His Own Man

by Edgard Telles Ribeiro

  21

  Esmeralda knocked on Max’s door and went right in as usual.

  “The ambassador’s secretary asked that you come up.”

  “Come up?”

  Esmeralda laughed. “To heaven. To the third floor.”

  The ambassador’s office … Max set aside the newspaper he was reading, put out his cigarette, and pulled on his jacket. “Has my day of glory arrived?”

  “After two weeks on the job?” joked Esmeralda, who had sat back down and was now filing her nails. “I’d be surprised.”

  Max took the stairs, even though the small elevator was stopped on the ground floor. He went up unhurriedly, like a man who doesn’t pass up an opportunity to exercise his legs, combining the habit with a moment of introspection. In doing so, he showed the world, which was completely unaware of his existence at that particular moment, as well as himself, that he was in control.

  In the ambassador’s reception area, the secretary was already waiting for him, barely containing her impatience. Without so much as a smile or a word of greeting, she opened the door and stepped aside so he could enter.

  “Good morning, Marcílio,” said the ambassador without rising. He pointed to a chair in front of him and extended his arm once Max had taken a seat.

  After a handshake, he opened one of the drawers to the right of the desk and pulled out a pipe and a small round tin of tobacco. “My first pipe of the day. The doctor only allows me two. The second lends a certain charm to my lunch. But the best, of course, is the third, which I smoke alone at night, hidden, on the terrace. At my age, Marcílio, life’s pleasures are few and far between. I live a constant paradox: secrets increase around me but secret pleasures decrease. Beware.”

  Max smiled at these words. And at the wistfulness behind them. He hoped that partaking in this morning ritual somehow represented an honor, being specially granted to him. The ambassador, however, didn’t seem that interested in his reactions. In fact, he was gazing out at the tree branches when he asked, “Are you still ticked off with me?”

  “Ticked off, Ambassador?” Max was genuinely taken aback. “Why would I —”

  The ambassador held up a hand and kept him from continuing. “The assignment I gave you, technical assistance. The small office … the tired furniture … Esmeralda reciting her old poems …”

  “Please, Ambassador, technical assistance is no —”

  “Nonsense. You and I know that. But it was necessary.”

  “Necessary?”

  The ambassador turned to face him. “To keep up appearances. It’s the perfect cover for you. Just as it was important to keep you at arm’s length for a few days. Everyone around here keeps an eye on who goes in and out of my office. And I needed to defuse the reputation that preceded you. Top assistant to the minister … top assistant to the secretary-general. You’re going to have to fade into the woodwork. And the sooner, the better.”

  With another gesture, he again kept Max from opening his mouth. Far from being rude, it was an appeal. There was no time to lose. “At eleven thirty the colonel is coming to see me with an American friend of his. He’s been after me for a week to meet this guy.”

  He checked his schedule and slowly murmured, as if to himself, the full name recorded there: “Daniel A. Matrone. And that A probably isn’t for angel. He’s an American from the FBI, or the CIA. The attaché knows him from his days in Brazil. According to him, they used to play golf together. Must be a lie. That attaché lies a lot. Have you ever heard of a Brazilian colonel playing golf? With grenades, maybe. Do you play golf?”

  “No, Ambassador.”

  “Poker?”

  “Poker, yes.”

  “Excellent. Vaz …” A pause. He had transferred the tobacco to the pipe. Now all he had to do was light the match. “Major João Vaz is that big stocky guy. He’s number two to the golfer colonel. Vaz came from the SNI. But he does the PR thing — nice, friendly, and all. He’s going to invite you to his poker circle. And you’re going to accept. To his surprise.”

  “Surprise? Why?”

  “Because I gave explicit orders to all the diplomats to turn down the same invitation up till now. I was waiting for your arrival.”

  “And I …”

  “You’re going to accept. And lose. Lose a lot more than win. You can win once in a while, here and there. Discreetly. They like suckers, but they’re no fools.”

  “Forgive me, Ambassador. But I don’t see —”

  “I need information. From the second echelon of attachés. And sooner or later they’re going to open up with you. They won’t actually reveal secrets. They’re trained not to.”

  “But then …?”

  “Generally, I learn about what they know before they do. But I’m unaware of what they don’t know.”

  “What they don’t know …”

  “Right. And that’s what interests me — what they don’t know. And why they don’t know. In other words, what their bosses are keeping from them, and for what reasons. Pay close attention to the doubts, the speculations. The uncertainties.”

  Max preferred not to press. The subject seemed rather bizarre to him.

  The ambassador struck his match. Holding it lit between his fingers, he made a further suggestion. “Bluff as little as possible at the table. And avoid falling for someone else’s bluff. Break up any three of a kind you’re dealt. That ought to be enough. But keep your eyes open. They’re crafty at this kind of game.”

  The ambassador turned his back to Max again and offered his first puffs to the tree branches that almost covered the windows. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed, Ambassador.”

