I nod. “Yes, quite right. It is improper.”
El Presidente takes my glass of wine with one hand and the bottle with the other. “Please, Don Pedro, let me serve you, my dear friend.”
“Most gracious, Mr. President.”
El Presidente smiles and pours my glass to the brim with wine. He laughs softly. “I suppose it is easy to be generous with other people’s wine, is it not?”
“My wine is your wine, Mr. President,” I tell him.
El Presidente lifts his glass. “May I make a toast, Don Pedro?”
“I would be honored.”
“To our great friendship. May it last forever.”
I touch my glass to his. “Most generous of you, Mr. President.”
“It is you who are generous, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. He tastes the wine, placing the rim of the glass only lightly to his lips. “Excellent vintage,” he says.
“I had hoped you would approve.”
“Yes, excellent,” El Presidente repeats. He places the glass softly on the table. “When I was in England — during the period of my education, actually — well, I remember how difficult it was to enjoy a wine. Do you think perhaps it is the climate of Great Britain — all that rain and fog — that dulls the flavor, Don Pedro?”
“Perhaps,” I say. “Did you ever have the same wine in France?”
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, dear Don Pedro, such an empiricist. Of course, that would be the way to come to a decision on the matter. A test. Yes. Drink the same wine in both countries. Excellent. Yes, that would be the way to discover the truth of my proposition, would it not?”
“Of course, you could never drink exactly the same wine,” I tell him.
El Presidente nods knowingly. “Yes, I see. The experiment could never be exact.”
“No. Never exact.”
“Yes, that’s true,” El Presidente says. He lifts the glass again. “Well, in any event, the climate of the Republic does nothing to harm the bouquet. Here we can indulge ourselves in the finest wines of the world.”
“True, El Presidente. That is one of the many charms of the Republic.”
A servant steps to El Presidente’s side and offers him the roast pork. El Presidente nods. “Yes, thank you. That looks superb.” He smiles paternally at my servant. “I trust you will be having some too, my friend.”
The servant grins and nods his head.
El Presidente glances at his plate. “It looks marvelous, Don Pedro.” He slices a small piece of the pork and puts it delicately into his mouth. “Excellent. Superb.” As the servants pass, he takes small amounts of certain vegetables. “Superb. Superb.”
The dessert is flan with a light cream topping. When it is offered, El Presidente declines. “No, please,” he says with a smile. “I must watch my weight.” He pats his stomach. “No one admires an obese head of state.”
“Would you like a cigar?” I ask.
“No, thank you, Don Pedro. But I believe that I would like to stroll with you by the river. Our conversation, you know, the one I so look forward to each year.”
“I would be honored.”
We rise and leave the table, all eyes watching our departure, the villagers even interrupting their assault upon the food. When we are safely away, they return to their plates, noisily sucking at the food and drink.
At the bank of the river, El Presidente tucks his arm gently in mine and we walk leisurely side by side.
“A beautiful place you have here, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. “You are very fortunate.”
“It is an honor to live in the Republic.”
“I am honored that you think so highly of our country,” El Presidente says. “In the developed world they have curious ideas about our country.”
“They have curious ideas about their own, as well,” I tell him.
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, Don Pedro, it is always such a joy to speak with you. Do you know, no matter how weary I become, I always know that I can come here and be refreshed?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And of course it is not only the food and drink, superb though they are. It is the conversation, Don Pedro. I get so little interesting conversation in the capital. It is always business there, never anything that engages the mind.”
“Please come to El Caliz as often as you like, Mr. President. You will always be welcome.”
“Ah, if only I could come as often as I like, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says with a weary sigh. “But I’m so busy. Once a year is about all I can spare, I’m afraid.”
“Well, my invitation is always extended to you.”
“Thank you, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. He looks about, his eyes finally resting on the nursery. “How are your orchids, Don Pedro?”
“Not as well as they might be,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“Something has afflicted them.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Would you like to see them?” I ask.
“Most certainly.”
I lead him into the nursery.
El Presidente looks about the room. “It is so like you, Don Pedro, to bring even more beauty to this place than you found here when you came.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
El Presidente walks down one of the rows of potted plants and pauses to lightly touch the petals of a particularly extravagant bloom. “Orchids,” he says, “the most beautiful of flowers.” He looks at me. “How carefully you must tend them.”
“I do not tend them at all.”
“Really?”
“No. Juan, my servant. They are his responsibility. Like most people, he is very attracted to them.”
El Presidente nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see the care he has taken. They are so beautiful.” He fingers another petal for a moment. “I suppose it would be difficult to grow them somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else?”
El Presidente looks at me. “If you had to leave El Caliz.”
“Yes. It would be difficult in another place.”
El Presidente bends forward to touch one of the orchids. “A delicate flower.”
“Beguiling.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. Beguiling,” El Presidente says. He turns to face me. “It would be a shame to have to leave them, would it not, Don Pedro?”
“Yes. It would.”
El Presidente snaps one of the orchids and inserts it into his lapel. “Sometimes I think the world will be saved by our love for such beautiful things.”
“Or our hatred for such simple ones,” I tell him.
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, there you go again, Don Pedro, always making things more complex than they should be.”
I step over to one of the tables, dig under the soil, and take the pouch of chiseled crystal that Juan buried beneath the orchid’s roots.
El Presidente smiles. “What is that, Don Pedro?”
I brush the soil from the pouch and hand it to El Presidente. “An expression of my appreciation, Mr. President.”
El Presidente folds his hand around the pouch. “How generous of you, Don Pedro.”
“Only what you deserve, Mr. President.”
El Presidente’s hands knead the pouch as if counting the gems inside. “You are too generous, Don Pedro.”
