Father Jorge walked toward a large apartment house that rose out of a field of rubble. On the blank side of one wall there was a giant face of a Marlboro Man in a black cowboy hat, staring down upon the heart of Chorrillo—the prison, the fort, the cemetery, the teeming street—with savage indifference. Behind these apartments there was another street of wooden slums, which seemed, in Father Jorge’s opinion, even more degraded than the crumbling shanties he had already passed. It was called Mariners Street. The balconies on Mariners Street were like a long frozen wave, a bit nauseating to focus on. The thought of people actually living in these perilous apartments filled him with outrage. Much of the wood was so rotten that he could push his fingers straight through the walls. Many times he had presided over funerals of people who had died when a floor suddenly gave way, or a balcony collapsed, or a cooking stove caught fire and the entire structure had burned like a scrap of newspaper. If he chose to, Father Jorge could spend every day of his life campaigning for sanitation and medical attention for his parishioners. Chorrillo was a pesthole, everyone knew it. Too many children had died of diseases that were easily curable. And yet all this was a natural result of the corruption and indifference of military rule. The people themselves lived like rats, moving into abandoned quarters and staying until they simply overran the space, or until they were run off by other, more unscrupulous and dangerous competitors, or until disease or accident destroyed them, leaving their squalid living space for new squatters to occupy.
A small girl sat on a stoop painting her toenails lime green. Father Jorge recognized her from catechism class. She looked up and greeted him happily.
“Is your mother home, Renata?” Father Jorge asked.
“She’s upstairs.”
There was no front door. Father Jorge walked into the stairwell, which was crammed with trash. A child came bolting down the stairs, heedless of the missing steps, and skipped past the priest, who picked his way through the dark corridors, his eyes not yet adjusted to the gloom. He could hear music from a transistor radio coming from one of the rooms. He waved at the dark spaces in front of him and made his way toward the noise.
A young woman who Father Jorge took to be Renata’s older sister answered the door. She was wearing the same lime green polish on her very long fingernails.
“I’m looking for Señora Sánchez,” he told her.
“I’m Gloria Sánchez, the mother of Renata and Teófilo,” the young woman responded, avoiding the implications of Father Jorge’s clumsy statement. Very few women here were actually married. He admired her tact.
“I’ve brought you some supplies for Renata’s studies,” he said, setting a package on the small table beside the stove.
“Do you want some coffee, Father?”
The priest sat at the table and watched the young woman put the pot on the burner. She was some mixture of black and Indian and Chinese—a typical Panamanian racial gumbo. Her bare arms were strong and shapely, and her skin was the color of polished mahogany. She wore her hair in a ponytail, which was one reason Father Jorge had mistaken her for a teenager, but he could see now that she was a grown woman, in her early thirties, he supposed. There was something especially delicate about the line of her jaw and her fine, thin neck. The intersection of these two appealing vectors was highlighted by a pair of tiny gold crucifixes in the lobes of her small ears.
By Chorrillo standards, the Sánchez household was spacious and well appointed. They even had electricity, although how they managed to get wiring into the apartment was a mystery. A single bulb illuminated the small room. On the floor were three mattresses, which had been carefully rolled up in a noble attempt at housekeeping. A calendar picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe occupied one wall, and a poster of Sylvester Stallone occupied another. A framed certificate from the Mirabella School of Beauty testified that Gloria Sánchez was a recent graduate. Renata’s schoolbooks were in a stack on the floor. The radio rested on the windowsill, with its antenna pointing outside for better reception. Beside the table and chairs, there was a futon and a bureau with several photographs on it. Father Jorge was curious to see them closer; he was looking for hints about Señorita Sánchez’s life. But then he looked at her green fingernails and smiled to himself.
“Do you know my son, Father? He is the reason I asked you to come.”
The boy was standing silently in the doorway. He looked to be about eleven, although malnutrition often caused the children of Chorrillo to appear many years younger than they actually were. He had his mother’s high cheekbones and delicate nose, but he had the eyes of a bitter old man.
