Edge of Battle

people, Alberto.”

“People? What people? The Mexican people? Perhaps one percent of our people read newspapers or watch television for hard news stories. Who is your target audience? What is your message?”

“There are millions of wealthy Latinos in North America that want to be told what to do for their motherland, General, and President Maravilloso is the one who should tell them,” Diaz said confidently. “They, or their parents, a relative, or a close friend, managed to escape the crushing poverty and creeping despair of their homelands, and they all feel the guilt of abandoning their motherland. Even if they gave up everything they owned, left their wives and children, sat in a sweltering U-Haul truck or cargo container for days or even weeks with three dozen other refugees, walked across miles of scorching desert with nothing but a jug of water, or floated for days in homemade rafts to reach American shores, they feel the guilt of leaving their brothers and sisters behind. The more money they make in the New World, the guiltier they feel.”

“They are the ones I will reach,” Maravilloso chimed in. “They are the ones who will help us.”

“Help us? Help us…do what?” Rojas asked, almost begging. “What is it you want to do, Madam President?”

“Induce the American Congress to pass a simple guest worker program, one without onerous conditions, bureaucracy, and requirements,” Diaz said. “The current program making its way through Congress would require all Mexican citizens to return to Mexico first before applying. If even half of those that wished to comply did so, it would bankrupt this country! Can you imagine the chaos that would erupt if ten million men, women, and children returned to Mexico over the next five years?”

Rojas glared at Diaz, showing his displeasure at cutting off his conversation with Maravilloso. He was definitely being ganged up on here, and he didn’t like it. “I agree, Minister, that it would place an enormous burden on our government…”

“And do you think for one minute that the American government will pay for any of it? No way.” Maravilloso took another angry puff of her cigar.

“If the United States wants Mexican workers, they need to pass legislation that will allow them to apply for a guest worker program from wherever they are—which will be working away in farms, factories, kitchen, and laundry rooms all across America, doing the work the lazy, pretentious Americans will not do,” Diaz said determinedly. “The government does not need to uproot families, destroy jobs, drain our economy, and create a tidal wave of economic and political refugees just to appease the far-right conservative neofascists in their country.

“And if they want to apply for American citizenship, they should be rewarded for their courage and service to America by receiving it automatically—no tests, no classes, no more paperwork. If they work for five years, keep their noses clean, pay their taxes, and learn the language, they should not have to do anything more than raise their right hand and swear loyalty to the United States—even though they have already demonstrated their loyalty by sacrificing all to live and work in America.”

“I agree, Minister, I agree—we have had this discussion many times before,” Rojas said patiently. “We and the citizen groups and human rights organizations we sponsor have been lobbying the American Congress for many years to pass meaningful, open, fair, and simple guest worker legislation. We cannot do more than what we are already doing.”

“I do not believe that,” Diaz said. “Even stuffy, old blowhard American politicians respond to issues that grab headlines and the public’s attention.”

“I know the American media,” Maravilloso said. “I know how the people are riveted to the right controversy or the right personality.”

“Well, you can certainly be that personality, Madam President,” Rojas said. “But do you think the American people will listen to you now after one of your Council of Government ministers incited a riot in their detention facility?”

“You have seen the polls as well as I, General,” Diaz said. “The polls indicate that most Americans thought that detention facility was illegal, evil, demeaning, and un-American…”

“But those same polls also said that you were wrong to call for those detainees to break free and riot, even though most did not like the sight of immigrants being penned-up like animals in the hot desert,” Rojas pointed out. “A slight majority blame you, Madam President, for our people’s deaths and for that soldier’s suicide.”

“I am not worried about slight majorities,” Maravilloso said, waving her cigar dismissively. “The point is, Alberto, Americans are divided and unsure of what should happen. They are afraid of acts of terrorism, and they are certainly paranoid, bigoted, and xenophobic—even the blacks and other minorities who have suffered under white bigotry and hatred dislike the thought of Mexicans crossing the borders illegally and taking jobs. But then when the government actually does something about it, like build a detention facility or put even a very few troops on the border, they strongly condemn it.”

“It is the politically correct thing to oppose any new government excess, especially when it involves imprisoning or even slightly affecting a weaker person’s life…”

“This is much more than just political correctness—it is even more than trying to deal with racism and bigotry,” Felix Diaz said. “I believe the American people want to be led on this issue. They want a person to step forward, speak to them, give them their thoughts and arguments plainly and simply, and have a plan to do something about the matter. Right now, all they have is the government and neofascist wackos like Bob O’Rourke preaching hate and fear to them. O’Rourke is a powerful personality—it will take someone equally as powerful to get our side of the argument across to the people. Preferably someone younger, smarter, and better-looking than he.”

“That person will be difficult to find,” Rojas said. He looked on nervously as he saw Maravilloso and Diaz silently gaze into each other’s eyes. “What do you wish to do, Madam President?” he asked, trying to break the spell between them.

“Get out of here and get back to work, you old goat,” Maravilloso yelled after him jovially. “I wish to speak with Minister Diaz for a few minutes. Have the chief of staff report to me then. And find a way to make the damned Americans back off, or I will have your cojones in a jar on my desk—if you still have any! Now you may leave.” Before departing, Rojas shot her a warning glare, which he doubted she noticed.

“Ah, the smell of a good Cuban cigar,” Diaz said, walking toward Maravilloso. “Your husband never smoked cigars except for photo opportunities, as I recall, and he would only smoke Mexican-made cigars, like a good nationalist. I am glad you are a true aficionado.”

“Why do you bring him up, Minister Diaz?”

“The scent of your cigar reminded me that your husband chose never to be alone with you in the presidential office because he was afraid of what the people might think was going on,” Diaz said, a mischievous smile on his face. “A woman of your beauty, your passion, your energy—he was afraid people might think you and he spent all your time fornicating on the president’s desk. He was always so proper, so totally in control of everything—his environment, his image, his words, his emotions.”

“So?”

Diaz stepped closer to the president of Mexico, slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer to him, and kissed her deeply. “Ay, I am so glad you are not like him,” Diaz breathed after their lips parted. “I always feel your fire, your passion, your spirit whenever I walk into this room. I could never keep it contained.”

“Felix, would you please just shut up and bring your hard Spanish paro over here, now?” she breathed, and pressed her body tightly against his as they kissed again.

They both explored, then used each other’s bodies quickly, efficiently, tactically—they were in tune with each other’s passion and could tell immediately how the other wanted it and knew exactly how best to get the other to that level. Maravilloso kept the shades drawn and her desk cleared off for exactly that reason. It was polvo, not lovemaking, but they both knew it and both accepted it because to do otherwise would not serve either of their desires or ambitions.

They shared what was left of her Cuban cigar afterward as they straightened their clothing and she fixed her makeup. “Did you tell Pedro to give us at least twenty minutes this time before he is to call, darling?” Diaz asked.

“Fifteen. You are quicker than you believe you are, jodonton.”