by John Brunner
“Not as Gilbert Quentin,” I said, after checking my mental record files. “No, wait!”—as she made to fill me in. “As… Christ, is he Gil Martin?”
“How did you work that out?” Snatching her head back a little, like a bird avoiding the strike of a snake.
“Never mind,” I muttered. A lot of things were coming suddenly clear. Gil Martin was the name of a member of that team who had damned nearly provoked an international crisis by insulting some Nigerian politicians in an argument about communism. I couldn’t recall the exact details, but I did remember that diplomatic relations had come close to being broken off. He’d called the guys dupes, or something to that effect. Maybe fools as well.
And it had still been rankling years later when I went to Lagos for the West African Unity League. Three or four people had mentioned it to me during a short stay of a few weeks.
“Hmm!” I rubbed my chin. “So when did you meet him?”
“Oh, while I was still in college. Thought he was the greatest. A handsome stud, a Ph.D., a world-class runner—answer to a maiden’s prayer!”
“And—?”
“And I got a Fulbright, and they used that as an excuse to check me out from here to breakfast, because we’d been keeping company a lot, and they told him I was clean and he proposed. Got married when I finished my year abroad. I knew he was going to be catapulted from one country to another all the time, but we agreed neither of us wanted children, and my trip had given me a taste for travel, so I just thought, ‘Groovy! See the world at government expense!’ I guess I wasn’t what you’d call very sophisticated then.”
“So what happened to change you?”
“I discovered the real world,” she answered after a pause. And to the barman delivering her finished cocodrilo: “Thanks… Say, this tastes pretty good! Yes, like I was saying: my family’s kind of well-off, you see, and my old man must be worth a quarter-million bucks if he’s worth a dime, and I never went hungry or short of anything in my life. And when we came here for the first time, staying in that hotel where I saw you this morning, the Blue Riband, I—I guess I had my eyes opened some. You know Gilbert’s an expert in Madrugadan affairs?”
“I worked that out. How many times have you been here, then?”
“Oh, he’d been here before I met him. But for me this is the third trip.”
“And you never ran across a cocodrilo before?”
“What? Oh, this drink?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Hell, no. We don’t mix with the natives when we’re here, you know. This time we aren’t even in a hotel; they rented us a villa up in Buenas Aguas. If Gilbert weren’t tied up at the naval base I wouldn’t be in this bar, even. No, for us it’s all PX gin and bourbon!” She hesitated. “Say, how the hell did you know he used to be called Martin?”
“Fierro Ponza told me,” I shrugged.
“Oh, of course! It was after that conference in Miami that we changed the name. I was forgetting.” She stared down into her drink. “You know, it was kind of a game in a way. We talked it over for days on end, figuring out what would be a good name to switch to, and I picked on Quentin. Said there weren’t so many names starting with Q, and we’d be easy to find in the phone-book. Doesn’t that tell you all about me?”
“Why the change anyway? Because his old reputation was becoming a nuisance?”
“Right in one. Being known as Gil Martin the athlete was fine when he was twenty-five. When he started to climb the CIA ladder he decided it was interfering with his work for the Free World.” She made the term sound obscene. Well, it is. “He really talks like that,” she added. “And it’s driving me crazy!”
Abruptly she raised her eyes to mine again. “Christ, you should see that place they’ve put us into! Eight rooms—a pool—two-car garage—and this fucking great barbed-wire fence with alarms all over it to keep out the poor bastards who might want to help themselves to a bit of luxury for once! You been up the hill in back of Brascoso, visited the slums there?”
“I only got here this morning.”
“Well, go there first chance you get. It’ll turn your stomach. Turned mine, and my head too, I guess. All those kids running barefoot with worms and trachoma and headlice and those girls worn out with ten kids before thirty, not a tooth left in their heads, only thinking themselves lucky they don’t have to support all the ten because half of them died… First time I came here I guess I didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. But it stuck in my memory and kind of festered while we were away, and when we came back I went and made sure I hadn’t dreamed it all, and I hadn’t. While the garzos loll around drinking their Scotch and smoking their big cigars and riding in Caddies and Mercedes. And are we kicking their asses for the way they starve and bleed the rest of the population? Like hell! We’re propping them up! We’re giving Porfiroso the guns to beat down people like that John the Baptist guy who might have done some good—what’s his name? Deniz! He was shot with American slugs, and the slums are still there. Even that clinic the Ponzas ran, which wasn’t much more than a gesture but at least it meant some people got a bit of training in nursing and hygiene—burned down and the Ponzas run out of the country. Crazy! Crazy!”
“You’ve tried to explain your change of heart to Gilbert?”
“I… I thought about it. Decided not to. I mean not privately. I don’t love him, you know. Don’t really like him any more, in fact. He’s so fucking pompous. And as for being a great stud, the way I imagined, he’s—well, he’s more concerned about keeping in shape, dig? Practically to a time-table! But that’s not really part of the thing, unless… Yes, I guess it could be after all. If it had all been exciting and romantic and patriotic like I’d expected I wouldn’t have had time or inclination to start thinking for myself.”
