Honey in His Mouth

Doctor Englaster did the talking.

“How are you, Harsh? Physically, I mean.”

“Okay, I guess, considering. Making progress, anyhow.”

“I should like to examine you.” Doctor Englaster’s English was good, very Oxford.

“You’re a real doc?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a head-shrinker?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you a psychiatrist or whatever they call it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Doctor Englaster, who was indeed a practicing psychiatrist, wondered how Harsh had guessed it. Brother had indicated Harsh was a mental oaf, which could be an error. “Psychiatrists are, as you may know, also medical doctors. It is as a medical doctor that I wish to examine you.”

“You mean my arm?”

“Well, yes, the arm. But a complete physical inspection also.”

Doctor Englaster was El Presidente’s personal physician, and the purpose of going over Harsh was to search for scars, old bone fractures, or other items which might indicate Harsh was an imposter. But Doctor Englaster was not going to tell Harsh this was his reason.

“Are you going to be my regular doctor?”

“Conceivably so, if I decide you are acceptable.”

The remark made no hit with Harsh. He had decided he did not like Doctor Englaster.

“Well, goddamn it, you don’t need to act like it was veterinary work.”

The three conspirators conferred with Brother in the second floor solarium following Harsh’s physical examination.

“Well?” Brother looked to them for opinions.

“I could swear the man is El Presidente.” Miss Muirz seemed dazed. “It is literally inconceivable.”

Doctor Englaster fitted a cigarette in a very long platinum holder. “The man does not speak a word of Spanish.” He was not very fond of Harsh either. “That is a serious obstacle.”

Brother shrugged. “Nothing.”

“The exiled president of a South American country who cannot speak a word of Spanish?” Doctor Englaster’s eyebrows shot up. “That is nothing? Why, it is preposterous, man.”

Miss Muirz was shaking her head. “No. Harsh can manage. When El Presidente goes into exile, he will be afraid of assassination. He will allow no Spanish-speaking strangers near him.”

Mr. Hassam thought the same thing. “El Presidente is sure to take another identity, pretend to be someone else, when he first goes into exile. That is where Harsh can step in. We can get away with it.”

Doctor Englaster frowned. “What about the teeth? Dental records are a means of identification, just as are blood types and fingerprints.”

“They made X-rays of Harsh’s teeth at the hospital. Those X-rays are no longer in the hospital’s files.” Brother smiled at Doctor Englaster. “It will be very simple. El Presidente’s personal dentist is connected with your clinic, is he not?”

“Yes, but—”

“You will substitute Harsh’s X-rays for the genuine X-rays of El Presidente’s teeth.”

They fell silent. Mr. Hassam imagined each of them enjoying the same greedy line of thinking. They had worked for years falsifying those signatures on El Presidente’s investments abroad, working with the open-faced daring of a traveling salesman juggling two wives, hoping they could eventually find a man to serve as a figurehead for El Presidente long enough to enable the conspirators to liquidate the foreign deposits, now amounting to some sixty-five million, and make off with the money. It was a fabulous scheme. The possibility of its imminent fruition filled them all with the same heat.

“He still speaks no Spanish.” Doctor Englaster moved the flame from a jeweled lighter in front of his cigarette. “It is a liability.”

“Did you know, Doctor, I was once a language professor?” Mr. Hassam got to his feet. “Suppose I test his linguistic aptitude. Who knows? If it is favorable, I may be able to cram enough Spanish into him to get him by.”

Harsh’s initial good opinion of Mr. Hassam improved further when the fat man wheeled in a cart on which was an assortment of liquor bottles, ice, seltzer. Mr. Hassam, a man who noticed things, had remembered that Vera Sue Crosby had been drinking Benedictine and he had included a squat bottle of this, but Harsh said he preferred bourbon, straight. Mr. Hassam poured a pair. They clinked glasses.

“Harsh, I am going to ask you some questions, and have you make some sounds. If you wish to think I have a hole in the head, just go right ahead and think it.”

“All right by me, Hassam. Thanks for bringing in something to drink.”

“What I am actually going to do is test your aptitude for learning the Spanish language, Harsh. Do you know what vowels are?”

“Vowels? You mean A, E, I, O, U? I got that crap in school.”

“Good. You are familiar with what consonants are?”

“I guess.”

“Give me some examples.”

“I guess I ain’t that familiar with consonants, Mr. Hassam.”

“Did you graduate from college, Harsh?”

“Not exactly.”

“From high school?”

“Not exactly that, either.”

“The eighth grade?”

“I got four months into the eighth grade. Me and the teacher didn’t seem to jibe.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now, you will repeat after me: La cabeza es para pensar. Will you repeat that? Get the sounds as nearly the same as mine as you can.”

“Law caboose is a pair pants, sir.”

“Come come, Harsh, no joking. This is important. It is in the nature of an important test. I can tell you that you have passed nearly all other requirements. This is the one remaining test, and believe me, Harsh, it is an essential one. Now say after me: La boca es para hablar.”

“La boca es para hablar.”

“Oh, excellent. Much better. Much. Again, please. Watch the stress on the same syllables as I placed it. Again.”

Harsh made the sounds requested time after time, matching Mr. Hassam’s patience with a tolerant curiosity. They had another round of bourbon together. Mr. Hassam then gave a lengthy speech about Harsh being handicapped by unfamiliarity with the psychological make-up of the national character of the Spanish-speaking people in South America, stating this was an unfortunate handicap because the real character of a language stemmed from the user’s environment and habits, and unless one knew the character and environment, preferably knew it firsthand and from experience, then a man would encounter difficulty with the finer nuances of handling the speech of the land, and in particular of the individual who was supposed to be speaking, although as a whole it was not an insurmountable thing if a man applied himself judiciously. Following this out of a clear sky, Mr. Hassam asked Harsh to repeat all the words he had been pronouncing earlier. Harsh came back, getting all of them out, not muffing the pronunciation very seriously.

“Good, oh good for you! Far better than I expected.” Mr. Hassam did not conceal his delight.

“Did I pass, Professor?”

“Oh, excellent.”

“Well, as the fellow says, you didn’t catch me at my best today. To tell the truth my head is kind of fuzzy from the shots I been getting for the pain in my arm.” He did not mention the sleeplessness from watching the wall