“What was that?” Father Martinez demands irritably.
Esperanza stares at him contemptuously, but says nothing.
“This man was a Christian,” Father Martinez says hotly. “This is a Christian ceremony!”
Esperanza’s face hardens, and I can see that something in her frightens Father Martinez.
“Please, now,” Father Martinez says, “we must be respectful. Isn’t that right, Don Pedro?”
“The funeral is over,” I tell him. “Let Dr. Ludtz be buried.”
Dr. Ludtz’s body rests on a stretcher. It is wrapped in a blue blanket. I bend down and take hold of Ludtz’s feet. Juan steps over quickly and takes his head.
“Is there no coffin, Don Pedro?” Father Martinez asks.
“No. We had no time to make one.”
“But can’t we wait for one to be built?” Father Martinez asks. “Surely it would be more proper.”
I lift the legs up. “Dr. Ludtz never permitted himself to be disturbed by anything,” I tell Father Martinez. “He will not be disturbed by this.”
Father Martinez looks rebuked. “As you wish, Don Pedro,” he says softly.
Together, Juan and I hoist Dr. Ludtz’s body into the shallow grave. As it falls, it sounds like a pillow dropping from a bed.
“Do you wish a song, Don Pedro?” Father Martinez asks after a moment.
I look at him. “A song, Father?”
“A hymn? A song of repose?”
“Dr. Ludtz had no ear for music, Father,” I tell him. I turn toward Juan and tell him that he may go. He replaces his hat on his head and moves down toward the nursery. Esperanza follows him a little way, then turns off on a trail that leads downriver.
I take the small shovel that leans against the monument.
“I suppose you are full of memories, Don Pedro,” Father Martinez says. “May I share them?”
“Ludtz used to wear a red scarf in the Camp,” I tell him flatly. “That always seemed curious to me.”
The mention of the Camp seems to stir Father Martinez. “The Camp, yes. Would you like to talk about it?”
I thrust the shovel into the mound of earth beside the grave. “No.”
“But surely, Don Pedro …”
“That will be all, Father Martinez,” I say. “Thank you very much for your help.”
“Yes, of course,” Father Martinez says sadly. “And Don Pedro, I trust that if you ever need my …”
“Services. Yes, Father. I will not hesitate to call upon you.”
“Thank you, Don Pedro.”
“Adios, Father.”
Father Martinez nods gently and begins his journey down the hill to the village of El Caliz. I watch him as he goes, a short square of shifting black against the jungle’s verdancy.
I turn back to the grave and pat the earth gently with the shovel, so that the animals will be less inclined to disturb it. Then I step away. This is where he wished to be buried, near his squat memorial. The catastrophic I, when dead, turns necrophiliac and seeks to clothe its transient, dusty self in the permanence of monumental stone.
I place the shovel on the ground beside the grave and walk down toward the river, slapping the red, chalky clay from my hands. Perhaps, when I die, they will throw me into its depths, so that I might bring brief excitement to the piranha.
THE FEAST is prepared for El Presidente. The tables are set with the riches of the Republic, with its natural plenitude and its inexhaustible labor. The flies are kept away by servants fanning the tables with peacock feathers, so that when El Presidente arrives, he will find nothing diminished from this creation.
After a little time, I hear the sound of the helicopter as it moves over the far ridge. It is silver in the sun, and from it El Presidente watches the earth below as if he created it. When it lands, a few meters from my compound, the dust rises like a golden cloud.
I walk out and stand near the twirling blades. My white suit billows behind me like Ludtz’s crimson scarf. When the blades cease their noisy rotation, two guards leap from the body of the helicopter and come to attention. Then they turn toward the door and extend their hands to El Presidente.
He is dressed as I expected him to be, in a vested black suit and gray tie. Tall and lean, he comes forward gracefully and with great gentleness extends his hand. I take it in my own.
“Welcome, Mr. President.”
El Presidente smiles warmly. “So good to see you again, Don Pedro,” he says. He glances over my shoulder. “You have prepared a great feast for me, I see.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble, Don Pedro,” El Preidente says in a gentle voice.
“It is to do you honor, Mr. President,” I tell him.
“Most generous of you. My deepest thanks.”
I bow. “Would you like to dine now, Mr. President?”
El Presidente smiles. “The trip has been a long one, Don Pedro. And yes, I think I would prefer to have dinner now. We can have our talk later.”
“As you wish, Mr. President.”
“You have no idea how I look forward to our conversations,” El Presidente says.
“I am sure you look forward to them no more than I, Mr. President,” I tell him. I turn and lift my arm to guide him toward the table. He steps only a little way in front of me.
“A beautiful place, El Caliz,” El Presidente says. “So peaceful and beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“But I suppose all the world looks peaceful and beautiful from a great height, would you say so, Don Pedro?”
“It can give that illusion, Mr. President,” I tell him.
“Yes. Yes, it can.”
I lead him to the table and pull out his chair.
“Please, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says graciously. “You sit first. You do me too much honor.”
I take my seat at the table, and El Presidente slowly lowers himself into the chair next to mine. He looks at the table admiringly.
“So bountiful,” El Presidente says. “The world is so bountiful, is it not?”
“Yes, it is, Mr. President.”
“And so beautiful. A poem. A physical poem, don’t you think?”
“In some ways, yes.”
El Presidente laughs lightly. “Always modifying every Statement, Don Pedro,” he says gently. “You are too much the careful scholar.”
“There is much to study,” I tell him. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Only a small amount, please?” El Presidente replies.
I pour a small amount of red wine into his glass.
El Presidente glances at the villagers who stand admiringly a short distance away. He stands up and opens his arms. “Come,” he says in Spanish, “Come, my dear fellow-citizens, and join me at this table my good friend Don Pedro has prepared.”
Each year when he comes, it is the same display of generosity. Each year he insists on the presence of the villagers. Each year he dines with them under the watchful gaze of the guards.
Shyly, the villagers begin to stagger forward, finally gathering themselves around the many tables that have been prepared for them under the striped tent.
El Presidente turns to me. “I hope it is no great burden to prepare for so many. But I love to have the people around me. It’s improper for them to stand and watch, when the Republic has so much to share with them.”
