The tittering was widespread now, but Barruguete was not amused. “The fool. Surely he was instructed in the proper way to approach the gallows. Yet he runs to it like a dog to a tree.”
Penelope shook her head in bewilderment. “He doesn’t seem very fit, does he? Why is he in the festival?”
“A good question,” said Barruguete. “I was present yesterday when his agent attempted to answer it. Incredible. If one were to believe his story, that precious artist should be locked up for the public safety. Visions. Gods. Devils. The possession of a noble soul by an evil spirit named Luis de la Horca. It makes one wonder if the whole world has gone mad, when apparently civilized men can speak in such terms. White men. Not Indians squatting in some filthy hut in Chicamayo, but white men.”
“Did you think Klebenau was lying?” Ben said.
“I know he was. Or to put the best possible face on it, my friend, let us say that he was trying to conceal the unpleasant truth. There is no novelty about this artist. There are many like him, a whole breed of such pseudo-artists. What they cannot achieve through their meager talents, they strive for by sensation-mongering, by spitting in the eye of the world. A loathsome breed. If honest fame cannot be their portion, they gladly settle for notoriety. What is the festival to a man like this but a further means of assuring himself notoriety, even at the risk of his neck. Look at him. Does it concern him that he is making a mockery of these rites?”
The crowd was openly laughing now. Chapin, lifted to the crossbeam by the priests, was holding to it by one hand and was having an awkward time trying to secure his rope in the slot with the other. He would thrust it into place, and then, in drawing the arm away, would pull it loose again. Each time that happened, the crowd howled with fresh mirth.
Ben looked around, his anger mounting. A sea of faces convulsed with glee. A white flutter of handkerchiefs waved in insult. Spectators. A hyena pack of spectators watching tragedy while they smoked their Conquistadores and drank Golden Sword Beer. They were being given an unexpected bonus today, a comic interlude played by a mad clown. But on which side of that barrier was the real madness?
“At last,” said Blas. “He has solved the puzzle.”
The rope was tight in place now. Chapin moved his left arm to clear it of the restraining line. He did not do it with the smooth, circular motion demonstrated by Miguel and Pablo, but with a clumsy impatience, staring up at the sky meanwhile. Why, Ben wondered. Did he really expect that blue expanse to open and reveal a company of gods waiting for him to join them? Waiting to show him the grand design of the universe and the golden book with all the answers written in it? The coils slipped from the arm. At the last instant, Chapin must have realized that he had no grasp on the rope and caught at it with both hands, but it was too late. With shocking violence his body dropped into the embrace of the noose, bounced, spun, arms and legs flailing wildly.
A spark of intelligence remained, a flickering of the instinct for survival. A hand blindly groped across the antia for the knife. It found the knife, drew it, and that was all. Chapin’s body went flaccid; the blade fell from his nerveless grasp and lay in the dirt at his feet. The empurpling of cyanosis suffused his face and limbs as Ben watched transfixed, nailed to his seat by cold, unbelieving horror.
“Dead,” whispered Barruguete. “He is a dead man.”
But not quite. There was still time to make a move, Ben thought with perfect clarity. It was amazingly simple to understand when you looked at the gallows and the twitching flesh dangling from it. There are some cruelties too ridiculous to tolerate, and if you can’t relish them on the one hand or ignore them on the other, you must do something about them. If no one but Elissa understood that, it was sufficient, and she would.
He bruised Blas’ knees forcing his way roughly past them into the aisle. He vaulted the barrier as a roar of surprise went up behind him, and then as he started to run toward the gallows he was hit hard in the back of the head. It was a smashing blow that sent him pitching forward full length. He scrambled to his feet, threw up a protective arm as he turned to face his assailant, and saw that it was a Civil Guardist, his bamboo rod raised for another blow. And over the barrier others came pouring. Not Indians, ravening for his blood because he had defiled their festival, but Civil Guardists and police, snarling with pleasure as they flung themselves on him, and Young Nationalists eager for the slaughter, and others, spectators willing to risk their holiday finery in order to swing their fists at him.
He went down fighting under them, bearing the pain of their vengeance gratefully.
12
He opened his eyes to find himself contemplating a grimy ceiling. He was lying on a hard mattress, and someone was bending over him. A young man with a neat little mustache and horn-rimmed glasses.
“You are awake?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“How do you feel?”
“Rotten. What happened to Chapin? How is he?”
“He is dead. What did you expect? Now, if you will permit me to make an examination.” A pinpoint of light flashed into Ben’s eye and moved back and forth. “Good. Now the other eye. Excellent. If you will move the arms and legs. Do you feel unnatural pain in them?”
“No. Only in the back of my head.” Ben drew himself up to a sitting position and cautiously rotated his head. Then he saw Elissa looking down at him from the other side of the bed. Nearby was a policeman unconcernedly writing in a small notebook. “What is this? A prison hospital?”
