The Orchids (28 page)

“Magda …” Dr. Ludtz moans.

It is the name of his wife. If still alive, she is by now a jovial suburban grandmother pressing fruitcake into the mouths of her laughing grandchildren.

“Magda …” Dr. Ludtz repeats. If she is dead and I could raise her from the grave and transform her black, rotting lips into something soft and pink and pliant, I would press them next to his.

Dr. Ludtz raises one hand slightly, then it drops to his side. I reach over to feel his pulse. There is none.

I rise, walk to the door, stop, and look back. Even now I want to go to him, shake him back to life, and lead him along the trail of his past, convince him that freedom from moral pain is not the only value.

But he is gone now, into the oblivion of perfect blue.

B
Y 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.

T
HE FEAST
is prepared for El Presidente. The tables are set with the riches of the Republic, with its natural plenitude and its inexhaustible labor. The flies are kept away by servants fanning the tables with peacock feathers, so that when El Presidente arrives, he will find nothing diminished from this creation.

After a little time, I hear the sound of the helicopter as it moves over the far ridge. It is silver in the sun, and from it El Presidente watches the earth below as if he created it. When it lands, a few meters from my compound, the dust rises like a golden cloud.

I walk out and stand near the twirling blades. My white suit billows behind me like Ludtz's crimson scarf. When the blades cease their noisy rotation, two guards leap from the body of the helicopter and come to attention. Then they turn toward the door and extend their hands to El Presidente.

He is dressed as I expected him to be, in a vested black suit and gray tie. Tall and lean, he comes forward gracefully and with great gentleness extends his hand. I take it in my own.

“Welcome, Mr. President.”

El Presidente smiles warmly. “So good to see you again, Don Pedro,” he says. He glances over my shoulder. “You have prepared a great feast for me, I see.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“You shouldn't have gone to such trouble, Don Pedro,” El Preidente says in a gentle voice.

“It is to do you honor, Mr. President,” I tell him.

“Most generous of you. My deepest thanks.”

I bow. “Would you like to dine now, Mr. President?”

El Presidente smiles. “The trip has been a long one, Don Pedro. And yes, I think I would prefer to have dinner now. We can have our talk later.”

“As you wish, Mr. President.”

“You have no idea how I look forward to our conversations,” El Presidente says.

“I am sure you look forward to them no more than I, Mr. President,” I tell him. I turn and lift my arm to guide him toward the table. He steps only a little way in front of me.

“A beautiful place, El Caliz,” El Presidente says. “So peaceful and beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“But I suppose all the world looks peaceful and beautiful from a great height, would you say so, Don Pedro?”

“It can give that illusion, Mr. President,” I tell him.

“Yes. Yes, it can.”

I lead him to the table and pull out his chair.

“Please, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says graciously. “You sit first. You do me too much honor.”

I take my seat at the table, and El Presidente slowly lowers himself into the chair next to mine. He looks at the table admiringly.

“So bountiful,” El Presidente says. “The world is so bountiful, is it not?”

“Yes, it is, Mr. President.”

“And so beautiful. A poem. A physical poem, don't you think?”

“In some ways, yes.”

El Presidente laughs lightly. “Always modifying every Statement, Don Pedro,” he says gently. “You are too much the careful scholar.”

“There is much to study,” I tell him. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Only a small amount, please?” El Presidente replies.

I pour a small amount of red wine into his glass.

El Presidente glances at the villagers who stand admiringly a short distance away. He stands up and opens his arms. “Come,” he says in Spanish, “Come, my dear fellow-citizens, and join me at this table my good friend Don Pedro has prepared.”

Each year when he comes, it is the same display of generosity. Each year he insists on the presence of the villagers. Each year he dines with them under the watchful gaze of the guards.

Shyly, the villagers begin to stagger forward, finally gathering themselves around the many tables that have been prepared for them under the striped tent.

El Presidente turns to me. “I hope it is no great burden to prepare for so many. But I love to have the people around me. It's improper for them to stand and watch, when the Republic has so much to share with them.”

I nod. “Yes, quite right. It is improper.”

El Presidente takes my glass of wine with one hand and the bottle with the other. “Please, Don Pedro, let me serve you, my dear friend.”

“Most gracious, Mr. President.”

El Presidente smiles and pours my glass to the brim with wine. He laughs softly. “I suppose it is easy to be generous with other people's wine, is it not?”

“My wine is your wine, Mr. President,” I tell him.

El Presidente lifts his glass. “May I make a toast, Don Pedro?”

“I would be honored.”

“To our great friendship. May it last forever.”

I touch my glass to his. “Most generous of you, Mr. President.”

“It is you who are generous, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. He tastes the wine, placing the rim of the glass only lightly to his lips. “Excellent vintage,” he says.

“I had hoped you would approve.”

“Yes, excellent,” El Presidente repeats. He places the glass softly on the table. “When I was in England — during the period of my education, actually — well, I remember how difficult it was to enjoy a wine. Do you think perhaps it is the climate of Great Britain — all that rain and fog — that dulls the flavor, Don Pedro?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “Did you ever have the same wine in France?”

El Presidente laughs. “Ah, dear Don Pedro, such an empiricist. Of course, that would be the way to come to a decision on the matter. A test. Yes. Drink the same wine in both countries. Excellent. Yes, that would be the way to discover the truth of my proposition, would it not?”

“Of course, you could never drink exactly the same wine,” I tell him.

El Presidente nods knowingly. “Yes, I see. The experiment could never be exact.”

“No. Never exact.”

“Yes, that's true,” El Presidente says. He lifts the glass again. “Well, in any event, the climate of the Republic does nothing to harm the bouquet. Here we can indulge ourselves in the finest wines of the world.”

“True, El Presidente. That is one of the many charms of the Republic.”

A servant steps to El Presidente's side and offers him the roast pork. El Presidente nods. “Yes, thank you. That looks superb.” He smiles paternally at my servant. “I trust you will be having some too, my friend.”

The servant grins and nods his head.

El Presidente glances at his plate. “It looks marvelous, Don Pedro.” He slices a small piece of the pork and puts it delicately into his mouth. “Excellent. Superb.” As the servants pass, he takes small amounts of certain vegetables. “Superb. Superb.”

The dessert is flan with a light cream topping. When it is offered, El Presidente declines. “No, please,” he says with a smile. “I must watch my weight.” He pats his stomach. “No one admires an obese head of state.”

“Would you like a cigar?” I ask.

“No, thank you, Don Pedro. But I believe that I would like to stroll with you by the river. Our conversation, you know, the one I so look forward to each year.”

“I would be honored.”

We rise and leave the table, all eyes watching our departure, the villagers even interrupting their assault upon the food. When we are safely away, they return to their plates, noisily sucking at the food and drink.

At the bank of the river, El Presidente tucks his arm gently in mine and we walk leisurely side by side.