The Boiling Season (23 page)

“I can see how that would be so.”

“Have you never been married?” she said.

“No.”

Madame tilted the wine bottle over her glass, only to discover it was empty. Aside from the single glass she had poured me, which remained untouched, she had drunk the rest herself.

“If you don't mind my asking—,” she said.

“You may ask me anything.”

“I was wondering why you never married.”

I had not been aware that my thoughts were drifting, but suddenly I felt my pulse quicken. “Married?” I said, and I shook my head, trying to dislodge the image that the word had planted there. And then I was instantly paralyzed by the thought that somehow she had seen it too. I did not mean it, I wanted to say. It was unintentional. Between Madame and me there could never—should never—be any such thing. I respected her more than anyone I had ever known, but we were partners in a different sense. Anything more was distasteful even to consider.

“When I was growing up,” I said, “too many of the boys I knew wound up with wives and children without ever really meaning to. It just seemed to happen, and then they were trapped. Suddenly they had families to take care of, and they were stuck in the neighborhood forever. Or, in order to leave, they had to disappear, leaving their families behind. I could never do that.”

“Maybe some of them were happy,” Madame said. “Maybe some of them didn't want to leave. Maybe they liked raising families.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “My father never wanted to leave. But what kind of life is that?”

Madame clenched her napkin and brought it up to her chin. “Maybe you'll want to now, now that you've left and you have a new life. Maybe now you're ready.”

“Now there is more to do than ever. We have to be ready when the guests return.”

Madame set her elbows on the table, folding her arms together. “Did you never wish for something more?”

“Like what?”

“Like some other sort of work?”

“My father wanted me to be a lawyer,” I said. “Or a doctor. He wanted me to help people.”

She smiled somewhat distantly. “I think you have. People need a place like this to come to. Even if they don't come, they need to know it exists.”

“Thank you,” I said, “although I don't think my father would agree. He would have approved only if we had torn down the gate and let everyone in.”

She rolled her eyes. “Back home we have a name for that sort of thing.”

“Oh?”

“Out of respect,” she said, “I'll keep it to myself. It's obviously not a philosophy I subscribe to, but I think people should be free to think whatever they want, however naïve it might be.”

“I still loved him,” I said, “even though we agreed about almost nothing.”

Madame's gaze regained its warmth. “You've told me what your father wanted. What about you? What did you want to be?”

“I never really thought about it,” I said. “I just needed to get away. Opportunities came, and I took them.”

“And are you glad you did? Don't say yes just to avoid hurting my feelings.”

“Of course,” I said. “I cannot imagine things being any different.” And in truth just then I found myself wondering what it would be like if it could always be just like this moment, the two of us here together, enjoying what we had made. There need be nothing impure about it. Merely two friends who understood one another. We did not need guests. We both knew no one had ever been able to appreciate the place as she and I had.

“You wouldn't have chosen another path?” she said.

I shook my head, sorry to have to abandon my reverie. “There was no other path. It was either this or the world I grew up in. I wanted something different.”

Madame lowered her eyes, but there was no hiding the sadness they contained. “I wanted something different, too.”

And then she placed her hands abruptly on the table, signaling a sudden change in conversation. She glanced toward the kitchen. “I don't suppose there's any coffee?”

I shook my head.

“You must think me a terrible coward for not being here yesterday.” She had turned away from me, as if she were speaking to the tapestry on the wall.

“Of course not.”

“It would have been too much,” she said. “I couldn't bear to see everyone leave.”

“You could have done no differently.”

“My only comfort,” she said, “is that they'll have no trouble finding work. Their experience here will be invaluable to them.”

“Of course.”

“It's getting late,” she said, rising suddenly from the table. “I've enjoyed our conversation. Tomorrow at eight I'll take breakfast in my office.”

And I found myself unexpectedly disappointed, as she crossed the lobby and stepped into the darkness, that she did not suggest that in the morning I should join her.

A
fter it had been clear all day, the evening sky brought with it a blanket of clouds. By the time night fell, the stars had disappeared, and even the moon was little more than a hazy suggestion of light. I washed the dishes, and afterward when I went outside I could barely see my way up the drive to the gate. Once there, I found the road equally dark. But I knew it could not be clouds obscuring the market, less than a kilometer down the road, nor the houses along the way. It seemed equally impossible that a blackout had struck everything but the estate. Almost nobody in Cité Verd had electricity to begin with.

The only possible explanation was that they had extinguished their kerosene lamps and fires on purpose. I wondered if life had grown so dangerous out there that even people locked inside their houses found the greatest safety in not being seen, either in the flesh or as shadows.

A curfew had been in effect for a couple of weeks, though I doubted it was necessary. Anyone with any sense did not need to be told it was unwise to go out at night. And anyone who did need to be told was unlikely to listen.

Distantly from up the mountain road I heard an engine, a car coming slowly, its shocks straining over the gullies and ruts. It was an army jeep, and in the flare of the taillights as it passed I could make out a man kneeling in the back with a machine gun in his hands.

No longer, it seemed, were the security forces fighting alone. Now the gangs of Cité Verd—the supposed resistance—had the army to contend with, too. Perhaps President Duphay had finally decided to bring an end to this foolishness once and for all.

The jeep rumbled its way through Cité Verd. Not until its sound had faded did I at last hear footsteps on the gravel. On the far side of the road, walking in the black, I saw a figure too small to be a soldier. I called out in barely more than a whisper.

The footsteps stopped. “What do you want?”