The young man put away his flashlight. “This is the emergency room of the arena. I am Dr. Mola’s assistant. Unfortunately, I do not have equipment here for X-rays, but I have already arranged with the hospital in Port Buchanan to attend to that as soon as you are received there. At most, you are suffering mild concussion, but it may require care.” He turned to Elissa. “You have the car waiting?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. When you are ready to leave, this officer will escort you to it. I will visit the patient in the hospital tomorrow. Under any conditions he must remain under observation for a day or two.” The doctor sounded, if not openly antagonistic, entirely disinterested. “Now I must see to my other patients.”
Ben allowed time for his strength to return and then made his way to the door in careful steps, discovering his aches and pains as he went. There were several beds along the wall. Two were occupied by women, fully clothed, who moaned and thrashed while attendants tried to restrain them.
“Hysteria,” Elissa said. “Do not be concerned. There are many affected this way by the festival.”
Her car was at the door. As they entered it, Ben heard a roar of savage joy explode from the arena. So the witches’ sabbath was still going on.
“How long was I out?” he asked.
“Unconscious? Long enough.” That was all she had to say until they were well on the road leading down the mountainside from the Victorica. Then without looking at him she suddenly said, “There are many forms of hysteria.”
“I suppose so.” He was hardly in a mood to discuss medical lore. What he had to know was how he stood with her. Was she conveying him to the hospital as a farewell courtesy? Was his mission for Seaways now at a disastrous end?
“It manifests itself in different ways,” said Elissa. “At the festival, if someone causes a violent disturbance—”
“Is that what you think? That I ran out there because I was suffering from hysteria?”
“Please, don’t be angry. It was how my father chose to interpret your actions. And my grandmother as well. You must know this, so that if the subject comes up you will not find yourself contradicting them.”
“God forbid. And what about you? Do you agree with them?”
“I agree that the first concern was to save you from arrest for a criminal offense. Also, they are very proud. To them, what you did must be either a sign of weakness or a momentary aberration, and they refuse to believe you are weak. In a way, it is a tribute to you, even if it is not one
you desire.”
“But you do understand what I was trying to do? Why I had to do it?”
Elissa raised a hand from the wheel in a supplicating gesture. “How could I fail to, I who have no pride? No, don’t shake your head. You must believe me. I have no pride. All I have is the same need for pity as that poor artist, even though I know it would be wasted on me. Dear Ben, listen and try to understand. At the festival I am the man on the gallows. His tormented flesh is mine. I hang there suffering his anguish, knowing I cannot raise the knife, praying someone will rescue me. Yet, what if he does? Soon I must return to the gallows again. And again after that. There is no salvation for more than a little while.”
“But if things are the same between us—”
“They are the same. You heard my father say that nothing must stand in the way of our marriage. He is a man of his word.”
“In that case, you’ll be away from all this soon enough. You’ll never have to face it again.”
“The festival? Do you think it is the only place one finds a gallows? Do you doubt that each of us also builds his own? And,” she said with intensity, “wherever I am, I will live in the shadow of mine.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“The truth. The shameful truth. The terror of my gallows fascinates me the way a snake fascinates the bird it will devour. I braid the rope around my neck with horror, I hang myself with fear, hoping for deliverance, and meanwhile I lust for the experience, yield to it with pleasure. Oh, why are you such a child? Why do you refuse to understand? Do you remember that night on the Córdoba road?”
“Yes.”
“I was terrified then. I was not pretending to be. But at the same time—”
“That’s not unnatural. I imagine a lot of us get a certain perverse pleasure from a frightening experience. If you’ve ever watched a cat deliberately frightening itself—”
“A cat,” said Elissa wonderingly. “Dear God, he speaks about a cat,” and would say no more on the subject.
Ben found that a relief. It was too much for him altogether, the bitterly self-deprecating way she had of analyzing herself. And always in such morbid terms. Far better, he thought, if she could learn Nora Chapin’s trick of viewing herself with healthy objectivity. The recollection of Nora struck him with dismay. She must have heard the news by now. As soon as he was out of the hospital he would have to visit her and offer what consolation he could. At least he could face her squarely, knowing what he had tried to do for Chapin.
The hospital was prepared for his arrival, and a nun in an enormous wimple which made her look like a ship under full sail led him to his room. She waited at the door, hands clasped primly before her, as he took leave of Elissa.
“What will you do now?” he asked. “Drive back to the Victorica?”
“No. Everyone will be there for the remainder of the week, and I can do very well without their company. I will stay in the city.”
“Alone? Is that safe?”
“Juana will return by bus from Chicamayo as soon as the ceremony is over, so I will not be alone. Now you must go to your room. I am sure the sister does not approve my keeping her from her duties.”
“She can wait. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Perhaps. No, I don’t think so. I don’t feel too well myself.”
Ben saw with concern that she did look unusually flushed. “Maybe you have a fever. While you’re here—”
“No, no, I don’t need any doctors to prescribe me pills. I have sufficient pills at home. Now, please, I must go.”
They had never yet kissed or embraced, but he felt that this occasion, at least, called for more than a parting wave of the hand. And she had never looked more glowingly beautiful than she did now. The temptation was irresistible. He put his arms around her, and then knew from the way she stiffened against them that it had been a mistake. “The sister!” she whispered. “Please!”