“This is Teófilo,” said the mother.
“Are you in school, Teófilo?” Father Jorge asked.
The boy stared at him impassively. His mother answered for him. “He went for five years, but now he never goes. He only wanders the street with the gangs, isn’t that right, Teo?” When the boy gave no response, she continued wearily, “If he doesn’t get away from them, God only knows where this will end. Already he is fifteen years old. He has intelligence. He doesn’t need to become a gangster.”
“Gangster,” the boy repeated, with an embarrassed smirk on his face.
“Don’t laugh, it’s happening already. The stealing, the lies. You’re becoming a criminal.”
“So what? Next year I’ll join the army.”
“Even the army requires you to read and do your sums,” said Gloria. “Do you want to be ignorant all your life? You need a trade. You need to study. On the streets you only become a nobody. Look at those other boys, they’re all going to wind up in prison. Just because they have made stupid choices doesn’t mean you have to follow them.”
“They’re not stupid,” Teo said angrily. “At least they got money to buy nice things.”
Gloria turned to Father Jorge. “That’s all he thinks about, money. He doesn’t think about the consequences. It doesn’t occur to him that maybe someday he might die out there. I have prayed about this, Father. You must take him. I can’t control his life. He needs a man to control him.”
Teo cast a quick look at the priest, then contemptuously rolled his eyes and looked away.
“I certainly can’t control him, or any of the other children we raise in the parish,” said Father Jorge. “Every child we take in has to agree to certain rules. They have to study and they must attend mass every day. They cannot commit any crimes or they will be expelled immediately. I don’t know if Teo is ready to accept our way of life.”
The boy studied the cracks in the ceiling for a moment. “I heard you got a basketball team,” he said casually.
“We’ve got several sports teams,” Father Jorge said. “We also have a band, if you like music.”
“He sings like an angel,” said Gloria. “But his voice is still changing.”
“We have a choir, of course,” said Father Jorge, “and workshops where you can learn a trade. There are about twenty other boys there now, all ages. If you want to go visit, I can take you there this afternoon. This is a decision you have to make for yourself. Nobody is going to make you do anything.”
“Can I visit Renata?” the boy asked.
“Of course. Anytime you are not in class. And she can visit you. It is a church, not a prison.”
The boy nodded an almost imperceptible assent.
CHAPTER 4
DON’T THINK you can intimidate me,” said Nicky Barletta as he sat shivering in Tony’s overly air-conditioned office in the Comandancia. “We do have laws in this country. We do have a constitution. I realize that you are the head of the military forces, but I am the president, and that fact must be respected.”
Tony poured himself an eye-opening dollop of Old Parr. It was nine in the morning, well before his usual rising time.
“You are the president, but you serve at the will of General Noriega,” said Roberto, who sat beside Tony’s desk, in front of the Panamanian flag.
Nicky started to respond, since he knew very well what the Panamanian cons
titution said about this, but he chose not to press the point. “In any case, I am here, making every effort to be helpful.”
Nicky had just gotten off the flight from New York, and now he wished he had never left. He was a stiff, owlish-looking creature, with slicked-back hair and thick, squarish bifocals that framed his eyes in a perpetual expression of alarm. A former World Bank bureaucrat, Nicky saw himself as a soldier of economic enlightenment, imposing the stern teachings of Milton Friedman on the Third World, much as the conquistadors had imposed bloody Christianity on the savages of the past. Now he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and stared at the warmly inscribed photographs of John Wayne and Mother Teresa on Tony’s desk and the brass menorah and the golden Buddha on the shelf behind him. He felt as if he were in a religious museum of some sort—or a crypt. The air conditioner shuddered as the condenser kicked in. Moisture was forming on the windows. Overhead the ceiling fan moaned. Nicky’s teeth began to chatter.
