Carlos then turned to Bedelia and Camilio. “You will see that Gregorio’s fields are worked and worked well for the term of one year, with all profit going to Gregorio. Should he return to Sayaxche, the fields will revert to his ownership. Should he not return, the fields will become yours. As to the child, is his parentage in dispute?”
Gregorio lowered his eyes and said, “No.”
“Then the child shall remain with Bedelia and Camilio,” said Carlos. “But I hereby direct and declare that Gregorio be named the child’s godfather. It is my hope that this shared responsibility will over time heal the breech between you.” He turned again to Gregorio. “A condition attaches to my offer: you will leave within the hour for Alta Miron, thereby avoiding any further conflict with your wife and Camilio. I will give you a paper signed by my hand and sealed with my ring to present at the palace gates. You will be installed in your quarters and on the morrow you will begin what I trust will be a fruitful and happy life.”
All parties appeared satisfied with this agreement, Camilio less so for having to take on the burden of working Gregorio’s fields, but Bedelia expressed her contentment with the king’s justice and it was evident from Gregorio’s smile that he had overstated his love for Bedelia and would not be returning soon to Sayaxche, exhilarated by the potentials of life at the palace and a prospect of work far less onerous and better paid than that of a farmer.
Carlos’ rendering of this judgment, the facility with which he had delivered it and the kindly yet firm manner of handling a ticklish situation made an impression on Rosacher. It reminded him of how he had come to deal with people, except that with his winning charm and patience, his clear intent to be even-handed in all things, Carlos seemed a better him, an idealized Rosacher, one who did not manipulate for gain but was motivated by the desire to govern fairly. The idea that he was about to kill such a man grew ever more unappetizing and Rosacher’s guilt was amplified when the king invited him to the palace upon the conclusion of the hunt so that he could select from amongst the rare birds in the royal aviary a bird or two of his choosing, this in compensation for his assistance in trapping the beast that had terrorized the villages of Becan and Dulce Nombre.
“I believe our golden caiques have recently reproduced,” said Carlos. “Perhaps you would consider one of their children a fitting reward.”
“I would be honored by such a gift,” said Rosacher.
In mid-afternoon they rode to the camp established by the king’s guard on the banks of the Rio Coco. An area some forty feet in length and half that in width had been cleared about the king’s tent, situated on the verge of the water. A table and chairs had been placed in front of the tent and it was here that Rosacher and Carlos seated themselves, attended by one of the guards who provided a meal of sandwiches, chicken and pork, and a good burgundy. Riflemen had been positioned here and there in the surrounding jungle, setting up a crossfire, and both Carlos and Rosacher kept their rifles at the ready. Cerruti sat on the ground at the edge of the jungle some thirty feet away, joined there by a group of men from Becan also armed with rifles. That he and Cerruti were being kept separate caused Rosacher a modicum of unease, but he told himself that this must be a question of class and, though it seemed out of character for Carlos to make such distinctions, he likely was bound by some personal regulation that prohibited his association with a ruffian of Cerruti’s stamp…or it might be that during his interview with Cerruti, which had occurred while Rosacher slept, he had developed a distaste for the man and did not relish his company. The disquiet Rosacher felt in relation to this state of affairs gradually ebbed, washed away by Carlos’ affable and diverting conversation, but his anxiety over Frederick and the murder of the king did not abate. Whenever possible, he tried to catch Cerruti’s eye and, when he managed to do so, he gave his head a surreptitious shake, thereby hoping to communicate his desire to have Cerruti call off his pet and end their mission. Once he thought Cerruti responded with a minimal nod, but he could not be confident that this had been anything other than a twitch, since certain of Cerruti’s behaviors—long stares into nowhere and a general unresponsiveness to the men about him—gave evidence that he remained traumatized. Rosacher reached a point in his mental process at which he recognized that he had done all that he could short of making a full confession to Carlos, an admission that would guarantee his execution, and realized that he had put his fate into Griaule’s hands or, assuming the dragon’s indifference, had left it to chance.
As dusk gave way to night, the lingering afterglow of the sun reduced to a ragged band of indigo at the edge of the world, torches were lit, lending an air of barbarity to the encampment. Insects sizzled, frogs bleeped and belched up deeper sounds, the river gurgled placidly, a night-blooming cereus yielded its soft perfume, and Rosacher drank most of a second bottle of wine, and not because he was desperate—he had bypassed desperation and gone straight to an acceptance of his lot. If this was to be all of life, so be it. He’d had enough of striving, of contending against the forces of man and nature (he was convinced that the two were hopelessly at odds), and he surrendered happily to the kingdom of wine, the nation of tipsiness, and whatever constituency those entities embodied. The night was exceptional in its clarity. Stars like wildfire orchids sparked in the overhanging boughs of the great trees and the color of the sky, a rich, deep blue, a royal blue, seemed the product of a curdled mass of light behind it, as if a small galaxy had been brought close to the earth but was held just out of view, so as to illuminate an intimate scene on the riverbank, a pocket of tranquility at the heart of a diseased and trembling world.
“Richard…” said Carlos. “May I call you Richard?”
Rosacher froze and before he could think of a clever lie, something that could extricate him from a circumstance he had only begun to comprehend, he realized that his reaction had already given him away—yet still he made the effort and said to the king, “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you aware, Mister Rosacher, that there is no such bird as a golden caique?” Carlos asked.
“I assumed you spoke out of ignorance,” Rosacher said. “I didn’t think it my place to correct you.”
“I might believe you if you were not Richard Rosacher, but since you are…” Carlos made a comically sad face. “I don’t?”
Rosacher rummaged about for an escape, some trick of words to persuade Carlos that he was not this Rosacher; but he had drunk too much and was too far gone along the road of surrender. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked.
“It’s as I said. You’ll be my guest at the palace.”
“But what will be my punishment?”
“Why should I punish you? Have you committed some crime? True, you operate a business of which I disapprove, and you are the de facto representative of a government that has been no friend to Temalagua. And I suppose you and Mister Cerruti have entered the country illegally—but the penalty for that is a fine and expulsion from Temalaguan soil.”