Rilke and glances up periodically at the pistol that rests upon his nightstand next to his crucifix.
I turn and walk into my office. Sitting behind my desk, I pour a small amount of absinthe into my glass. Outside, I can hear the night creatures fill the air with calls of mating or distress. Beyond the rim of light that circles the grounds like a thin white wall, the world descends to elemental needs. Out there, small creatures scurry across the leaves, fleeing the swoop of gigantic birds; the great snakes coil around mounds of eggs orphaned by the owls; the beetles inch their way into the viscera of the dead or tumble over lumps of larger creatures’ waste. Here, doom is no more than prologue to further violation. Each night the libretto is the same, and things go forth and are cut down, and all things wait to be relieved.
Part II
SPLENDID TO SEE you again, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says. He roots himself in his chair. I can see a revolver bulging slightly under each arm of his three-piece suit.
“Good to see you, also,” I tell him.
Don Camillo looks off the verandah at the light dancing on the river. “A beautiful morning. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Yes.”
Don Camillo turns to me. “Well, let me say that El Presidente is very much looking forward to his visit.” He smiles expansively. Don Camillo is a man of smiles and expansiveness, both closely related to his personal control of the Republic’s stock of copper.
“Please give El Presidente my regards,” I tell him.
“You will soon be able to give them to him yourself, Don Pedro.”
“Of course.”
Don Camillo glances about. “And where, may I ask, is my good friend Dr. Ludtz?”
“In his cottage.”
“I hope he is well.”
“Quite well. He is reading, I suppose.”
“A well-read man. I noticed that right away about Dr. Ludtz,” Don Camillo says.
“A product of culture’s refinements,” I add agreeably.
“Refinements, yes,” Don Camillo says, nodding his head thoughtfully. “A man of refinements.” He takes a deep breath and exhales with affected weariness. “Men of state, regrettably, have little time for such things, such refinements.” He laughs. “But then, I suppose we have our place in the world.”
“We?”
“Men of affairs. Like yourself. Like me.”
“My kingdom is rather small, Don Camillo,” I say.
Don Camillo shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t diminish yourself. To run an estate such as this — particularly with the rather backward population of El Caliz — that is no small matter, believe me.”
Here in the Republic, no man must be diminished. That would debase the sanctity of individualism upon which the totalitarian state is founded. Here in the Republic each man must be free to grab what he can, be it horse or maid — or copper.
“Speaking of men of affairs, Don Camillo,” I say, “how is El Presidente?”
“Very well,” Don Camillo replies delightedly. He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Of course, we’ve had a little trouble in the northern provinces.”
As he speaks, I can see the “trouble in the northern provinces” trudging wearily through the jungle, a small, bedraggled army infested with lice and infected with disease. They amputate their gangrenous limbs with penknives and machetes.
“I’m disturbed to hear about the trouble.”
“Nothing serious, you understand,” Don Camillo hastens to inform me. “Mere irritations, but they plague El Presidente. They keep him from the sleep he deserves, wear down his strength.” He slaps at a mosquito near his ear. “Damn pests.” He rolls his shoulder, the revolvers eating into his armpits. Here in the Republic, men of state must bear such aggravations.
“Well, perhaps his visit here will relax El Presidente.”
“I profoundly hope so, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says worriedly. “As I say, he’s not been sleeping well. Bad dreams, I think. Do you ever have bad dreams?”
“Sometimes I dream that in the end all the innocent blood that has been shed will be gathered in a great pit and those who spilled it will be forced to swim in it forever.”
Don Camillo’s face pales. “Dios mio. How horrible.”
“One cannot help one’s dreams.”
The light seems to have withdrawn from the two gilded medals that adorn Don Camillo’s breast pocket. “Such dreams. Horrible,” he says. His eyes are full of imagined terrors.
“Perhaps El Presidente’s dreams are better suited to his person,” I say comfortingly.
Camillo glances apprehensively toward the river. The guards who stand below, near his limousine, stiffen as he looks toward them, then relax as he returns his gaze to me. “Such a vision. Horrible.”
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” I tell him.
The monkeys have begun to screech wildly in the trees across the river. Don Camillo turns to his guards and instructs them to fire a burst into the trees. They do so, and I hear the bullets slapping into the thick foliage. One monkey drops from the tree and splashes belly down into the river.
Don Camillo turns slowly to face me. There is a smile on his face, but something dark behind it. “You seem to have become somewhat morbid of late, Don Pedro,” he says. “I hope you will try to be in better spirits when El Presidente visits.”
The monkey’s arms slowly rise from the surface of the water, then drop, then rise again. “You should kill it,” I tell Don Camillo.
Don Camillo’s eyes seem to recede into his skull. “What are you talking about?” he asks darkly.
I nod toward the river. “The monkey. It is still alive.”
Don Camillo turns toward the river and watches the arms rise and fall. Then he turns back to me. “Sometimes we catch one of those bastards from the northern provinces, those rebels. We tie a rope around his waist and hoist him up in a helicopter. Then we fly very low over the marshes, dragging him just above the water so that the reeds can do their work.” His lips curl down. “After a while there’s not much left to pull up, so we just cut the rope, you know?” He leans forward and stares at me menacingly. “You know why I am here, do you not, Don Pedro?”
“As always, my friend, you have come to make sure that all the proper arrangements have been made for El Presidente’s visit.”
Don Camillo traces his thin mustache across his lips with the tip of his index finger. “I must be sure about his safety, Don Pedro.”
“Why should he not be safe in El Caliz?” I ask. In the river, the monkey’s arms no longer rise and the body begins to drift downstream with the river’s lethargic flow.
“We are a free people in the Republic,” Don Camillo says. “People may travel as they like. Perhaps they may travel to El Caliz, perhaps enemies come here.” He smiles. “Perhaps already there are enemies living in El Caliz.”
“There are no enemies here, I assure you, Don Camillo.”
Don Camillo sits back in his chair. “The world is full of monkeys. Like the ones in the tree, you know. They chatter constantly. Big talk. Crazy talk. But one has to take it seriously.”
“El Presidente has always enjoyed his visits here,” I tell Don Camillo.
“Very much. Correct,” Don Camillo says. “He very much looks forward to it.”
“This will go well, I assure you.”
Don Camillo looks relieved. “I hope so.” He stares about as if looking for traces of copper. “I suppose you
