The Orchids

by Thomas H. Cook

  And yet even this, or the prolongation of it, came abruptly to an end.

  “I have bad news,” Anna said quietly.

  We were sitting in a small park. It was late evening and the park was almost entirely empty.

  “Bad news?” I could already feel a lethal fluttering in my stomach. I imagined that she was going to let me go, set me adrift, and then rush off to that handsome lover who was already waiting naked in her bed.

  “My father has lost his job,” Anna said.

  I felt relieved. “I’m sorry. But he’ll find another one, I’m sure.”

  Anna lowered her eyes. “He says there are no jobs to be found here.”

  “No jobs?” I laughed. “Of course there are jobs. He just has to look for one, that’s all.”

  Anna shook her head. “He says there are no jobs.”

  I leaned forward attentively. “What are you telling me, Anna?”

  She looked up. “I have to move away, Peter. We have to go to another city where my father can find work.”

  For years I had walked about in complete obliviousness to the deepening crisis. Herds of workers marched through the streets, parading their grievances. Speakers harangued the crowded parks with the details of their scheming. The police fired on demonstrators of the right and left. The universities were set aflame with struggle. The government tottered back and forth from year to year, groping toward some ill-defined stability. Prices soared, along with unemployment. Production collapsed. The old symbols lost their power to seduce, and by that means, control. Through all of this I had walked without the slightest care. But now the times had finally touched me, blotted out a brilliant romance, snatched blonde Anna from her knight’s protection.

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “What do you mean, move away?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “You can’t move away.”

  “It’s not me,” Anna said. “It’s my father. We have to move.”

  “No you don’t,” I said desperately. “Let him go. You can stay here. We can get married.”

  “We can’t get married,” Anna said softly. She touched my face. “It’s no use.”

  She took my hand and we began to stroll across the park. A great stone statue of Frederick the Great loomed ahead of us. He seemed to watch us mournfully.

  “We have to do something, Anna,” I said.

  “There’s nothing we can do. We can’t get married. You don’t have a job any more than my father does.”

  “Jobs!” I said angrily. “We can’t let something like that stop us.”

  “We have no choice, Peter,” Anna said evenly.

  I could see her evaporating before me, history erasing her from my life. There were no jobs in the village. That was the dictate of history, and because of it, this little love affair must end. For history was the truly great fire, adolescent romance merely cinerary.

  “We cannot let this happen, Anna,” I said.

  “But it has, Peter.”

  I despised her resignation. “No,” I said loudly, “I won’t allow it.”

  Anna looked at me. Her eyes were glistening. “I don’t want to go on with this. I can’t.”

  And then she rushed away, with something of me still dangling in her hand, a little thread made out of my desire, unraveling me as she moved away. I watched her as she darted across the park, running like some teenage heroine of nineteenth century fiction, her hair swaying left and right as if pushed gently by invisible hands. I stood still and she grew smaller in the distance, like a wisp of paper falling from great height toward — who knows — oblivion.

  I have no idea what became of Anna. I have no idea where she is, or if she is alive, or, if alive, how mutated by events. I take a piece of stationery from my desk, and then take up my pen.

  Dear Anna . .

  The page stares back blankly, my letter stopped in its course. I do not know what to say to Anna. And even if by some miraculous circumstance she were to receive my letter, who would it be who received it? Not the Anna moaning softly under the featureless gaze of the milkmaid dolls. Of that I may be sure. But if not that, then what? Could she have taken the road I took? Could there be pictures of her in some hideous archive, perhaps a grainy photograph in black and white of a woman standing black-booted before a wintry background laced by electric wire, a woman staring haughtily into the camera’s lens, posturing with her feet spread wide apart, slapping a leather truncheon at her thigh, guarding the vermin as they pass with enforced, truckling grace toward the fire.

  I return to my letter:

  Dear Anna:

  I have come to love all things that move with stamina through pain.

