Just burning the cablegram might not be enough, he reflected. You never knew. He kneaded the ashes in his palm to be sure he had thoroughly disposed of them. The paper smoke still hung in the office and it smelled enough like what it was, paper smoke, that anybody chancing to come in might recognize it. The president of the bank, the vice president, a clerk, anyone who came in would know paper smoke when they smelled it, and remember. He supposed anyone at the bank would be afraid to say anything, the situation of the government being what it was. But again, you never knew. Everyone was being careful to keep eyes and ears disconnected from mouths as long as the descamisada, the shirtless ones, still thought God had come down to earth and was running the government for their benefit. But the time of crisis was coming.
Since it was only ten o’clock in the morning, Mr. Hassam thought, God was probably still in bed with one of his teenage friends.
The smoke from the cablegram stank like camel breath, Mr. Hassam reflected, and he got up and opened the window. He stood there looking into the Avenida del Libertador General San Martin. It surprised him to see several thousand persons gathered in the street. He could not think what the occasion might be. He could see that the crowd was made up largely of shirtless ones, but for the life of him he could not recall why thousands of the fools should be down there in the street at ten o’clock this morning. He recalled that somewhere in his desk there was a silly calendar made up by some favor-currying concern which showed all the holidays dedicated to El Presidente and his late wife. He found the calendar and looked at it. Today was La Señora De La Esperanza day, the Lady of Hope Day, which was what the shirtless ones worshipfully called the late wife. So that was it.
Mr. Hassam put away the calendar. He wondered how the project of making a Saint out of La Señora De La Esperanza was coming along. El Presidente had ordered the Catholics to make his late wife a Saint about a month ago. The Catholic faith was dominant in the country, and the church officials did not like the Saint project. You could not blame them, for she had been a real bitch. It was rumored that El Presidente had personally telephoned the Pope in Rome and told him the Saint thing had to go through right away. Mr. Hassam could imagine what a hit that made with the Pope. All those teenage girls he was getting must be giving the bastard a God complex for real, thought Mr. Hassam. If he stirred up all the Catholics, he was opening a hornet nest, and he should have enough sense left to know it.
The way the crowd was starting to gather, there would probably be fifty thousand of them under the lecher’s balcony by two o’clock, the hour he usually put in his appearance.
Where was Kirksville, Missouri, anyway? In the U.S.A. obviously, since that was where the cablegram had originated. Mr. Hassam was somewhat puzzled as to which was the town and which was the province, and the general location. He consulted an atlas. Missouri, he found, was a province in the central U.S.A., and Kirksville was a small city.
He still felt frightened. Fear was like having a drink of a strong liquor, vodka or slivovitz or bourbon whiskey, in the way it put a false feeling into a man, and the sensation did not leave the system immediately.
The telephone rang. Mr. Hassam swung about to face the instrument, his nerves tightening. He was reluctant to pick it up, but he felt he must do so.
“Who? Señorita Muirz? Put her on, of course.” It was bad business when a man grew frightened at a telephone call, he reflected. “Ah, Miss Muirz. A profound pleasure.”
“I plan to be in your office at two o’clock, Hassam.”
She sounds high-handed, he thought. He was irritated. High-handedness must be a disease they caught in bed with that bastard. Only last week when he was visiting El Presidente’s summer residence in Olivos, a teenage flip had ordered Mr. Hassam about as though he were a peon, and he had not forgotten.
His voice held its composure. “May I suggest, Miss Muirz, perhaps twelve-thirty would be best for you to come. It is Our Lady of Hope day. The street is already filling with the worshippers.”
She laughed. “Very well. Twelve-thirty. Be there. Goodbye.”
That was a very nasty little laugh she had given, and he wondered what the Our Lady of Hope worshippers would do if they heard her give it. Tear her limb from limb, he supposed, particularly if they knew she had been El Presidente’s mistress while his wife was living.
He had better be careful himself, he thought. Flor Muirz was a woman as cold-blooded and calculating as a shark, and she and Doctor Englaster and Mr. Hassam were involved in some promising plans—very promising plans if they were not found out first.
He started walking rapidly around his office. Then he noticed what he was doing. Nerves. He decided to go out for an early lunch. He put on his Panama hat, and because it was quite a hot summer day outside, he took along his palm leaf fan, a rather large fan which he suspected made him look simple-minded. Well, it kept him cool.
When the president of the bank saw Mr. Hassam leaving, he leaped to his feet and hurried out of his glass cage and walked beside Mr. Hassam and opened the street door for him. Mr. Hassam knew the man wanted an invitation to lunch, but he ignored the opportunity. The bank president was always trying to suck up to one of them, either Mr. Hassam, Doctor Englaster, or Miss Muirz, and Mr. Hassam regarded him with distaste. However it was a small thing and not important.
Mr. Hassam went to La Hermana, a very nice restaurant, and had a fine lunch. Snails, pressed duck, proper wines, coffee diablo, a Grand Marnier. The bill was eighty-seven pesos and Mr. Hassam tipped the waiter twenty more, being rewarded with a deep bow. The Panama hat, his fan, were brought him and in accepting them, he returned equal bows. He dawdled before a mirror. He was reluctant to leave, for some reason fancying the peace and security here in the restaurant alone, a touch of sanctuary. The mirror was gilt and full-length, and he noted how his white suit stretched its buttons. The big palm leaf fan did make him look asinine. As a whole he looked like not so much, he reflected, essentially a short, potty and homely pig of a man, about as silly as anything with the fan. He went outside and wedged his way through the growing throng of shirtless ones, many of whom stood with their hands clasped under their chins, praying.
When Mr. Hassam finished counting the money Miss Muirz had brought, he had the total figure as one million three hundred and ninety-four thousand dollars in terms of American money. Miss Muirz sat across the desk taking down the total of each pile as he counted it out. The money for the most part was in Swiss gold franc notes, and Dutch gulden, although there was some U.S. currency. Mr. Hassam arranged the money in piles totaling one thousand U.S. dollars each, using current New York exchange rates in the computation. As ten piles were attained, he stacked them together, since he did not have space for one thousand three hundred and ninety-four piles of one thousand dollars each on his desk.
Mr. Hassam had glanced at Miss Muirz each time he gave her a figure to add to her total, but actually he was preoccupied and hardly conscious of her presence. This was an accomplishment in itself, since there was no lack of manhood in Mr. Hassam. Miss Muirz was something.
Miss Muirz was an exquisitely formed and tawny young woman. Maybe a trifle too tawny, since she had once been a professional jai alai player and top money winner at the game, too, and it showed somewhat on her. Whenever she moved there was the impression she flowed like a cat. However, she was lovely. And accomplished. When El Presidente was only a Colonel he had stumbled several hours late into an important meeting, and, thoroughly exhausted, had whispered to Mr. Hassam that the woman had given him the goddamn night of his life. Mr. Hassam had only to look at Miss Muirz to believe it. However, manhood was not a factor in Mr. Hassam’s mind while better than a million dollars was passing through his hands. The money felt good on his fingers.