The Orchids
Page 22
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.
“A beautiful place you have here, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. “You are very fortunate.”
“It is an honor to live in the Republic.”
“I am honored that you think so highly of our country,” El Presidente says. “In the developed world they have curious ideas about our country.”
“They have curious ideas about their own, as well,” I tell him.
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, Don Pedro, it is always such a joy to speak with you. Do you know, no matter how weary I become, I always know that I can come here and be refreshed?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And of course it is not only the food and drink, superb though they are. It is the conversation, Don Pedro. I get so little interesting conversation in the capital. It is always business there, never anything that engages the mind.”
“Please come to El Caliz as often as you like, Mr. President. You will always be welcome.”
“Ah, if only I could come as often as I like, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says with a weary sigh. “But I’m so busy. Once a year is about all I can spare, I’m afraid.”
“Well, my invitation is always extended to you.”
“Thank you, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. He looks about, his eyes finally resting on the nursery. “How are your orch
ids, Don Pedro?”
“Not as well as they might be,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“Something has afflicted them.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Would you like to see them?” I ask.
“Most certainly.”
I lead him into the nursery.
El Presidente looks about the room. “It is so like you, Don Pedro, to bring even more beauty to this place than you found here when you came.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
El Presidente walks down one of the rows of potted plants and pauses to lightly touch the petals of a particularly extravagant bloom. “Orchids,” he says, “the most beautiful of flowers.” He looks at me. “How carefully you must tend them.”
“I do not tend them at all.”
“Really?”
“No. Juan, my servant. They are his responsibility. Like most people, he is very attracted to them.”
El Presidente nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see the care he has taken. They are so beautiful.” He fingers another petal for a moment. “I suppose it would be difficult to grow them somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else?”
El Presidente looks at me. “If you had to leave El Caliz.”
“Yes. It would be difficult in another place.”
El Presidente bends forward to touch one of the orchids. “A delicate flower.”
“Beguiling.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. Beguiling,” El Presidente says. He turns to face me. “It would be a shame to have to leave them, would it not, Don Pedro?”
“Yes. It would.”
El Presidente snaps one of the orchids and inserts it into his lapel. “Sometimes I think the world will be saved by our love for such beautiful things.”
“Or our hatred for such simple ones,” I tell him.
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, there you go again, Don Pedro, always making things more complex than they should be.”
I step over to one of the tables, dig under the soil, and take the pouch of chiseled crystal that Juan buried beneath the orchid’s roots.
El Presidente smiles. “What is that, Don Pedro?”
I brush the soil from the pouch and hand it to El Presidente. “An expression of my appreciation, Mr. President.”
El Presidente folds his hand around the pouch. “How generous of you, Don Pedro.”
“Only what you deserve, Mr. President.”
El Presidente’s hands knead the pouch as if counting the gems inside. “You are too generous, Don Pedro.”
“De nada.”
El Presidente drops the pouch into his other hand, then inserts it into his suit pocket. “You need have no doubt that your generosity will be appreciated, Don Pedro.”
“Thank you.”
El Presidente smiles warmly, then glances at his watch. “I’m afraid I must be going, Don Pedro,” he says sadly.
“I understand. I’m sure you have many duties.”
“But first, won’t you tell me one of your lovely stories? You always leave me with something to remember.”
“All right, Mr. President, but it is nothing more than something I read not long ago.”
“I’m sure it will be wonderful,” El Presidente says.
I smile. “It’s from Victor Hugo, Mr. President, a mere moment from a longer work.”
“Please go on.”
“The work has to do with the fall of Satan. In Hugo’s tale, Satan falls through eons of time. Yet in the battle that preceded his expulsion — a battle fought out on the rim of time — a single feather was plucked from his side, lost to heaven. It totters on the edge of the abyss, glowing in celestial light. And Satan, as he falls, can feel the ache of its loss, a small, insistent pain, and so he locks back from time to time, and there, a billion miles and a million years away, he spies his feather, still balanced on the edge, one piece of him still aflame in holy light.”
El Presidente stands watching me, waiting for me to finish.
“That is all, Mr. President,” I tell him.
“Oh, yes, of course. Excellent, Don Pedro. Superb.”
“Thank you.”
El Presidente glances at his watch once again. “I really must be going, I’m afraid.”
“I will not keep you.”
We walk out of the nursery, and El Presidente tucks his arm once again beneath mine. “You live an idyllic life, Don Pedro,” he says. “Someday I hope to be as fortunate as you.”
“Perhaps someday you will.”
El Presidente steps up his pace slightly, tugging me along with him. “Do you fish much in the river?” he asks.
“No. Dr. Ludtz once enjoyed boating on it.”
El Presidente smiles. “Ah, yes, Dr. Ludtz. I remember him now. How is he?”
“He died yesterday, Mr. President.”
The smile on El Presidente’s face disappears. “I’m so sorry, Don Pedro.”
“Old men die, Mr. President. Some are ready. Some are not.”
“Very admirable of you, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. “Philosophical even about the death of your dear friend.”
“Perhaps.”
El Presidente nudges me forward up the hill toward the helicopter. “I hope you are not ailing,” he says.
“No. I am well.”
“Good to hear it,” El Presidente says. He does not speak again until he reaches the door of the helicopter. The guards are waiting for him with outstretched hands. He turns to the villagers who have gathered to see him off. “Vayan con Dios,” he says. He opens his arms, then draws them in. “Vayan con Dios.” Then he turns and steps into the helicopter. Above the cheering of the villagers, I hear the soft crunch of the pouch in his pocket.
I raise my hand. “Adiós.”
El Presidente waves. “Adiós, Don Pedro. And please, take care of yourself. You are too valuable to lose.”
“Gracias. Adiós.”
I step back and wait with the villagers. Together we watch the helicopter rise in a whirl of red dust. It tilts slightly as it ascends, then leans toward the river and lifts over the trees, as if taken up by the breath of God.
I turn and walk through the crowd of villagers. They step aside as I pass. I make my way to the stairs, then up to the verandah. Inside my office I take the little tin box. It is still filled with diamonds. So valuable are they that I have used only a few in my long years at El Caliz. I place the box on my desk, then take a sheet of stationery from one of the drawers. On it I write a single line: “I have become you, so that you may become me.” I sign the letter, fold it, and root it carefully amongst the diamonds. Soon I shall wrap the box and this journal in thick brown paper and on the outside write the name and address of one who, perhaps, understands the value of memory: Arnstein.
Then I will call for Juan. When he comes, I will tell him to take the package to the village and mail it.
In a while — perhaps a day or two — El Presidente’s jewelers will discover the glass within the pouch. Then El Presidente will send his guards for me. Until then, I shall wait for them, as one whose head is full of diamonds. I will wait on my verandah and perhaps allow myself to dream — as some men do — of that far world where no man’s mind can long be held within an orchid’s dome.
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copyright © 1982 by Thomas H. Cook
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Copyright Page