  “Great. Consider this an investment. Take whatever you lose out of your expense account. In exchange, you’re exempt from having to host dinners at your house. Other than for your personal friends, of course. Financially, it’ll be a trade-off, with one extra advantage: your wife will kiss your feet in gratitude. Because these low-level Uruguayans who have to be entertained now and again can bore you to tears.”

  He turned back toward Max. “How is your wife, by the way? Marina …”

  “Fine, Ambassador. She —”

  “Is she surviving our den of lionesses? They’re quite a bunch … as is the case at almost any big embassy. The men generally get along well. But the women form cliques separated by barbed wire and pricker bushes. Here, they’re all organized by my wife. And the ladies don’t suspect a thing! My wife gets quite a kick out of it. We have three rival cliques at the moment, all at each other’s throats.”

  Max laughed and disagreed good-naturedly. “Far from it, Ambassador; they’ve all been very kind and helped us a lot. We’ve even found a good apartment already thanks to them.”

  “An apartment? In Pocitos?”

  “No, we ended up deciding on a nice duplex near downtown. It’ll be better for Marina. And since we don’t have kids yet, we won’t miss having a yard.”

  The ambassador considered the matter for a few seconds. Then he gave his opinion: “Until last year, I would have disagreed with that choice. The houses in Pocitos and Carrasco are indeed much nicer. But things have been changing in this country. Matters will soon come to a head with the Tupamaros. So far, they’ve been playing cat and mouse with the police. They hold up a bank here, a jewelry store there.… But now both sides are taking off their gloves. And the military is going to step up for real. The closer you are to our office, the better. You’re arriving at what may well turn out to be this city’s last peaceful period. In just a few months, we’re going to go through a guerrilla war. Until the government falls. To one side or the other. To our side, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Silence followed, during which the ambassador devoted most of his attention to his pipe and tree branches. Soon enough, however, he changed the subject. “Has Carlos Alberto introduced you to everyone?” Carlos Alberto Pereira Campos was the minister-counselor.

  “Yes, Ambassador. A few colleagues I already knew from the reception a
t your home last year or from meetings in Rio de Janei —”

  “And the attachés and their assistants? We have an entire troop camped out here. Nine or ten of them. Almost all with wives who make you want to cry.”

  “I was introduced to the attachés and a few of their assistants, but there hasn’t been time to —”

  “The best and brightest by far is the air force general. The navy admiral, who’s leaving, also became a friend of mine. He’s a capable man. But this guy from the army, this colonel coming to see me now with the American, is something else. Quite a shady character. He earned his stripes with the secret police in São Paulo, where they say he pulled off some atrocious things. Here, in less than six months, he almost managed to burn all the bridges I’ve taken great pains to build with the Uruguayan military. His predecessor helped with that. Now, that fellow was first rate.”

  Max shifted slightly in his chair, as though seeking a more comfortable position. He knew that such bluntness, besides being unexpected and unusual, would elevate their discussion to sensitive levels. Everything that had been said up till then, even the more mundane remarks, had far surpassed the limits of a more conventional conversation. The ambassador didn’t delay in confirming this.

  “Marcílio, we’re going to have to be frank, you and I. Your transfer to Montevideo was decided before your visit at the end of last year, well before. On that occasion you were included in the delegation at my request, for one reason: I wanted to personally meet you. Files say very little about people. Your transfer was already a foregone conclusion. It only went through the ministry at the final stage, for the required paperwork. The decisions, as I’m sure you’ll understand, were made on another level. Right?”

  “Yes, Ambassador. That is …”

  The ambassador directed a stare at Max, followed by a puff of smoke. “That is …?”

  “That is, yes and no, Ambassador.”

  “Excellent, Max, excellent. Yes and no. Keep those key words in mind. They summarize your mission in Montevideo to a T. Unlike in more traditional diplomacy, there will rarely be occasion for the more comfortable and pleasing maybe.”

  They laughed for a moment, the ambassador content, Max concerned. To such an extent that, sensing the heavy atmosphere, he took a gamble and skipped a stage of the conversation to get straight to the point. “Forgive me, Ambassador, but what’s the urgency?”

  With the question, they drew near the heart of the matter — so near, in fact, that the silence was now filled with several puffs on the pipe, all of them directed toward the ceiling.

  “The urgency, Marcílio, is that I’m leaving,” answered the ambassador. “And so is Carlos Alberto. I’m going to work in the president’s office, before I retire two years from now. And after that, when I leave public service, I’ll give myself over to the pleasures of the private sector. I’m going to make some money. The Germans are after me with a few interesting proposals.”

  “Do you speak German?”

  “I studied in Germany!” His response took on an inflated tone. “Before the war! You didn’t bother to read my résumé? I’m one of the few at the ministry who know anything about Germany. And, before coming here, I served in Germany. I was transferred from Bonn to Montevideo!”

  He soon calmed down. And in order to avoid Max’s feeling unnerved by the digression, he kindly confided, “Last week, I turned down the embassy they had set aside for me. I would have died of boredom in Rome. So I made the president’s office a more promising offer.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “And Carlos Alberto will be headed to a new post, which is still being worked out. In other words, the two of us will be leaving at the same time.”