  I fold the letter carefully, then burn it in the ashtray beside my rack of pipes. Watching the smoke, I recall that moment once again when Anna and I faced each other in the park. Here in the Republic one can grow to hate such banal reminiscences. The aggrieved adolescent stands blank-faced in the park, watching his love abandon him, and feels the first touch of history, a mere chill around his shoulders, and then, that moment past, moves on to greater endeavors involving smoke and poison gas.

  Greater things, indeed, for one and all. And yet the little prince, rubbing his eyes under the sculptured gaze of Frederick the Great, can feel nothing of his own loss, nothing but sudden drift, dull and anchorless, as if the world’s firm substance had suddenly exploded, scattering fragments of earth and bone throughout the universe, as if the seas were made of star-crossed lovers’ tears, as if the rising chorus of Fidelio were meant to orchestrate the strife of teenage infatuation. For the true romantic, there is no history or literature or art that does not pertain to him.

  I gaze into the enclosing darkness. In the Republic, night is a signal for assault. The owls wait on their secret perches for the dark curtain to fall across the jungle floor, their eyes searching the blackness for the small rodents that must go forth, risking everything for food. Silently, they squeeze the branches with their talons and dream of small hearts beating within their grasp. In the blue, lunar glare of the searchlights Dr. Ludtz has installed about the compound, I see Juan puttering about the greenhouse, muttering prayers against the blight. He believes that darkness is the devil’s work, that it shields that unknowable miasma which will drift in to corrupt the orchids. To the left, the lights in Dr. Ludtz’s cottage are burning brightly through the barred and shuttered windows. Inside he reads Rilke and glances up periodically at the pistol that rests upon his nightstand next to his crucifix.

  I turn and walk into my office. Sitting behind my desk, I pour a small amount of absinthe into my glass. Outside, I can hear the night creatures fill the air with calls of mating or distress. Beyond the rim of light that circles the grounds like a thin white wall, the world descends to elemental needs. Out there, small creatures scurry across the leaves, fleeing the swoop of gigantic birds; the great snakes coil around mounds of eggs orphaned by the owls; the beetles inch their way into the viscera of the dead or tumble over lumps of larger creatures’ waste. Here, doom is no more than prologue to further violation. Each night the libretto is the same, and things go forth and are cut down, and all things wait to be relieved.

  Part II

  SPLENDID TO SEE you again, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says. He roots himself in his chair. I can see a revolver bulging slightly under each arm of his three-piece suit.

  “Good to see you, also,” I tell him.

  Don Camillo looks off the verandah at the light dancing on the river. “A beautiful morning. Absolutely beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  Don Camillo turns to me. “Well, let me say that El Presidente is very much looking forward to his visit.” He smiles expansively. Don Camillo is a man of smiles and expansiveness, both closely related to his personal control of the Republic’s stock of copper.

  “Please give El Presidente my regards,” I tell him.

  “You will soon be able to give them to him yourself, Don Pedro.”

  “Of course.
”

  Don Camillo glances about. “And where, may I ask, is my good friend Dr. Ludtz?”

  “In his cottage.”

  “I hope he is well.”

  “Quite well. He is reading, I suppose.”

  “A well-read man. I noticed that right away about Dr. Ludtz,” Don Camillo says.

  “A product of culture’s refinements,” I add agreeably.

  “Refinements, yes,” Don Camillo says, nodding his head thoughtfully. “A man of refinements.” He takes a deep breath and exhales with affected weariness. “Men of state, regrettably, have little time for such things, such refinements.” He laughs. “But then, I suppose we have our place in the world.”

  “We?”

  “Men of affairs. Like yourself. Like me.”

  “My kingdom is rather small, Don Camillo,” I say.

  Don Camillo shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t diminish yourself. To run an estate such as this — particularly with the rather backward population of El Caliz — that is no small matter, believe me.”

  Here in the Republic, no man must be diminished. That would debase the sanctity of individualism upon which the totalitarian state is founded. Here in the Republic each man must be free to grab what he can, be it horse or maid — or copper.