“We still have a problem, Nicky,” Tony said politely. “We have to take care of this problem.”
“As I said, I am here and ready to help. What is the problem?”
“I said when you were elected that you had three hundred and sixty-five days to turn the economy around. Frankly, we expected more of you.”
“Does this meeting really have anything to do with the economy?” Nicky asked doubtfully.
“The people are suffering,” said Roberto, “but you are deaf to their cries.”
“Oh, stop it, Roberto,” Nicky said impatiently. “I’ve only instituted the very measures proposed by the IMF and the World Bank—the same ones any country must adopt in order to have respectable credit.”
“Nonetheless, the legislature is in revolt,” said Tony. “They are demanding that I make a change.”
“Nothing has been mentioned to me,” said Nicky. “Besides, the legislature is not even in session.”
“They are calling you a traitor,” said Roberto.
“Who is saying this?” Nicky cried indignantly. “I love my country! I have served her valiantly! I have sacrificed my own interests!”
Tony yawned deeply.
“I do not intend to sit here and watch this charade any further,” Nicky said, gathering his dignity. “I am a loyal patriot, as every Panamanian knows. I refuse to be treated like some junior officer. If you want to discuss economic decisions in a civilized manner, you can call me in the morning in my office. Cecilia has my schedule.”
With that, Barletta walked purposefully out of Tony’s office. Tony poured another glass of whiskey and leaned back in his oversized executive chair. Felicidad had picked it up at Sotheby’s during a shockingly expensive weekend getaway. It had belonged to Admiral Karl Dönitz, the Nazi U-boat commander who had been Führer for three days after Hitler’s death. The sentimental value alone was worth whatever she paid for it.
Presently a white-faced President Barletta reappeared in Tony’s doorway. “Apparently, I am your prisoner,” he said.
“Let’s just say that our discussion hasn’t concluded,” Tony said amicably.
“What do you want? You want me to resign? Is that going to solve your problem?”
“I think it is the only solution,” said Tony. “Naturally, we are prepared to make your transition an easy one.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Tony. People are going to say that the only reason you’re doing this is to avoid creating the Spadafora commission. If you really felt this way, you should have told me! Okay, perhaps I should have consulted you before I acted, but you were out of the country, and people were demanding a response. I had to do something! It never occurred to me that this would concern you, since I knew you would never have had anything to do with his murder. I only did what I did to bring his killers to justice. I am sure that you want the same thing.”
“Of course,” said Tony.
“But don’t you see, if you remove me from office, people are going to say you are covering up! It’ll create the wrong impression.”
Tony shrugged. “People talk, who listens?”
“But everyone will suspect you, Tony. They’ll say, ‘He must have something to hide.’ They’ll say, ‘Hugo knew the truth.’ It won’t stop. Finally, somebody’s got to take responsibility for his death—and you know very well that you’ll never be able to pin it on me.”
“You should be careful, Nicky,” Roberto warned. “The way you talk, it is very disrespectful.”
“What have I got to lose?” Nicky said defiantly. “If you think you are going to force me into signing a letter of resignation, you’re completely off track. I will never do such a thing. You will have to fire me. Think how that would look.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Tony agreed.
“Very unfortunate,” Nicky said. “Essentially, we are talking about a military coup. And do you know how this will be received in Washington? Do you know what my friend George Shultz will say? I would think your future would be very short, Tony. The Americans will step on you, I guarantee it.”
Tony wasn’t thinking too clearly; the scotch had not had time to lubricate his mental gears. Moreover, there was a larger and more pressing problem that he had to deal with. “Why don’t you continue talking this over with Roberto, Nicky?” he said. “I’ve got an important meeting. Roberto, you explain to Nicky the retirement package we are offering. Make sure he understands.”
“Do I have a choice?” Nicky asked coldly.
“You don’t have to talk,” said Tony. “But you do have to listen.”
