Saffire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Yet calves could be born without my help, and as much as my daughter might need me or miss me, Winona would be deeply disappointed in me if she ever learned I had walked away from helping a girl close to her own age.

  One more day here, then. Maybe two. At most. “What do you need me to do?”

  “My secretary tells me you were already talking to the girl,” Goethals said. “Help her as if you were doing it on your own accord. Don’t let anyone know you are doing this at our request. You’ll be provided with employment that will give you the freedom to travel the Zone. I’ll pull whatever strings I can unseen. That way I won’t be seen as interfering in local affairs.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t forget you’ll need to be at the ranch two nights from now to ask questions of all my guests,” Cromwell said. “That way it will look like we are trying. All the girl needs to know is that someone is making an effort to find her mother. We don’t actually expect or want results. Just for the girl to stop pestering us so all of this can go away.”

  I slowly turned my eyes to Cromwell. In my circles, fancy clothes and a bank account in the millions did not make a man. Theodore Roosevelt had learned that within days of becoming part of our community in the Dakotas.

  I’m not sure what Cromwell saw in my eyes, but I guessed it reflected my utter scorn of him.

  He recoiled slightly and tried to recover his bravado by hissing at Goethals, “You’d better be right about this man.”

  Cromwell stood, snapped his cigar to the floor, and spun away to make a dramatic exit, but on the custom heels he undoubtedly used to add height to his appearance, he twisted an ankle and almost lost his balance.

  He slammed the door on his way out.

  “I don’t like him either,” Goethals said a moment later. “But I need to dig a canal, and his influence on the isthmus is extraordinary. I’m a practical man, and he is much better to have as an ally than an enemy.”

  “Much as I respect the president and his office, that’s not why I’ll do this. I’ll stay to help the girl. I don’t intend to stay long, but while I’m here I won’t be doing it just for appearance.”

  “Fair enough. Mr. Miskimon will arrange for your accommodations and whatever else you need.”

  I gathered my hat and valise and stood.

  “One last thing,” Goethals said. “Satisfy my curiosity. The man who broke your nose with a single punch. How did he fare in the fight?”

  “She.”

  “She?”

  “Not a he. A she. I should immediately have seen a doctor about it, but at the time I didn’t think a woman’s punch could do so much damage.”

  “A woman.” Goethals paused. “I have to ask. Did you hit her back?”

  I put on my hat. “Nope. That was another reason I didn’t get around to seeing a doctor until it was too late. About two hours after she broke my nose, I married her.”

  I tipped my hat, lifted my valise, and walked out through the waiting room. I looked for the girl, but she was gone.

  “Richmond,” I said. “Right? That’s your accent.”

  I didn’t walk much. That’s what horses were for. Still, I wasn’t yet forty, I had long enough legs, and after years of ranch work, I didn’t carry fat, so it would have been reasonable to expect that I’d have no problem keeping up with a slightly shorter man close to my age.

  But heat and humidity were working against me, and I found myself behind Miskimon’s shoulder at a brisk pace through Culebra. I toted my valise, but he carried a briefcase, so the handicaps were nearly equal. Was he was trying to make a point, or did the man always walk this fast?

  “Richmond then,” I said.

  With no answer coming from Miskimon, I just kept pace and kept my mouth shut. Normally, I was the taciturn one, but Miskimon was proving to be the master.

  Culebra, on a plateau of the ridge, was laid in grids and dominated by ICC houses, most of them newly built to keep up with the influx of workers.

  “ICC hotel,” Miskimon said as we walked past the square three-story structure boasting verandas on all sides. Its white paint was gleaming in the heat. “You’ll eat there. Dinner is served from five thirty to seven thirty. As for evening pursuits, the sale of liquor is illegal in the Zone on Sunday. Nor will you find any women of ill repute.”

  “Poor memory?”

  “I don’t forget anything.”

  “Then don’t pretend you didn’t get a report from the steamship detective.” I was still speaking to the man’s shoulder. “I’m sure you already have a good idea of my habits.”

