gurgling wheeze. “The fever has not broken yet,” he says. “As a matter of fact, it is getting worse.”
“Do you want an ice compress?”
“I tried that. It gave me a chill. I can’t bear chills, Dr. Langhof.”
Completely bald, his face flushed and puffy, Dr. Ludtz looks like an ancient baby.
“But an ice compress might help, Doctor,” I tell him.
Dr. Ludtz shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. Thank you, but I can’t bear chills.”
In the heat of the Republic, he has lost his endurance for cold. He is now a creature of the tropics, one for whom the slightest breeze is frigid.
“I suppose you’re making preparations for El Presidente?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“I saw the tent. Very nice.”
I nod. “Don Camillo commented on it. I told him it was your idea.”
“And he seemed pleased?” Dr. Ludtz asks anxiously.
“Very pleased. He commented upon the appropriateness of the gesture.”
“Very good,” Dr. Ludtz says. “Very good of you to mention me to him.”
“I’m sure El Presidente will be pleased, as well.”
“He might think it vulgar, do you suppose?” Dr. Ludtz asks worriedly.
“I’m sure not, Dr. Ludtz. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Have you been able to sleep?”
“Only a little,” Dr. Ludtz says. “Snatches. No more than an hour at a time.”
In the Camp, he sometimes slept well, sometimes fitfully, depending on the progress of his research. During the freezing experiments he slept well, but during the tetanus studies he was ill at ease.
“I brought a bottle of brandy for you,” I tell him. I lift the bottle toward him. “It’s the last of our supply. I’ll have to order more soon.”
“Then save it … please, Dr. Langhof … save it,” Dr. Ludtz stammers, the wheezing becoming suddenly more intense. “El Presidente … what if … he might want brandy?”
“There’ll be other things for El Presidente. This is for us.” I take two small brandy snifters from a bag, place them on the table, and pour the brandy. As it pours from the mouth of the bottle it sounds like someone breathing through a wound in the throat.
I hand Dr. Ludtz the glass and raise my own next to his, clinking them together lightly. “To your health, Dr. Ludtz. To a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Ludtz says. With difficulty he brings the rim of the glass to his lips and drinks. A small brown stream runs down one side of his mouth and off his chin. “Look at this,” Dr. Ludtz says, embarrassed. “Spilled it … oh, ridiculous”
I wipe his chin and shirt collar with my handkerchief. “Difficult to drink lying down,” I tell him.
“Yes, yes … that’s it … difficult.”
I take the glass and begin to pour another for him.
“No, no … with great thanks … enough.”
“The fever should break tonight, Doctor,” I tell him. “By morning the worst should be over.” In the Camp, I once helped Dr. Ludtz string a line of aspirin in the air. Those with a certain temperature were allowed to lick it once; those with a slightly higher fever were allowed to lick it twice; those with an even higher fever were sent to another ward and given phenol.
“It is …” Dr. Ludtz begins, then breaks off and coughs slightly into his fist. “It is worse.”
“Well, that always happens before it gets better. You know that, Dr. Ludtz.”
Dr. Ludtz nods very slightly, his eyes closing as he does so.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“The rebels … are they …”
“Nowhere near us, Dr. Ludtz. Really, you shouldn’t even bother with such matters. The Federales have the situation well in hand.”
Dr. Ludtz is not convinced.
I smile. “Do you really think El Presidente would permit such a ridiculous rabble to overthrow him?”
“It has happened … other places.”
“But not here, I assure you. Never here.”
As the enemy troops approached the Camp, I remember him scurrying back and forth, hurling stacks of paper into a large ashcan. It was raining and there was no gasoline to keep the fire burning, so the papers began to smolder rather than to burn. Dr. Ludtz became frantic, scooping up huge armfuls of medical files and ripping at them furiously as he squatted in the mud, sobbing with terror, the visor of his cap singed and smoking.
“I hope … you’re right,” Dr. Ludtz says. He seems to need all his strength to breathe, gulping the air down as if it has turned liquid.
“You need to rest, Doctor,” I tell him. “Tomorrow morning you may wake up completely relieved.
“Friday … El Presidente,” Dr. Ludtz says.
“Yes. But don’t worry. He’ll understand if you’re ill.”
“El Presidente …” Dr. Ludtz breathes.
I get up quickly. “Please now, Doctor, you can’t expect to improve if you don’t relax. Get some rest. Sleep well. And perhaps you’ll be quite fit by the time El Presidente arrives.”
Dr. Ludtz lifts his fingers from his chest. “Thank you … good of you … I …”
“No more, Doctor,” I insist. “Sleep, that’s what you need. Build up your strength. I’ll be by to see you sometime tomorrow.”
I ease myself toward him and squeeze his hand softly. “Good night, Dr. Ludtz.”
“Yes … good night … thank you.”
On that last day in the Camp, he had almost lost control of himself. Coming back from the pit, I heard him whimpering through the billowing smoke, through the heavy rumble of the enemy guns a few kilometers away. He sat, bespattered with mud, one sleeve of his uniform torn and drooping down toward his elbow, exposing a bloody arm. By then he had ceased ripping at the papers, but had deposited a pile of them in front of him, taking one sheet from the top, tearing it into slivers, then shoving the slivers into his mouth, where he chewed slowly, like a cow eating daisies. I could hear some of the prisoners battering against the doors of the empty supply houses. I ran over to Ludtz and shouted his name. But he did not look up. So I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet, dragging him with me out of the Camp — I think now, as a souvenir.
Part V
FROM MY VERANDAH, at night, I can see only what is purposefully illuminated: Dr. Ludtz’s cottage, the nursery, and to the left, a few lights still burning in the village of El Caliz. El Presidente can see much more from the balcony of his palace. He can see the gardens and the reflecting pools, the cobblestone walks bordered on either side with potted palms, the marble steps that lead to the great mahogany doors of the palace itself. And beyond the pale orange stucco walls of the palace he can see the wide boulevard of administration buildings, their facades made brilliant by klieg lights buried in their lawns: the Department of Justice, with its Doric columns rising toward lofty entablatures; the Museum of the Republic, with its tiled roof and high gables, a Tudor contrivance set in the tropics; the Ministry of Finance, with its Egyptian design, ornate as the Temple of Horus, a huge facade of vast, teeming multicolored murals where scenes slide invisibly into other scenes, colors into other colors, a pulsing, indecipherable panorama perfectly representative of the intricate circularities of money, the veiled, impenetrable calligraphy of man’s worldly goods. And then, should El Presidente’s eyes move upward, he will see the lights of the capital city: first the tall, airless structures of the professional classes; then the shaded streets of the middle classes; and finally, sweeping out in all directions, the great teeming slums of splintered wood and rusting tin, the moiling, wasted afterbirth of underdevelopment.
When the Athenian painter Parrhasius wished to do a work of art based on the suffering of Prometheus, he first had an old man brought to him and tortured in his presence so that he could observe the changing face of