There was no point in making a scene. He released her, silently cursing a godforsaken country where everything but hanging oneself seemed to be an offense against public morality, and watched until she was out of sight around a bend of the corridor. When he turned to enter the room he saw the nun regarding him with a quizzical expression. If anything, she seemed disappointed that he hadn’t made a scene.
The X-rays were taken that night. The next afternoon the young doctor made an appearance and announced that with another day of rest the patient would be fit for discharge. As soon as the doctor had left, Ben called Elissa to report the prognosis. Her voice over the phone was thick with sleep, and she apologized for that, and for not visiting him. But she knew he would understand. The past few days had been an exhausting time.
“Of course, I understand,” he assured her. “You probably need rest more than I do. Maybe we ought to change places.”
“Oh, no. I hate hospitals. I am much happier here.”
“I would be, too.”
She laughed delightedly at that. “How gallant. Well, as a reward I will bring the car for you at noon tomorrow. Until then,” she whispered, and placed the phone gently back on the receiver.
It was enough to leave him well content with himself. The one cloud on the horizon was the thought of Nora and Klebenau and their immediate circumstances, but even that cloud was lightened by the reflection that Nora was youthful and attractive enough to make a fresh start in life without much trouble, and that Klebenau seemed to have an unquenchable vitality which overrode all bad fortune. An amazing specimen, Klebenau. There was something almost diabolic in the way he could lure you into shouldering his troubles. A sort of fat, rumpled Old Man of the Sea with an enlarged sweet tooth. Ben found it hard to fall asleep that night, every joint aching where it touched the bed, and when he did, had a restless dream where he was confronted by a very tall, thin, Mephistophelean figure who was, nonetheless, Max Klebenau.
He was awakened by a sudden glare of light in the room and blinked at it, wondering if he were still sunk in the dream. Max Klebenau was standing before him, his arm in the grasp of an angry nun.
“Smith,” said Klebenau, “will you explain to this woman that I’m your friend. Don’t lie there looking like an idiot. Get her off my back, and I’ll tell you why I’m here. Believe me, it’s a matter of vital importance to you.”
Ben raised his wristwatch to bleary eyes. “But it’s after midnight. What’s wrong? Is Nora—”
“It has to do with you, not Nora. Now will you tell this objectionable creature to leave?”
She left, but wrathfully, and as soon as the door closed behind her Klebenau went to the wardrobe. “This is your suit, isn’t it? All right, put it on. You and I are going for a little trip.”
“Trip? What trip? What the hell are you talking about, Klebenau? Are you out of your mind? I’m supposed to be a patient here. I can’t just walk out in the middle of the night.”
“I was told you’re being discharged tomorrow, and that means you’re capable of walking right now. It isn’t far, and I’ve got the car downstairs.” Klebenau opened dresser drawers. “Here’s your underwear. I’ll explain while you’re dressing.”
“Explain what?”
“My feelings toward you. They’re somewhat complicated. Here, let me help you off that bed. You took a fine beating, I see. Well, that’s part of it.” Klebenau helped Ben painfully divest himself of the hospital gown, then seated himself on the edge of the bed and lit a cigar. He blew smoke at the ceiling. “You never did talk to Bambas-Quincy about David’s being barred from the festival, did you?”
“Why? Did you ask him about it?”
“No, but when you failed to send me any message at all, I knew you had lost your nerve. If you had talked to him, you would have made sure that I got his answer, one way or the other. No message at all was the tacit admission that you had gone over to the enemy.”
“Klebenau, you raise ingratitude to heights no one would believe possible. If you think I’ll take any more of this—”
>
“You will. And for the same reason that you’re allowing yourself to be so readily persuaded to go with me now wherever I lead. You have a premonition of something in the air, don’t you, Smith? Something catastrophic. It’s written all over you. You’re pale and perspiring, your hands are suddenly clumsy. What is this about, you wonder. Can I be packing for the harrowing journey from euphoria to reality which we must all take sooner or later? Well, let old Max talk and eventually he’ll get to the point. Until then, I’m in his power. Isn’t that what’s in your mind?”
“Keep talking,” said Ben.
“And you continue dressing. You see, Smith, I spent the last hour of David’s life with him in a cold, dank cellar beneath that arena. A cellar, that’s all it was. A whitewashed basement where men stood with ropes around their necks listening to the mob overhead howling for their blood. And some officious little bureaucrats with badges in their lapels to represent the State, and priests to represent Religion, because cruelty needs their sanction to make it respectable. Cruelty is great fun, you know, but only in the guise of religion or patriotism or good, clean sport. Otherwise, people might suspect there was something perverted about it, God forbid. No, don’t interrupt. I know what you want to say, but first hear me out.
“At the far end of the room were three steps leading up to the field, and that’s where I stood watching along with Tito and Luis and some others when it was David’s turn. You were there, Smith. You heard the laughter when he walked across the field. Well, so did I, and it gave me the terrible feeling that I was the only sane being left in the world. And the silence that followed when they lifted him to the gallows was even worse. An avid silence. The kind of silence Hieronymous Bosch knew how to paint.
The Panama Portrait Page 23