  After coming full circle, the ambassador looked straight at Max and finished by saying, “That’s the urgency. We have four months to form a partnership.”

  22

  “A partnership?” asked Max, smiling amiably.

  The ambassador set his pipe on the ashtray and reclined his chair, which tipped back beneath his weight. “I’ve been in Montevideo six years, son. I arrived just before the Revolution of sixty-four.”

  Max was disconcerted by the use of son. Without exactly sounding false, there was something insincere about it. And then there was the question of this partnership still hanging in the air between them.

  “Marcílio, in four months, I’ll be replaced by a big shot from the old guard, whose name I can’t reveal just yet. But it’s irrelevant. What matters is that you’re going to get along very well. He’s polite and pleasant enough. But my replacement is coming here solely to push papers. The one running things at the embassy will be his number two. A man in whom I have complete confidence, my protégé, so to speak. We’ve served together twice, the last time in Germany, before I was transferred here. And he’s the one you’ll be dealing with. The partnership I want to form is with the two of you. Our three-way collaboration is going to work with me at the president’s office and you two here. His name is Carlos Câmara. He’s coming from the War College. Ever heard of him?”

  “Carlos Câmara,” Max mumbled to himself. “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. I knew some of the college officers at one time, they’d call me once in a while to talk, but …”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s heard of you. Already knows everything about you. That’s the reason for our conversation today. To start thinking about this transition. If all goes well, you and Carlos will have the rare opportunity to be part of a decisive moment in our country’s history.” After a pause, the ambassador continued at cruising speed. “It’s time for you to learn about a project we’re developing here. And in the region.”

  “In the region?”

  A few more pipe puffs, shorter, almost breathless with impatience. In an ideal world, which would faithfully reproduce the ambassador’s secret desires, there would be no room for questions. Or, more reasonably, for those that repeated words whose echo could still be heard. “Let’s just say, for now, that it’s a delicate operation, in which we’re not playing a very visible role. At most, we’re interested observers. If consulted, we give our opinion. Based on what happened in Brazil between 1960 and March 1964. They listen, take a few notes, whisper a lot among themselves.…”

  “They who, Ambassador?” The question seemed obvious but wasn’t. Max was interested in knowing more about the context of their discussion, since Uruguay had a democratically elected government. What level of the Uruguayan armed forces — because that’s what they were evidently talking about — was the ambassador dealing with? His superior ignored the question, however, like the referee at a soccer game who doesn’t see the blatant foul committed right under his nose.

  “Every country in this region lives with its own realities, its own challenges. And many of them have nothing to do with ours. But we’ve already been through a somewhat similar process. And they haven’t. This gives us an advantage on one hand. And an enormous responsibility on the other. We can’t interfere. But neither can we be left out. It’s a scenario that will require considerable patience, given that the situation here and in Chile” — Chile, a new piece on the ambassador’s chessboard — “is going to take a while to come to a head before the unavoidable conflict.”

  Max waited, transfixed.

  “And we’re alone in this endeavor. The Americans told us they don’t want to get involved. They have enough problems in Vietnam. Besides, they almost got burned in Brazil with Operation Brother Sam, and plenty of Europeans criticized their interfering in our country. Covertly, fine, they’re ready to help. The way they did with us. But not outwardly. I’m willing to bet that Matrone’s visit has to do with this. He’s not high enough up to request a meeting with me. He’s coming to relay a message.”

  Max realized that his five years at the secretary-general’s office reading telegrams and dispatches from Montevideo had little to do with the landscape the ambassador was casually sketching around them. As though the distance separating real life from the cables were equivalent to t
hat between a photograph in focus and a rough sketch on blotting paper.

  Although accustomed to reading between the lines, and making the most out of the reports at hand, Max was startled to find himself confronting information he knew absolutely nothing about. The revelation led him to better understand the nature of the present conversation — and the direction it might yet take. The ambassador had two channels of communication. And Itamaraty was only one of them. The official one, as if it were a façade. Max also understood that his boss, between remarks and puffs on his pipe, was slowly luring him toward a labyrinth in which he felt completely at home — and with which Max needed to familiarize himself as quickly as possible if he wished to survive. He anxiously awaited whatever was to come.

  The ambassador glanced at his watch and picked up the phone, requesting that coffee be brought in. Max sank into his chair a bit farther, although this was physically difficult considering the austere piece of furniture on which he was seated.

  “Things are going to take a while. A year or two … maybe more. The game will be played with a stacked deck, with a very short break between the two” — he briefly consulted the ceiling — “proceedings.”

  The ceiling had whispered countries. The boss had said proceedings. Max heard coups.

  “The two proceedings,” repeated the ambassador, as if to impose order on the voices jostling for position between them. “This interval of three months between the two … proceedings has already been decided. Not by us, fortunately.”

  “By whom?” asked Max in a thin voice.

  To his surprise, the question merited a response, albeit partial. “As far as that goes, the less you know, the better. Leave that to Carlos. He’s the one who’s going to operate on that front. Yours will be quite different. And, in a way, more important.”