  “Speaking of men of affairs, Don Camillo,” I say, “how is El Presidente?”

  “Very well,” Don Camillo replies delightedly. He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Of course, we’ve had a little trouble in the northern provinces.”

  As he speaks, I can see the “trouble in the northern provinces” trudging wearily through the jungle, a small, bedraggled army infested with lice and infected with disease. They amputate their gangrenous limbs with penknives and machetes.

  “I’m disturbed to hear about the trouble.”

  “Nothing serious, you understand,” Don Camillo hastens to inform me. “Mere irritations, but they plague El Presidente. They keep him from the sleep he deserves, wear down his strength.” He slaps at a mosquito near his ear. “Damn pests.” He rolls his shoulder, the revolvers eating into his armpits. Here in the Republic, men of state must bear such aggravations.

  “Well, perhaps his visit here will relax El Presidente.”

  “I profoundly hope so, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says worriedly. “As I say, he’s not been sleeping well. Bad dreams, I think. Do you ever have bad dreams?”

  “Sometimes I dream that in the end all the innocent blood that has been shed will be gathered in a great pit and those who spilled it will be forced to swim in it forever.”

  Don Camillo’s face pales. “Dios mío. How horrible.”

  “One cannot help one’s dreams.”

  The light seems to have withdrawn from the two gilded medals that adorn Don Camillo’s breast pocket. “Such dreams. Horrible,” he says. His eyes are full of imagined terrors.

  “Perhaps El Presidente’s dreams are better suited to his person,” I say comfortingly.

  Camillo glances apprehensively toward the river. The guards who stand below, near his limousine, stiffen as he looks toward them, then relax as he returns his gaze to me. “Such a vision. Horrible.”

  “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” I tell him.

  The monkeys have begun to screech wildly in the trees across the river. Don Camillo turns to his guards and instructs them to fire a burst into the trees. They do so, and I hear the bullets slapping into the thick foliage. One monkey drops from the tree and splashes belly down into the river.

  Don Camillo turns slowly to face me. There is a smile on his face, but something dark behind it. “You seem to have become somewhat morbid of late, Don Pedro,” he says. “I hope you will try to be in better spirits when El Presidente visits.”

  The monkey’s arms slowly rise from the surface of the water, then drop, then rise again. “You should kill it,” I tell Don Camillo.

  Don Camillo’s eyes seem to recede into his skull. “What are you talking about?” he asks darkly.

  I nod toward the river. “The monkey. It is still alive.”

  Don Camillo turns toward the river and watches the arms rise and fall. Then he turns back to me. “Sometimes we catch one of those bastards from the northern provinces, those rebels. We tie a rope around his waist and hoist him up in a helicopter. Then we fly very low over the marshes, dragging him just above the water so that the reeds can do their work.” His lips curl down. “After a while there’s not much left to pull up, so we just cut the rope, you know?” He leans forward and stares at me menacingly. “You know why I am here, do you not, Don Pedro?”

  “As always, my friend, you have come to make sure that all the proper arrangements have been made for El Presidente’s visit.”

  Don Camillo traces his thin mustache across his lips with the tip of his index finger. “I must be sure about his safety, Don Pedro.”

  “Why should he not be safe in El Caliz?” I ask. In the river, the monkey’s arms no longer rise and the body begins to drift downstream with the river’s lethargic flow.

  “We are a free people in the Republic,” Don Camillo says. “People may travel as they like. Perhaps they may travel to El Caliz, perhaps enemies come here.” He smiles. “Perhaps already there are enemies living in El Caliz.”

  “There are no enemies here, I assure you, Don Camillo.”

  Don Camillo sits back in his chair. “The world is full of monkeys. Like the ones in the tree, you know. They chatter constantly. Big talk. Crazy talk. But one has to take it seriously.”

  “El Presidente has always enjoyed his visits here,” I tell Don Camillo.