  “The only reports I trust are my own. I don’t make mistakes.” He didn’t slow his pace.

  A block farther, the houses were set on well-groomed lawns, with equally well-groomed hedges. All houses had squares of black screens on the windows. The next block, slightly smaller houses. And so it progressed until we reached bachelors’ quarters—small and square.

  Miskimon turned up the sidewalk to House 31.

  “Four rooms to a house, and a shared bathroom,” Miskimon announced. “You’ll be in the northwest corner.”

  I would be gone in a day, maybe two. Three at the very most. It didn’t matter to me.

  “A room with a view?” I asked it mainly for my own amusement.

  No answer, so I supplied it, again, mainly for my own amusement. “Wait, that would be the Forster house.”

  “We’ve arranged for the rest of the house to be empty,” Miskimon said. “The colonel wants you to come and go as you please, with no one to ask questions.”

  “Seems like a quiet neighborhood.”

  “Not usually. It’s mainly pick-and-shovel men at this end of town, and on a Saturday night and a Sunday, you can expect anyone not at the dig will be at the YMCA or outside the Zone.” He paused on the outside porch. “You’ll notice the window screens are in perfect condition. If you see a mosquito, inside the house or outside, please report it immediately.”

  “Of course.” I matched the man’s graveness, thinking he was trying to mock me in return for the room-with-a-view comment. If so, I needed to reevaluate the man, because I could admire that kind of subtle humor.

  The door wasn’t locked.

  My room was as Spartan as I had expected. Thin mattress on a bed of cheap springs, and a sink, chair, and desk. Plastered walls, clear of holes and dents.

  “No women allowed,” Miskimon said. “This is bachelors’ quarters.”

  “Thanks for the warning. That’s why I spent three weeks of travel to reach Panama. So I could impress a woman with a place like this.”

  “Your sarcasm has little humor.” Unmistakable disdain in Miskimon’s voice. “In this case, it is also undeserved. It was only a few hours ago that one clung to you like a leech.”

  “It was horrible, and I hope the memory doesn’t give me nightmares. Loose morals will lead to the decay of civilization. I’m sure you agree.”

  There was hypocrisy in my statement—the woman I loved and mourned had been pregnant when we married.

  I set my valise on the bed.

  “Please don’t travel the Zone with the revolver,” Miskimon said. “I had advised that it be confiscated, but the colonel thought otherwise.”

  Of course. The report from the steamship detective, listing all my possessions.

  Miskimon set his briefcase on the desk. In the humid heat of the small room, his cologne was obvious. But thankfully, not overdone.

  Miskimon opened the briefcase, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “Read this for me.”

  “You’re illiterate?”

  That question was met with a stare that Miskimon probably believed was piercing.

  I grinned and took the card and spoke the words on it: “ ‘Instructions to Enumerators.’ ”

  “Read it for me, not to me. I already know what’s on the card. I need to know you’ve read it, and I expect that you will follow those instructions.”

  I scanned the card.

 
Instructions to Enumerators: When you have once signed on as an enumerator you cannot cease to exercise your functions as such without justifiable cause under penalty of $500 fine…

  I looked to Miskimon. “Quitting costs five hundred?”

  “Excellent. You are capable of understanding instructions.”

  …If you set down the name of a fictitious person you will be fined $2,000 or sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, or both…

  “Good thing you’ve managed to put penalties in place to scare those pernicious fictitious name writers away from inflicting their hideous crimes on the ICC. Do I sound like an insider, saying ICC instead of Isthmus Canal Commission?”

  Another stare from Miskimon. I told myself to stop trying to provoke the man.

  “Isthmian,” Miskimon said. “Not Isthmus. Isthmian Canal Commission.”

  “Of course.” I read the remainder of the card….You must use a medium soft black pencil (which will be furnished)…use no ditto marks and…take pains to write legibly!

  Nice touch, the exclamation point. Maybe Miskimon had written the instructions. This time, however, my impulse management was better, and I merely handed the card back to Miskimon without comment.

  “Do we or do we not use ditto marks?” he asked.