“Over here,” I said. “At the gate.” The boy crossed the street tentatively, and when he reached the gate, I went into the guard booth and turned on the light. Though just a bare bulb, it was strong enough that I could see the boy's dark face, and he mine. He was at most fifteen, wearing a red-and-white jersey.

“What's your name?” I said.

“Hector.”

“Hector,” I said, “I need you to run an errand for me.”

He glanced down the road toward where the jeep had disappeared. And then he glanced past me to the manor house at the bottom of the long drive, drawn like a moth to the lights.

“I need you to go to Etienne's Bakery and pick up some croissants.”

“Some what?”

“Never mind,” I said, handing him a slip of paper. “I've written it down. Just give this to Etienne, and he will give you what I need.”

“What does it say?”

“Never mind. Afterward you must stop by the market and get a kilo of coffee. Here is the money, and here is the fare you'll need for the bus. You must deliver it first thing in the morning. I will be waiting here at six. I'll give you twice as much when you deliver it. If you do well, there will be other jobs.”

Again the boy peered over my shoulder. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” I said. “You'll need to get an early start in the morning.”

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “What's it like in there?”

“If you do well,” I said, “I'll show you some day.”

“Show me now.”

“It's dark now. There's nothing to see. Remember,” I said, “I need these things by six. No later.”

T
hat night, instead of sleeping, I waited for the army jeep to find its target. But for once all of Cité Verd lay in peace.

In the unaccustomed quiet I unexpectedly found myself entertaining a peculiar thought. From the start I had wanted nothing more than for the turmoil to cease, and I knew only President Duphay could make that happen. But I realized now that he could not prevail on his own. He needed the security forces, or the army, or both, to crush the resistance. But how could I align myself with the security forces, whose existence had caused me nothing but trouble? And the army? Success for them would inevitably be just another excuse for a coup. Who knew what even greater trouble that would bring. But was there more to hope for in the victory of a gang of peasants and slum dwellers? Not that I could see. The only truly acceptable ending was the impossible one—that somehow all three would manage to wipe each other out, leaving us in peace.

T
he next morning at six, after gathering a small basket of fruit, I stood at the gate and waited. With every passing minute I felt a fool for having trusted a stranger—a boy no less—with such an important task. But what choice did I have?

A market woman approached, balancing a basket atop her head.

Did she have any coffee?

No.

Nor did the woman following after her.

“Did you see anyone along the way with coffee?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “There's some at the market.”

But I could not risk leaving the gate.

In a couple of minutes, two boys strolled by, one of them walking a bicycle with a bent front tire. I called them over and asked if they knew Hector.

“We know lots of people,” said the boy with the bicycle.

“Hector,” I said. “He wears a red-and-white jersey.”

“Hector is his cousin,” said the boy with the bicycle. There were bruises all over his face and arms.

“He is not,” the other boy said. He was tall and thin and covered with a pox of acne. “My cousin is in the army.”

“He's not in trouble,” I said. “I gave him money to buy something for me.”

“I'll buy it for you.” The tall boy took a step forward. “Give me the money. What do you want? I can get you a gun.”

“No, you can't,” said the boy with the bike.

“I can too. From my cousin. He can get anything.”

“Your cousin's not in the army. He's just a thug.”

I looked at my watch. It was now almost seven. “Do you know where Hector is?”

The boys looked at one another with uncertainty. “We don't know any Hector.”

“And if we did,” said the tall boy, “we don't know where he is. Give us money. We'll get you what you want. I can get gasoline.”

“No, you can't,” said the boy with the bicycle.

“My uncle can. Give me some money. I'm hungry.”

“If you find Hector and bring him here in half an hour, I'll give you money,” I said.

“We'll find him,” they said, and down the road they went, the bent bicycle tire squeaking with every rotation.

I knew I would never see them again.

I
swept the front steps and then the lobby. I swept my way up the stairs and down the corridor to Madame's office. There was just enough time to clear the stones on the terrace of leaves. I made sure Madame's favorite table was clean, in case she wished to lunch there, as she often did when she worked in her office. The pool below was also cluttered with leaves, but there was nothing I could do with the little time I had left.

I did not know how I would explain to Madame that for the second morning in a row I had failed to bring her a proper breakfast. I could offer only the same plate of fruit.

Hearing footsteps in the house, I hurried inside. “Please go up and get yourself settled, Madame,” I said. “I will be right up with your breakfast.”

I turned the corner, and there, leaning against the reception desk, his head thrown back in wonder, stood Hector.

“How did you get in here?”

“What is that?” He pointed up at the high, domed ceiling.

“A chandelier.”

“What's it for?”

“Light.”

He looked at me suspiciously, as though I could not possibly be telling the truth.

“Do you live here?”

“Yes,” I said. “Did you bring what I asked? Where is it?”

Without looking, he swung his arm toward the reception desk, where I saw two small wrapped packages.

“These are not croissants,” I said, opening the larger of the two. “They're just rolls. And they're not even from Etienne's.”

“Etienne's is closed.”

“What time did you go by?”

“How should I know?” The boy had wandered over toward the staircase. “Don't you know all the shops have closed?”

“You must not have gone to the right place,” I said. “His shop is by the embassy.”

“I know where it is,” Hector said. “My sister was one of your maids. Marie.”

There were Maries everywhere; it did not mean he was telling the truth.

“You see,” he said, “everything closes.”

“We are not closed,” I said. “But tell me how you got in.”

“You owe me money,” Hector said. “And you said you'd let me look around.”

I grabbed him by the arm and led him to the exit. “I said no such thing. I said I would show you the grounds, that's all.” I handed him the money. “Now I will walk you to the gate, and you will tell me how you got in.”