan for the northern provinces.”

It would be a matter of opening the drawer, one quick, deft movement, and he would dance until the clip emptied.

“I would not want to be involved,” I tell him.

“Once is enough for anyone, I suppose,” Don Camillo says with a malicious wink.

I stand. “Tell El Presidente that I am waiting for him with great eagerness.”

Don Camillo wipes the shimmering beads of sweat from his mustache. “And you tell Dr. Ludtz that I regret not seeing him.” He offers me his hand. I take it and shake it briskly. “So nice to have seen you, Don Pedro,” he says.

“And you, Don Camillo.” In the Republic, civility is important.

Don Camillo turns and moves down the stairs. His bodyguards watch me, and two other bodyguards a little ways distant watch them. In the Republic, no one can be trusted.

I raise my hand. “Adiós, Don Camillo.”

Don Camillo turns before entering his mud-caked limousine. “Y usted, tambien,” he calls to me. Then he steps inside the car, surrounded by his sloe-eyed janissaries in their dark green uniforms. They stare out the window, their eyes cruising the river bank or rising to riffle through the trees searching for blue rifle barrels peeping from the vines like the heads of wary serpents.

Don Camillo’s car pulls away quickly, heaving up a trail of swirling orange dust. In the distance, I can see Esperanza watch the limousine. She is wearing a dark red rebozo that falls over her shoulders and drops almost to her knees. Ritually, she claps her hands three times as the car passes. I do not know if this is a blessing or a curse.

I walk off the verandah and into my office. The cut crystal goblet sits on top of the large wicker cabinet against the far wall. The light pouring through the bamboo curtain shatters in the crystal, sending a spray of mottled light across the room. Retrieving it from its place, I turn it in my hand and observe the delicacy of the pattern, the exquisite design. It was once the prized possession of my father, a family heirloom passed down through generations of uninspired petty officials and weary civil servants who sat with their noses buried in provincial paper and their minds in middling bank accounts. Warming their feet at tidy, bourgeois fires, they passed the crystal goblet down as something like a grail for the Langhof family. On holidays or family gatherings they would remove it from its sheltered vault and pass it carefully from hand to hand as if it were the heraldic shield of the Hohenzollern princes. But here in the Republic, the sense of the holy is reserved for certain raw materials that, when sold, support the titanic waste over which it is El Presidente’s function to preside.

I walk to my desk and place the goblet in a small cotton sack. I raise the marble paperweight in the air and bring it down. There is a small crunch as the glass shatters beneath the blow. I open the mouth of the sack and sprinkle the bits of crystal across the desk. Even in this fallen state, they sparkle with a blue and silver light. I select a few of the pieces and begin to file them down, putting each sculptured gem into a small red velvet pouch. Then I take the pouch and stuff it in my trousers.

I rise from the desk. Esperanza is staring at me from the verandah.

“¿Qué pasa?” she asked.

“Nicht … nada.”

“Oí romper alguna cosa.”

“Una copa. No es importante.”

She watches me suspiciously. “Sí, Don Pedro.”

I wave her from the door, then move down the stairs toward the greenhouse. Juan is inside, relentlessly fighting the demons that have come to destroy the orchids.

“¿Juan?”

He turns toward me.

I pull the pouch from my trousers and lift it toward him.

He looks at me strangely.

I tell him to take the pouch and to bury it under the orchids.

He stares at me, perplexed. “¿Las orquídeas?”

“Sí.”

Reluctantly he takes the pouch.

I tell him to bury it now. “Ahora, favor.”

“Sí, Don Pedro,” Juan says. He eyes the pouch, feeling the edges of the chiseled glass beneath his fingers.

I attempt to soothe his anxiety. “Para la enfermedad de las flores.” For the blight.

Juan nods silently, somewhat relieved, but not entirely so. “Sí, Don Pedro.”

“Bien.”

I walk out of the greenhouse and look toward the distant range of hills to the south. The pale orange cloud of dust billows up from the trees as Don Camillo’s spattered limousine speeds along those ancient trails the Indians once carved. In my mind I can see Don Camillo lounging in the back seat, squeezed in between his sleepless protectors, his mind squirming with visions of copper kingdoms in the provinces to the north.