  I couldn’t read Miskimon. Was his question a joke or serious?

  “Definitely no ditto marks,” I said, deciding on a straight face as a return volley. I’d traveled three weeks for this? Because if Miskimon was as serious about the ditto marks as he appeared, no wonder the thought of being a military person or part of a large organization gave me a rash.

  “Now that we’re clear on those instructions, I am authorized to give this to you, for which you’ll sign a receipt.” Miskimon reached into the briefcase, and one by one he placed items on the bed, speaking in an efficient monotone as he set each item down.

  “One police badge. We want people to believe you are in Panama because you accepted employment. As a Zone policeman with enumeration duties, you’ll have a lot of freedom to move throughout the canal without raising questions. You are Zone policeman number 28, replacing a man who died in an explosion near the Culebra dig. One hotel coupon book for your meals, good in any town in the Zone, consisting of fifteen breakfast coupons, fifteen lunch coupons, fifteen dinner coupons. Zone hotels don’t take cash. It is illegal to sell coupons, since the coupon book is in your name. One laundry coupon book. One booklet with 120 trip tickets. These are blank passes between any stations on the PRR. You as the holder fill out embarking and arriving station. One freight train pass for the length of the PRR. One dirt train pass for the Pacific Division. Travel with caution; two Zone policemen died last week when a dirt sweeper knocked them off the flatbed. You are given one locomotive pass for the Central Division. One locomotive pass for the Atlantic Division. Passes to docks and steamers at ports on both ends of the Zone. Notebook. Enumeration tags. Yellow for unsuccessful. Red for completed. To be placed on the door of each domicile, removed under penalty of law. Don’t worry. The silver-dollar people are terrified of breaking the law and getting sent home. Report cards for enumeration and envelopes for said report cards. Please insert one report card per envelope. Sign here.”

  I had stopped paying attention. I didn’t realize that when he finished with “sign here,” he meant that for me, to sign for the receipt. Which Miskimon was holding out, along with a pencil.

  I signed. Miskimon put the receipt and pencil back in the briefcase.

  “I hope that was a medium soft black.” I said. “I forgot to look.”

  “After you swear the oath, you will be an enumerator as well as a badged policeman. Zone policemen in each division are completing the enumeration, and it is a natural way for you to go where you need to go and ask the requisite questions you need to ask—and any others. Make sure to fill out the cards as you visit occupants and tag each domicile that you’ve visited, red or yellow, to prevent duplicate efforts by other Zone policemen. There’s a man at the Corozal police station. Policeman number 88. Harry Franck. He has instructions to assist you in any way.”

  “With what?”

  “That, I expect, is between you and Colonel Goethals.”

  If I was reading Miskimon correctly, there had been the first trace of frustration in his voice. Maybe not. But then again, maybe.

  I suddenly understood. Miskimon was a direct assistant to Goethals. A loyal soldier, he couldn’t quite hide his frustration at that fact that Goethals had sent him out of the room to speak alone to me and then Cromwell. Miskimon, no doubt, trusted that Goethals had a reason for hiding the conversation but didn’t have to like that it had occurred.

  “Look in the drawer,” Miskimon said. “There should be a Bible.”

  I did and pulled it out.

  “Hold it in your left hand and place your right hand on top.”

  If he had no choice but to do as directed by Goethals, then between me and Miskimon, I was top dog for as long as Goethals needed me.

  “Manners, Muskie. Try saying please.” I said it in a jocular tone, hoping he’d find it funny, but I felt like a cad when I didn’t earn a smile.

  “Please hold it in your left hand, and please place your right hand on top,” Miskimon said in a bland voice.

  Once again, I did as directed.

  “Repeat these words. ‘I swear…’ ”

  “I swear…”

  “Not merely to uphold and defend the constitution against all enemies, armed or armless—”

  “Whoa.” This disruption seemed to genuinely puzzle Miskimon, as if there was no other way ever to administer an oath but to repeat after the declarer.

  Miskimon recovered quickly. “Manners, Mr. Holt. I know you’re a cowboy, but I’m not a horse.”

