“It was a pleasant excursion,” Ginzburg said.
Langhof started the engine, backed the jeep slowly into the road, and began to drive back toward the Camp.
After they had left the village, Ginzburg shifted around and looked back at it in the distance. “Pretty in the snow,” he said.
“Yes.”
Ginzburg continued to watch the village. “I’ve played a few little towns like that,” he said. He turned to face the road. “The worst ones are in Switzerland. The Swiss always make a bad audience for a comedian.”
Langhof continued to watch the road. “No sense of humor?”
Ginzburg glanced at Langhof. “None whatever. There’s a saying in the trade. ‘The Swiss only laugh for comedians who hand out money.’”
Langhof smiled slightly. “Well, I’m not much better. I never had much of a sense of humor.”
“It’s something you’re born with,” Ginzburg said. “You either have it or you don’t.”
“Were you always … well … a comic?”
“It’s the only thing I ever wanted to be,” Ginzburg said. “It’s quite an honored profession, you know, being a fool. Shakespeare loved us, of course, and Chaucer was a comic to the bone.”
Langhof buttoned the top button of his overcoat. “It’s getting colder.”
Ginzburg did not seem to notice. “It’s an aphrodisiac, you know.”
Langhof glanced at him. “What? Comedy?”
“Laughter,” Ginzburg said. “Really, it is. Get a woman laughing, and you’re halfway there.”
“Perhaps that explains my lack of success in that area,” Langhof said, trying to bring a certain lightness to his voice.
“Haven’t had much of a love life, Doctor?” Ginzburg asked.
Langhof shook his head. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Have you missed it?”
Langhof nodded. “Yes, I think I have.”
“Too bad,” Ginzburg said airily. He tossed his head to the right and watched the landscape flow past.
“I suppose you’ve always been covered with women,” Langhof said after a moment.
“Up to the eyebrows.”
“That must have been pleasant for you,” Langhof said and, to his surprise, felt a small jolt of envy.
“Very pleasant, as you might imagine,” Ginzburg said.
“Always kept them laughing, I suppose.”
“At least until they were naked,” Ginzburg said, “then I gave them what they wanted.”
“And I can guess what that was.”
“Not sex alone, if that’s what you mean, Doctor,” Ginzburg said.
“Really? What, then?”
Ginzburg turned toward Langhof. “Well, just to be taken seriously,” he said, “just to be taken very seriously for one moment in their lives.”
“That’s all?” Langhof said, smiling. “I should be able to master that.”
“Perhaps,” Ginzburg said. He suddenly seemed indifferent to the whole question.
For a long time they rode in silence. Ginzburg watched the snow-covered countryside with an expression of almost childlike longing, while Langhof allowed his mind to toy with ideas of miraculous escape.
“I once heard Piaf sing,” Ginzburg said finally. “My God, it was the saddest voice.”
“That woman in Paris,” Langhof said. “The one you almost married. What was she like?”
Ginzburg scratched his chin. “She was a teacher.”
“In the university?”
“Nothing so exalted. Just a public school teacher. An American, as a matter of fact.”
“Did you meet her in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“Where? I mean, under what circumstances?”
Ginzburg looked closely at Langhof. “Does it matter, Doctor?”
“I was just curious.”
Ginzburg turned back toward the road. “She saw my act at one of those little cabarets. She was a tourist, that’s all. She came back to tell me how much she enjoyed it.”
“And you kept her laughing the whole time.”
“Laughing until she had to stop to catch her breath,” Ginzburg said. He smiled softly. “I used up all my best material on her.”
Slowly the Camp gate came into view, and Langhof saw Ginzburg’s face harden.
“Have you ever been to America?” Langhof asked quickly.
“No,” Ginzburg said. He shifted his eyes away from the Camp and looked at Langhof. “I’ve always liked Americans. They seem to laugh a lot. I think I would have been a hit there.”
“Probably so,” Langhof said.
“They make good audiences, the Americans.”
“What about the woman? The American? What happened?”
“She went back home. What would you expect?”
“But surely this great love between you should have endured,” Langhof said, jokingly.
“Never overestimate the power of ‘great love,’” Ginzburg said. He allowed a smile to play briefly on his lips. “Have you ever had a ‘great love,’ Doctor?”
“Just an adolescent infatuation,” Langhof said.
“Consummated?”
“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean,” Langhof said.
“That’s always good to hear.”
“But I’m interested in this American woman of yours,” Langhof said. “Did you ever see her again?”
Ginzburg shrugged. “Of course not. She went back to the United States. I saw her off at Marseilles. She gave me lots of kisses, I can tell you. ‘You should come with me, Ira,’ she said. ‘In New York, you’d be all the rage.’”
“Langhof smiled. “So that’s your first name. Ira. May I call you that?”
For a moment Ginzburg’s eyes seemed to lock on the Camp gate, then they drifted toward Langhof’s face. “No,” he said. “You may not.”
THROUGH THE WHITE HEAT of midday I see General Gomez’s jeep bounce up the pocked and gullied road toward the compound. Even in the distance, the gilded falcon that adorns the hood looks massive.
I rise from my chair, steadying myself in the thick, pulsating heat.
The jeep glides to a halt below me, sending a cloud of dust tumbling before it. The General leaps jauntily from his seat and points toward the thick jungle across the river. The gunner in the back of the jeep immediately shifts around, training the sights of his turret machine gun in the direction the General has indicated.
The General stares up toward the verandah, shielding his eyes against the raging sun. “Buenos dias, Don Pedro,” he calls to me.
I lift my hand in greeting. “Buenos dias, General Gomez.”
General Gomez smiles and trots up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He thrusts out his hand. “So good to see you, Don Pedro.”
I take his hand and shake it gently. “And good to see you, General.” I nod toward the chair. “Won’t you be seated?”
The General draws his pants up by gripping the wide belt of his uniform and tugging upward. Then he sits down. “The road to El Caliz is in disrepair,” he says.
“They are not well tended,” I tell him, “and the rains are very damaging.”
The General smiles broadly and folds his hands across his belly. “So, I understand that El Presidente is to visit
