The Orchids

BY LATE AFTERNOON, Dr. Ludtz’s grave is prepared. Juan and his sons have dug a crude, uneven trench before the monument whose construction was Dr. Ludtz’s tireless task.

I walk down the stairs to the grave. Father Martínez turns to greet me.

“So sorry, Don Pedro,” he says. He takes my hand and shakes it limply. “This must be a terrible blow.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Across the grave, Esperanza watches me resentfully, secure in the knowledge that she could have saved him with a chicken’s head. Later in the evening, she will spear a little doll made to resemble me and hope it brings a sharpness to my heart. To her, I am the very soul of mockery, one who would not recognize the holy spirit if it bathed me in celestial light. For years she has scraped the jungle floor, praying for her gods to overwhelm my soul. Now she prays that they might consume me in annihilating flame. Because she is so close to God, she has been able to seize the very beating heart of malice.

“I trust he did not suffer,” Father Martínez says.

“No,” I tell him, “he did not.”

“Is there any special sort of service you would like, Don Pedro?”

“No. Whatever you think Dr. Ludtz might have wanted.”

“Very good, then,” Father Martínez says.

Alberto and Tomás smile at each other, grateful that the service is about to begin. They have to meet their girls in the village later on, and digging a grave has not seemed the appropriate preparation for it. I nod to them and tell them that they need not stay for the funeral. They smile brightly and trot away.

Father Martínez steps to the graveside. He lifts his palms to the air. “May we pray.”

Juan and Esperanza bow their heads and listen while Father Martínez commends the soul of Dr. Ludtz to heaven. When he has finished, he turns to me. “Do you have anything to say, Don Pedro?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Surely something,” Father Martínez insists.

“No. Nothing.”

Father Martínez turns to Juan and Esperanza. “Would either of you like to say anything?”

Juan shakes his head. He stands at the corner of the grave, his hat crumpled in his hands. From time to time during the prayer he glanced toward the nursery, suspecting that it was Ludtz’s malady that continues to devastate the orchids.

Father Martínez looks imploringly at Esperanza. “And you, my child?”

Esperanza frowns, glances furtively at me, then tosses a piece of frayed rope and a clove of garlic into the grave.

“What was that?” Father Martínez demands irritably.

Esperanza stares at him contemptuously, but says nothing.

“This man was a Christian,” Father Martínez says hotly. “This is a Christian ceremony!”

Esperanza’s face hardens, and I can see that something in her frightens Father Martínez.

“Please, now,” Father Martínez says, “we must be respectful. Isn’t that right, Don Pedro?”

“The funeral is over,” I tell him. “Let Dr. Ludtz be buried.”

Dr. Ludtz’s body rests on a stretcher. It is wrapped in a blue blanket. I bend down and take hold of Ludtz’s feet. Juan steps over quickly and takes his head.

“Is there no coffin, Don Pedro?” Father Martínez asks.

“No. We had no time to make one.”

“But can’t we wait for one to be built?” Father Martínez asks. “Surely it would be more proper.”

I lift the legs up. “Dr. Ludtz never permitted himself to be disturbed by anything,” I tell Father Martínez. “He will not be disturbed by this.”

Father Martínez looks rebuked. “As you wish, Don Pedro,” he says softly.

Together, Juan and I hoist Dr. Ludtz’s body into the shallow grave. As it falls, it sounds like a pillow dropping from a bed.

“Do you wish a song, Don Pedro?” Father Martínez asks after a moment.

I look at him. “A song, Father?”

“A hymn? A song of repose?”

“Dr. Ludtz had no ear for music, Father,” I tell him. I turn toward Juan and tell him that he may go. He replaces his hat on his head and moves down toward the nursery. Esperanza follows him a little way, then turns off on a trail that leads downriver.

I take the small shovel that leans against the monument.

“I suppose you are full of memories, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says. “May I share them?”

“Ludtz used to wear a red scarf in the Camp,” I tell him flatly. “That always seemed curious to me.”

The mention of the Camp seems to stir Father Martínez. “The Camp, yes. Would you like to talk about it?”

I thrust the shovel into the mound of earth beside the grave. “No.”

“But surely, Don Pedro …”

“That will be all, Father Martínez,” I say. “Thank you very much for your help.”

“Yes, of course,” Father Martínez says sadly. “And Don Pedro, I trust that if you ever need my …”

“Services. Yes, Father. I will not hesitate to call upon you.”

“Thank you, Don Pedro.”

“Adiós, Father.”

Father Martínez nods gently and begins his journey down the hill to the village of El Caliz. I watch him as he goes, a short square of shifting black against the jungle’s verdancy.

I turn back to the grave and pat the earth gently with the shovel, so that the animals will be less inclined to disturb it. Then I step away. This is where he wished to be buried, near his squat memorial. The catastrophic I, when dead, turns necrophiliac and seeks to clothe its transient, dusty self in the permanence of monumental stone.

I place the shovel on the ground beside the grave and walk down toward the river, slapping the red, chalky clay from my hands. Perhaps, when I die, they will throw me into its depths, so that I might bring brief excitement to the piranha.