  “How could I forget? Whoa, please.”

  Miskimon’s mind clamped on to another detail. “Your right hand is still on top of the Bible. If you are reducing this to a frivolous conversation instead of a sworn oath, perhaps you could show reverence for the Holy Word.”

  I shrugged. I lifted my right hand off the Bible and gently set it on the desktop.

  “What’s the entire oath going to be?” I said. “Just in case I disagree with something halfway through. Probably something very wrong about a partial swear, wouldn’t you agree, Muskie? I’d like to hear it ahead of any swearing, partial or full.”

  What I really wanted to know was how much I could push this man and how he reacted to being pushed.

  Miskimon looked up and to the right. Already, I had figured that out as a tell. He was analyzing. His conclusion must have been that I had a valid point, not that I was mocking him.

  “I swear not merely to uphold and defend the constitution against all enemies, armed or armless, but furthermore not to share with anyone any of the information I gather as an enumerator, or show a census card, or keep a copy of the same.”

  “First,” I said, “you carry something like that in your head to use anytime?”

  Miskimon fixed his unblinking gaze on me, as if the answer was self-evident, which, of course, it was. I was beginning to see there was steel in that gaze, despite the man’s near comical fastidiousness.

  “Second, even though the job is to take census, enumerators are appointed to uphold and defend the constitution? Against armed enemies? Against armless enemies? Who makes up these oaths?”

  “Certainly not a poorly groomed cowboy in a sweat-stained shirt,” Miskimon said, either deadpan or in utmost seriousness. I couldn’t decide. Another point to him.

  “And, third, the answer is no. I won’t swear that oath. Good thing we didn’t really get started or it would have been a partial swear and then what rules do we follow in that situation? Do I only do half the job with full effort or the full job with half the effort? You do have rules to cover that situation, don’t you, Muskie?”

  “My job is to do my utmost to help Colonel Goethals build the canal, so if you decline to swear that oath and still proceed as a sworn e
numerator, let it be between you and your conscience.”

  Again, deadpan humor or utmost seriousness? I had the sense that despite my efforts to mock Miskimon, all I had succeeded in doing was to make a fool of myself.

  “I shall bid you good-bye,” Miskimon said. “Please bear something in mind. My name is T. B. Miskimon. If you insist on calling me something absurd, let that be on your conscience as well.”

  “What’s T. B. stand for?”

  “My name is T. B. Miskimon.”

  “Sure.” I waited until he reached the door at the end of the room. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Miskimon didn’t turn back but stopped and spoke with his back to me. “I never forget anything. Whereas you’ve already forgotten that I made that statement less than ten minutes ago.”

  “Medium soft black pencil.” I’d finish this conversation with a victory. “Instruction card said it will be furnished for the enumerator. It’s not here on the bed.”

  “In the desk drawer, where the Bible was.” His voice came over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. “If you actually do some work, I’ll need the pencil stub before I authorize replacement. Otherwise if it is missing and you have no stub to prove it was used, you’ll be charged for a new one.”

  For my jaunt into Panama City, I decided to stay with cowboy hat and boots, regretting the need to leave behind my holster and the Colt .45.

  Buffalo Bill had done a magnificent job, through the show that hundreds of thousands had seen as it crisscrossed North America and Europe over a couple of decades, of building a myth of the West. As well, in less than a decade since publication, Owen Wister’s novel The Virginian had spawned enough imitators that it created a new genre in which cowboys engaged in unrealistic actions of walking toward each other in something called a showdown, where the man with the surest draw always triumphed. And the blockbuster movie The Great Train Robbery had built on the cowboy mythology. I had enjoyed watching the movie during a visit to Bismarck, the capital on the Missouri, marveling at a film that ran for an entire ten minutes. Rumor had it that the length had worked the theater’s piano player into a lather. My favorite moment in the film was when the actor Justus D. Barnes, in his role as leader of the outlaws, had defiantly fired point blank at the camera and all of the audience yelped in delight. All told, I thought, the hundred and fifty dollars that had been announced as a production budget for the film had been a wise investment.