Hey baby hey baby hey baby!” The scarlet macaw on Tony’s shoulder was having an anxiety attack as he faced the open elevator doors. His talons knifed into Tony’s flesh. Tony could feel the force of the powerful wings backpedaling them into the lobby.
“Shhh, Romeo! Behave!”
“Fuck your mother! Fuck your mother! Fuuu-aaawwck! Aa-aaawwk!” Romeo cried desperately, whistling and weeping and batting the air.
“It’s an elevator!” Tony said, trying to reason with him.
“Yanqui go home!”
Tony removed his hat and plopped it over the parrot’s head. Romeo squirmed for a moment, then relaxed his grip on Tony’s shoulder, surrendering to the blindness. I wish women were so easy, Tony thought.
He pushed the number of Carmen’s floor.
On the way up, Tony rehearsed his apology. He hated this more than dentistry.
“Say, ‘Carmen is a pretty girl,’ ” Tony told Romeo as he removed the hat in front of Carmen’s apartment. Romeo imitated the sound of the door buzzer.
Tony waited. No response. He could hear a slight stirring inside.
“Carmen, my love?”
“I’m not here,” her voice replied.
“How can you say that? What does that mean? Please, dearest, open the door. I have a little present for you.”
He could almost hear her weighing his offer. In a moment, the door opened. Carmen Morales and Romeo exchanged sideways glances.
“Your money or your life!”
“Do you think this fucking bird will make everything different?” Carmen asked furiously.
“I trained him myself,” said Tony. “He is the most intelligent of all my birds. He has something to tell you, don’t you, Romeo?”
Romeo’s bill clacked shut. He studied Tony’s ear and pretended not to hear.
“Anyway, I’m allergic,” said Carmen.
“Let me in,” Tony pleaded. “I’ve got trouble.”
Carmen grudgingly stepped aside.
Romeo took one look at the apartment and whistled in admiration.
“Just be glad you missed Paris,” said Tony. “Rain all week. And Geneva—how do they live in that place? You would freeze there, I swear it, even in the summer.” Tony set Romeo on the back of a plush chintz couch in a bold floral pattern that caused the bird to become slightly euphoric.
“Maybe Europe doesn’t make me as miserable as it does you. He better not dirty the fabric.”
&nb
sp; “You could not have gone on the same trip with Felicidad! Do you want her to kill us both? What were you thinking?”
“That I should go and she should stay, for once! Me, not her!”
Carmen’s eyes were on fire. When she got like this, it was a little frightening, like trying to ride a horse that refuses to be tamed.
“I try to make you happy, but you are so crazy,” Tony complained. “I know I promised to take you to Paris, but not this time! This was an official trip. Photographers! Press! When we go to Paris, it should be for romance, not for business.”
“Is that what you think I want? Paris?” Carmen spat out the word. “I don’t give a fuck about Paris.”
“I thought you loved Paris.”
“I do love Paris, but that’s not what I want, Tony! Not Paris. And not some stupid bird.”
Romeo cackled nervously.
“God, you’re both so weird!” Carmen rushed out of the room, brushing away tears with her fingers.
Tony waited. He had developed a theory about women that had come from his work with parrots. Like all creatures, they sought rewards and feared punishment. The trick was to take them by surprise, keep them off guard, never let them know what was coming. He made a lot of promises and every once in a while he would deliver. Hope kept them on the hook.
But Carmen was a riddle because she really didn’t know what she wanted. It was a constant source of frustration. If only she could say, “I want a million dollars!” or “I want a career in the movies!” There was really very little that was outside Tony’s grasp. Oh, she loved fashionable clothes and jewelry, et cetera, but she was so beautiful that she simply accepted such things as a natural right. It was as if she walked on a beach where diamonds and rubies routinely washed ashore at her feet. Now here she was, mistress to a man who only wanted to please her—a man who could give her nearly anything—but she suffered from an inability to name her price. Nothing satisfied her. Since puberty she had been the object of men’s desires, but she herself was curiously desireless.
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