almost to himself. He turns back to me and smiles. “In certain areas of the northern provinces, we have entirely denuded the earth,” he says boastfully. “Even the scorpions cannot find shade.”
I have seen photographs of his enterprise. They portray vast stretches of barren ground, the scorched trees rising from the cracked and gutted earth like twisted wire.
General Gomez leans across the table toward me, the cigarette holder embedded in his smile. “Tell me, Don Pedro, do you retire early to your bed?”
“No.”
“You sit out on the verandah until late in the night, then?”
“Yes.”
General Gomez nods. “Very good. And do you ever see fires across the river? Campfires, I mean?”
I shake my head. “I’m afraid not, General.”
General Gomez leans back in his seat as if to seek a better vantage point for staring into my mind. “You’re quite sure of this?”
“Quite sure.”
The General pulls the cigarette from his lips and looks admiringly at the amber holder. “A gift from El Presidente,” he tells me.
“Most elegant, General.”
General Gomez moves his fingers up and down the holder, caressing it lovingly. “Imported. From Paris.”
“I should have known. It is very European in its delicacy.”
General Gomez extracts the cigarette butt from the holder and drops it over the railing of the verandah. It appears to fall in slow motion through the waxy heat.
“I think El Presidente will be safe here,” I say.
The General turns his eyes toward me. They look like two small gun barrels trained on my face. “Why is that, Don Pedro?”
“We are very far from the northern provinces,” I explain.
General Gomez pulls a crimson silk handkerchief from his uniform pocket and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Never underestimate a serpent, Don Pedro,” he warns.
I nod. “Are there any special precautions we should take for El Presidente’s safety?”
General Gomez smiles at me indulgently. “Don’t trouble yourself, Don Pedro. El Presidente’s safety is in my hands.”
“Very good, then, General.”
The General peers into my office, scanning the shelves of books. “You are a reader, I see.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, do you receive the newspaper that the army publishes, Don Pedro?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The General looks disappointed. “It’s quite a fine paper,” he says. He pauses. “Are you by an chance a reader of poetry?”
“No.”
The General’s face seems to tighten. “Really? I had thought you might be, Don Pedro. A man of learning, I am told. Don Camillo has been much impressed by your intelligence.”
I smile. “Perhaps my tastes are not as catholic as they should be, General.”
General Gomez glances wearily at his hands. “Perhaps someday I will retire. My first love is literature.”
“A worthy vocation,” I tell him.
The General frowns. “The Republic has no poets of any note whatsoever. It is most unfortunate.”
“Here in the Republic we are much oppressed,” I tell him.
The General’s eyes snap to attention. He looks at me suspiciously. “Oppressed?”
“By labor,” I add quickly.
The General nods slowly. “Ah, yes, quite true. I am often very tired.” He rises slowly and thrusts out his hand. “Thank you for your help, Don Pedro.”
I take his hand in mine. “I am always your obedient servant, General Gomez.”
The General turns and moves down the stairs to his jeep. His high black boots thud heavily against the clay. He pulls himself in beside the driver and looks back up toward the verandah. “Vaya con Dios, Don Pedro,” he calls.
IN THE RUMBLE of the General’s jeep as it pulls away, I can detect the crumbling foundation of the Republic. Built with the shoddy, decrepit timbers of El Presidente’s greed, it is a structure destined for collapse. The Camp, too, was destined for collapse, but the steady rumbling that rolled over it — echoing through the stinking barracks and settling into the contorted bodies that lay randomly in the mud or hung stiffly from the sagging wire — came from the air, as the bombers made their way toward the Leader’s tottering capital.
In medicine, there is a time of life known as the agonal period. It is the agony suffered by a creature that still lives but is irrevocably dying. In the jungle, the great birds convulse in a final fluttering of wings. On the river bank, the silver fish heave and shudder, their mouths twisted, gulping, their broken fins jerking sprays of mud into the indifferent air. The agonal period of the Camp was long and tedious, and Langhof watched it with a kind of aloof amusement. His compatriots gathered on the steps of the medical compound and trembled as the planes passed overhead. But Langhof did not tremble; he rejoiced. Once, slouching against one of the barracks with Ginzburg at his side, he watched a little knot of Special Section officers who crouched and whispered below the chimney of the now defunct crematorium.
“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Ginzburg asked.
Langhof stared grimly at the black-uniformed men who huddled in the distance. “About what they’ve done, I suppose,” he replied.
Ginzburg shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said.
“What else is there to talk about?”
“Beer and knockwurst,” Ginzburg said lightly.
Langhof smiled. “It’ll all be over soon. You’ll be free.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ginzburg said, continuing to watch the men who stood together a few meters away. In an act that suggested their declining discipline, some of them had turned their uniform collars up against the wind.
“It’s just a matter of time now,” Langhof said confidently. “Nothing can save the Camp.”
Ginzburg scratched his chin and seemed to peer out beyond the barbed wire. “I once saw an automobile accident in Paris,” he said. “Two cars collided. A man got out of one. He had been driving, and I could see a woman’s body slumped forward in the passenger seat. His wife, probably. She wasn’t moving. You couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead. Anyway, the man got out. He was stumbling toward the curb — covered in blood, but conscious. Several bystanders rushed up to him. You know, to help him. We eased him down to the sidewalk and started unbuttoning his shirt. But he kept slapping at our hands. You could tell by his eyes that he meant to be saying, ‘Don’t worry about me, help her.’ But his mouth just wouldn’t get it right, and he kept repeating, ‘Don’t worry about her, help me.’”
Langhof looked at Ginzburg curiously. “What are you trying to say?”
Ginzburg shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know for sure. It’s just that I never forgot about that incident. It blackened my mood for the whole day. That night, on the stage, my rhythm was completely off. Practically nobody laughed for the entire performance. It was a disaster.”
Langhof fingered his lapel. “I won’t have any use for this uniform much longer.” he said. He touched Ginzburg’s shoulder. “What do you think you’ll do when it’s over?”
“I don’t expect to survive,” Ginzburg said dully.
Langhof looked at him, astonished. “Why not? Of course you’ll survive. They’ve already stopped the gas chambers. It’s over. Of course you’ll survive.”
“Perhaps,” Ginzburg said. He looked at Langhof. “What about you?”
Langhof shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Ginzburg smiled sardonically. “You’ll probably end up with a fat wife and a thriving practice in the
