Ford.'
Jeth the matchmaker; a dangerous avocation for a man who stuttered so badly. Ford was rolling his eyes. He said, 'I'm very touched,' already computing his recovery needs, all considerations of morality abandoned. After the multiple sessions with Jessica, he wasn't sure his body was up to it, and it wouldn't do to disappoint a doctor. She'd diagnose some kind of structural infirmity, intellectualize it. He said, 'Come on. I'll show you around,' trying to buy some time.
He did, too, and had a nice talk. Dr. Braun-Richards asked good questions, showed the right interest, had a nice way of listening; smiling, nodding, always a step ahead but willing to wait. When Ford offered again to drive her back to the motel, the doctor said, Tjn not going to be shy about this,' sounding a little shy just the same. 'Oh?'
'You're going to make me say it? Okay. I'll say it. I leave for Davenport tomorrow, back to the same old routine. But tonight I'm still on vacation. Tonight I'm with a man I like; a man who doesn't live in singles' bars, wear gold chains, patronize women, or seem like the type I'd need to read a blood test before feeling comfortable kissing him.' The shyness was gone, and she was closer now, touching his forearm, looking up at him. 'I like you, Doc. And I'm in no rush to go back to my motel room.'
Ford glanced at his watch. Not even two hours' rest. He kissed her gently and felt her breath warm in his mouth. Then she was in his arms and she shuddered as he touched the small, sharp point of her breast, firm beneath the material of her blouse, but didn't understand at all when he said, 'I'm in no rush either. ...'
Two-thirty a.m., and Dr. Braun-Richards said, 'You're looking mighty proud of yourself, Dr. Ford,' yawning, stretching catlike, as sweaty as if she had just finished five sets at the club.
'What? Naw, not really.' Feeling like he should kick the floor and say
'You've got that kind of smile.'
'Well, naw, not really.' Staring at her, liking the way she was prettier without clothes; a woman who seemed more at ease naked, comfortable with the animal skin.
'I wish I would have met you a week ago.'
'That would have been nice. A whole week.'
'But we've got all night.'
'All night ... all night?' Ford caught his smile before it disappeared, just in time. 'But you probably have to be up early—'
'I don't have to be anywhere until noon. ' She was sitting up on the bed, reaching for him. . . .
Ten minutes later she was saying 'Well, it happens,' trying to sound warm, understanding, but sounding clinical nonetheless. 'When a man gets into his thirties—'
Ford stifled a groan.
'—a man gets into his thirties, his ability to respond can gradually decline. It's absolutely nothing to worry about. There have been case studies done.'
'Not like tonight, there haven't.'
'What?'
'I said don't be so anxious to leave.'
'I just thought you might want to get some rest.' Like he was a doddering old invalid.
'I have some beer around here someplace.' Now standing naked in the dull light of his little refrigerator, letting his eyes wander over the contents, really taking his time, looking all around the beer.
'I've read that vitamins can help.'
Diet Coke. Mayonnaise. Half a tin of anchovies. Four bottles of lab chemicals that had to be refrigerated. And that mackerel wasn't looking so good anymore. If he ever got a minute to himself, he'd dump it. 'Beer has vitamins,' he said.
She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him, as he finally took out a bottle of beer. 'It's a food,' he said.
'Hmm,' she said as she slid her head under his arm.
'Lots of vitamin B. Or A. One of those.' He took a drink.
'Hmm,' she said again.
'Did you know that Viking sailors signed onto boats almost strictly on the basis of the quality and amount of beer the captain was taking? They didn't ask what countries were going to be plundered, or how long they were going to be gone. Just what kind of beer and how much.'
'The Vikings discovered America,' she said.
'They also invented the pants fly.'
'I see,' said Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards.
'But who remembers?'
'That's not what I see, Ford.' Snuggling closer to him now. 'I was premature in my diagnosis. That food of yours works.'
Ford said, 'Oh?' Then: 'Oh!'
He put down the beer.
SEVEN
Bomb Blast Kills Masaguan President
Masagua City, Masagua (AP)—Don Jorge Balserio, president of Central America's poorest and most embattled country, was killed yesterday evening when a bomb exploded outside the Presidential Palace. Five members of Balserio's notorious Elite Guard were injured in the blast, two critically.
Three Masaguan left-wing revolutionary organizations and one ultra-right-wing guerrilla group have all claimed responsibility for the bombing. Masaguan officials, however, suspect one of only two groups: the Masaguan People's Army or a lesser-known guerrilla organization that calls itself El Dictamen. Neither group has claimed involvement.
The Masaguan People's Army has long been at odds with Balserio's administration. Its leader, Juan Rivera, threatened Balserio's life publicly after the last election. Rivera, who openly models his dress and flamboyant style after Cuba's Fidel Castro, retreated to the mountains with his followers three years ago.
The ultra-leftist group El Dictamen is reportedly an offshoot of Peru's Chinese Maoist terrorist organization, Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. It has been linked to numerous acts of terrorism throughout Masagua and the rest of Central America. In English, 'El Dictamen' means 'The Judgment.'
Balserio was elected president of Masagua in a controversial election that, according to some critics of American foreign policy, was orchestrated by the Central Intelligence Agency. Balserio was returned to office for a second term in an equally controversial election. He had seven months remaining in his second term, and was expected to run for reelection . . .
Ford sat on the dock reading the newspaper. He rarely looked at a newspaper. Didn't understand the nation's habit of clubbing itself each morning with a list of tragedy and doom before trying to go cheerfully into the day. Like arsenic, it had to have a cumulative effect. But he had bought this thick Sunday edition to see if there was more to read about Rafe Hollins. Rafe was there, an obituary: two tiny lines of type and information about the memorial service. And—surprise—Balserio was there, too: second page, international section with a file photo. Balserio, with his thin black mustache and black hair protruding from beneath the general's cap, looked like a Miami coke dealer at a costume party. That's just about the way Ford remembered him. An extremely tall, pompous man, shrewd, brutal, and superstitious, who had nothing but contempt for the people he ruled.
Ford hadn't liked Balserio. Pilar despised him. She married him when she was twenty-one, abandoning an already brilliant academic career at the Universidad de Costa Rica to fulfill a marriage contract arranged by her father. The wealthy families of Central America still did things like that. When Balserio ascended to the presidency, Pilar found herself in a role familiar to many women in many cultures: She was smarter than her husband, more sympathetic, better at dealing with people and details, yet was relegated to looking pretty at social functions. Instead of becoming bitter, though, Pilar got involved. She kept up on what each branch of the government was doing and gradually made herself indispensable because she was the only one in the Presidential Palace who did know. By Balserio's third year in office, Pilar had the administration working smoothly and with purpose. The generals loved and admired her, so the military remained loyal to her husband. The people of Masagua were