Something banged me in the back, startling me; I almost whipped around, braced for an attack. But it was only the arm of a careless dancer. While we’d been talking six or eight couples had taken to the floor, which made it crowded. I planted an elbow firmly on the counter to make sure I wasn’t knocked clear off my stool next time.
How literally could I take this tale of Dolly’s?
“But I intended to have a showdown,” she said at length. “Over there in London I was all set to throw him to the wolves, and then get the hell out of his life.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I…” She bit her lip. “I guess this sounds silly, but it’s true. I wanted to make the biggest splash I could, stand up right there in the middle of Michael’s conference and denounce him. Tell the delegates off, too, for not spotting him themselves. Only the conference was cancelled, and we were ordered here instead—we came via Miami on Sunday. And there was something else as well. I’d never been to England before, but I’d always heard it was kind of cool compared to the States, so I thought that would be a great place to split from him. Only when that MP was shot, that Dr. Small, I couldn’t believe it any longer, dig?”
It hung together, I had to admit that. Why should I be here myself if I hadn’t stopped believing that England was kind of cool?
“It’s going to give me ulcers,” Dolly said. “All this tension, I mean… What about you, Max? Are you here to do something for Fierro?”
I compromised by not answering. Eventually she said, “I shouldn’t have asked that. Sorry.”
She shouldn’t have mentioned Fierro’s name, either. Fortunately no one seemed to be eavesdropping; the place was packed almost to capacity now, and the barmen, waiters, waitresses and García himself all had their attention engaged.
“You said Gilbert’s at the naval base?” I murmured.
“Been there all day. We were scheduled to come here after London anyway, so he could report on the conference, and he went to the embassy yesterday and the base this morning. He told me they’re afraid the Ponzas may try and call another general strike like the one they had a few years back.”
“He’s still telling you things like that? Doesn’t he suspect how you feel now?”
“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “We did have a big row a few months ago—I’d been reading up on Marcuse, and Fanon, and I thought I ought to read Mao too, so I bought a copy of the Little Red Book, and he found it.” A harsh laugh. “Christ, I never saw anyone so frightened! He practically pissed himself… Oh, Max, how the hell did you manage to keep your head straight?”
She was looking directly at me, but not seeing me. Her eyes were glistening as though with almost-shed tears.
“He could have been such a nice guy! And here he is, halfway to not being human any more!”
She sipped at her drink, and went on, “Whereas you… Well, I don’t know too much about you, but Mike and Sonia mentioned some of the things you’ve done, and I read in the papers about those prisoners on that Greek island, and of course everybody knows what you did in Milnia, and—”
“Luckily for me,” I interrupted, “not everybody knows. In an age of three billion people, it is still just possible not to be world-famous. If it wasn’t I’d be dead.”
She pondered that for a while, and finally nodded. “I guess that’s true. You must have made a lot of enemies by now.”
“I was born with a lot more than I’ve made,” I said sourly, and sucked up the last of my drink. “Well, I guess I’d better make it back to my hotel. I didn’t sleep too much on the plane and I have a long day tomorrow.”
“I’ll run you back, then. Unless you have a car?”
“No, I didn’t pick one up yet.”
“Okay, then.” She abandoned her drink and got down from her stool, automatically leaving me her check. Oh, well, it could be an investment…
As we were heading for the exit, García hailed us. “Señor! Señorita! You do not stay for the big show?”
“Another night, I’m afraid,” I said. “We’re exhausted.”
“A shame!” He looked genuinely downcast. “Still, as you say, another night. Let me give you one of our cards; it has our telephone number, and you can inquire about the artistes we have booked.” He thrust a slip of pasteboard into my hand. “Hasta la vista!”
We hardly spoke in the car. When we reached the Valencia, she did lean over for a goodnight kiss, but we kept it short, and then I went up to my room with a good deal of food for thought.
I looked on the back of García’s card by reflex, to see if it bore a note. It didn’t.
Just as well. Too damned many people were acquainted with me here already. And out of them all I could see Dolly becoming the biggest headache.
TWELVE
Lounging in the back of a luxuriously-equipped Mercedes convertible—it even boasted a radiophone, a service I hadn’t known existed in Madrugada—I dutifully noted salient points from Moril’s running commentary and now and then asked the driver to stop so I could take pictures. I’d christened him Tom, for convenience, and his companion Jerry. The latter, sitting up front, was practicing his Sabatano manner, leaning one elbow on the door and maintaining a bored expression.
First of all we toured the show development of Buenas Aguas—reference to which reminded me with annoyance that last night I’d been so tired, I’d clean forgotten to ask Dolly for the address of the villa she and Gilbert had been given. The area was indeed as magnificent as the brochures claimed.
Then we left it by a different route and returned to Brascoso at a point near the port, which we paused to inspect. As I’d learned from my preliminary reading, owing to the competition of Matorrales, the port which had grown up around the oil-terminal, it now handled chiefly inter-island trade. Nonetheless it was pretty busy; I noticed in particular a consignment of straw goods being unloaded—hats, bags, open sandals, and other things that puzzled me until through my binoculars I saw they were children’s toys, dolls and monkeys and dogs plaited from the same straw and dyed in gaudy colors.