  “Very much. Correct,” Don Camillo says. “He very much looks forward to it.”

  “This will go well, I assure you.”

  Don Camillo looks relieved. “I hope so.” He stares about as if looking for traces of copper. “I suppose you have already made plans for the visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I know what they are?”

  “A large banquet. The whole village will be invited. I know how much they love El Presidente, and how much he loves them, as well.”

  Don Camillo smiles happily. “Splendid. That should improve his spirits.”

  “Such is my intent.”

  Don Camillo eyes the wall of records inside my office. “There is a particular musician El Presidente admires, Don Pedro. I wonder if you might have any of his recordings.”

  “What is the name?”

  “Chop-pin.”

  “Chopin,” I say gently.

  Don Camillo smiles self-consciously. “Oh, is that how it is pronounced? I have only seen the name written on the albums. One does not hear such names pronounced very often here in the Republic.”

  In the Camp, the orchestra was not permitted to play Chopin, because he was a Pole. “It wouldn’t matter if you did,” I tell Don Camillo.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you did hear such names pronounced here, Don Camillo. Pronunciations are of no importance.”

  “Exactly,” Don Camillo says. “Although I’m sure El Presidente knows the correct form of speech.”

  “A man of refinements,” I add.

  “Profoundly so,” Don Camillo says. He slaps his thighs. “Well, I think my work is done here, Don Pedro. I’m happy to see that you have made the proper arrangements for El Presidente’s visit.”

  “Everything will be taken care of, you may depend on it, Don Camillo.”

  Don Camillo rises, draws a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and mops his brow. “This business in the northern provinces, it has exhausted me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Ah, well, part of the job,” Don Camillo says. He replaces the handkerchief. “It’s those people up there. They are never satisfied. No matter what El Presidente does for them, they want more.”

  “Perhaps if they had more copper —”

  Don Camillo laughs. “Copper? No, there’s no copper to be had in that region of the Republic
. Believe me, it has been investigated.”

  “Something else then, perhaps.”

  “No, nothing,” Don Camillo says with certainty. “It’s their nature, that’s all. Mountain people. Uncivilized. Sometimes I think that we will never have peace in the northern provinces until every last one of them has been killed.” He looks at me knowingly. “A process, I believe, in which you have some expertise, Doctor.”

  My machine pistol rests in the top drawer of my desk. It is only a few inches from my hands.

  Don Camillo laughs, but his eyes do not. “Perhaps you have a plan for the northern provinces.”

  It would be a matter of opening the drawer, one quick, deft movement, and he would dance until the clip emptied.

  “I would not want to be involved,” I tell him.

  “Once is enough for anyone, I suppose,” Don Camillo says with a malicious wink.

  I stand. “Tell El Presidente that I am waiting for him with great eagerness.”

  Don Camillo wipes the shimmering beads of sweat from his mustache. “And you tell Dr. Ludtz that I regret not seeing him.” He offers me his hand. I take it and shake it briskly. “So nice to have seen you, Don Pedro,” he says.

  “And you, Don Camillo.” In the Republic, civility is important.

  Don Camillo turns and moves down the stairs. His bodyguards watch me, and two other bodyguards a little ways distant watch them. In the Republic, no one can be trusted.

  I raise my hand. “Adiós, Don Camillo.”

  Don Camillo turns before entering his mud-caked limousine. “Y usted, tambien,” he calls to me. Then he steps inside the car, surrounded by his sloe-eyed janissaries in their dark green uniforms. They stare out the window, their eyes cruising the river bank or rising to riffle through the trees searching for blue rifle barrels peeping from the vines like the heads of wary serpents.

  Don Camillo’s car pulls away quickly, heaving up a trail of swirling orange dust. In the distance, I can see Esperanza watch the limousine. She is wearing a dark red rebozo that falls over her shoulders and drops almost to her knees. Ritually, she claps her hands three times as the car passes. I do not know if this is a blessing or a curse.