Then we left behind the rather dreary industrial zone and found ourselves once more paralleling beaches littered with pretty girls, although here the sand was not so good, nor were there so many hotels, as on the other side of the capital.
Still, there were other points of interest.
“And that of course is the palace of our president,” Moril said. It was a huge rambling structure in the Spanish colonial style. Or so I’d read. One couldn’t see it from the road. It was surrounded by a high wall with spikes on top, and the only entrance was through a wrought-iron gate guarded by armed soldiers in dress uniforms which must last have been revised a century ago: red jackets, black pants, shakos, white belts and gloves. There were four sentries, all sweating rivers.
“Is the president there now?” I inquired.
“No, currently he’s at his home on the island of Aranjuez. Named after the Spanish royal family’s country residence, you know. The most beautiful of all our islands, many think. It is like one enormous garden.”
“Is it possible to go there?”
“Unfortunately not except by personal invitation of His Excellency,” Moril smiled.
“I see. Does your president appear often in public?”
“More than he used to a few years ago. He was rather ill, you understand, but he has made a good recovery and we look forward to continued prosperity under his wise leadership.” Moril hesitated. “Also, as you may have heard, we had some trouble with subversives. But I’m glad to say that has been put a stop to.”
Believe what you like, baby, I commented silently.
“As it happens, though,” Moril went on, “the president has a public engagement next weekend, one which he never misses. You are aware of the grand celebration organized annually by our Ministry of Culture in honor of his birthday?”
I’d noticed something about it in one of the many publicity brochures I’d collected from the Valencia’s reception desk. “Yes, a folklore concert—right?”
“Oh, much more than simply a concert! It’s a complete microcosm of the culture of Madrugada. It begins at noon with a parade, almost like a carnival, which lasts as long as three hours, at the conclusion of which His Excellency rides through the streets of Brascoso being cheered by his people. Then, in the evening, the affair resumes at six p.m. with a special mass to honor Don Amedeo—”
“A mass at six in the evening?”
“It is an ancient tradition. The city of Brascoso fell to its attackers at the end of the day, and the victors at once celebrated a mass to mark the occasion. In 1825, that is, of course.”
“I see,” I said thoughtfully. “Please go on. Where does all this take place, then?”
“Formerly it was held in St Luke’s Place, in front of the cathedral, where we met yesterday, but that long ago became so small for the crowd that in some years people desperate for a sight of the president were trampled to death.” Moril looked suitably regretful. “Since the completion of the Estadio del Béisbol it is held there instead. Eighteen thousand can be seated; even so, there are always thousands more who are disappointed of admission. It is a most magnificent occasion. Always many ambassadors are present, and American officers, as well as all the ministers of our government. There are displays of dancing, and of course music, with popular singers, and even some badoan ritual too—not that one should take that too seriously nowadays, because it is what you might call our folklore, nothing more. But it is very spectacular. Every island sends its best musicians and dancers, and there is great competition, because the best-liked performers are sometimes chosen to be sent on tours abroad at His Excellency’s expense, to promote and publicize what our country has to offer visitors.”
He paused. “Will you still be here next Sunday? If so I can obtain an invitation.”
“I may well be,” I said. “It certainly sounds like something I shouldn’t miss.”
“I will arrange it, then,” Moril promised. And added, “Of course I can get you as many pictures of His Excellency as you like.”
Shortly we were out of sight of Brascoso and—after a brief detour inland where rock cropped out to the seashore—continuing along a typical re
sort-style coastal highway fringed with hotels, holiday apartments, a few expensive private residences one of which, Moril said, belonged to the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, and several casinos outside which rows of parked cars testified to good business being carried on even this early in the day. At intervals we passed through more towns—overgrown villages, really—whose chief attraction, I learned, was skin-diving because the fish around here were exceptionally good.
No doubt of it: this was a beautiful island. Moreover some pains were being taken to keep it that way. When we passed Matorrales I barely caught a glimpse of the huge spherical aluminum oil-tanks there, and there was only one pale grey plume of smoke drifting skyward. Either a screen of trees had been specially planted, or this road had been routed so that the original vegetation and the lie of the land hid the port.
“Yes, we like to conceal what is necessary but not beautiful,” Moril said when I mentioned this to him, and I wondered: Does that include the slums up the hill?
“Shortly we shall come back in sight of Petty Madrugada,” Moril said. “Around the next bend, I think—ah, there it is now.”
On the flank of the smaller island there were more port facilities, tiny in the distance but etched on the burning blue sky and blue-grey ocean: tall cranes, somber concrete piers, a bright yellow fork-lift truck crawling along like a monstrous bug.
It had already vanished owing to a curve in the road when I said, “That’s the American naval base, right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“That brings up a point my readers will want to know about. Do you get much trouble with pollution on your beaches? Oil, for example?” With a jerk of my thumb back towards Matorrales.
