‘I wanna tell ya this thing,’ said Gilbey eagerly. ‘It’s like…’ His eagerness evaporated, and he gazed off toward the barricade. ‘Goddammit, man! Ya missed it.’ Then he added in a tone of pride, ‘I ’membered this really cool thing.’
Mingolla had never questioned the existence of the old Oriental man in the wheelchair until he disappeared. Every previous morning, he had sat beside his garden, fiddling with his strips of paper, his back to the courtyard. But on this particular morning he was nowhere to be seen, and the maid Serenita informed Mingolla that he had been taken to the hospital. Disconcerted, Mingolla went to stand by the plot and was surprised to see that the garden had long since gone to seed, implying that the old man’s conscientiousness had been either a product of senility or mind control. But this wasn’t the thing that troubled Mingolla. He had been interested in the old man, had always intended to speak to him, and the fact that he hadn’t brought home the verity that this was how it went with other people: you had intentions toward them, imagined yourself developing relationships, fulfilling certain goals, and—as if intent were all that mattered, as if the function of other people were merely to provide a sort of inadequate moral tinder—you never realized any of them. Like with Tully, for instance. He kept thinking that they were going to grow close, but they had both been too busy to spare time for each other, he with his fraudulent acts of kindness and Tully with Corazon; the sense of imminent closeness had been sufficient to make him believe that they were satisfying the requirements of the bond of experience between them. It occurred to Mingolla that his father had been right about war, that it had, indeed, made a man out of him. He could see intricacies that he had never before suspected, he understood the nature of his responsibilities and felt able to handle them. But the problem was that he had not become a very nice man. Not even average. His capacity for violence and indifference bore that out.
The garden was small, about twelve by twelve, the dirt crumbly and pale brown, interwoven by crispy tomato vines, lumped by shriveled melons and the husks of dried squash. Wanting to feel dirt under his feet, Mingolla kicked off his shoes and stepped over the retaining wires. Clods broke apart between his toes, vines snagged his ankles, pebbles bruised his soles. He stood at the center of the garden, looking up at the white globe of the sun veiled by frays of gray cloud, and felt—as if the garden were a plot of free land—that from this vantage he could see the twisted processes of history that had brought the world to this moment: the invasions, the mercenaries, the manipulations of the United Fruit Company, the blundering American do-gooder, the development bankers and their evil puppets, the vast unprincipled sprawl of business interests. All that on one hand, and on the other, the bizarre tapestry of murder and revenge fabricated by the two families, a Borgia-like progression of poisonings, stabbings, explosions, and kidnappings that spread across the centuries, enacting its bloody scenarios in mansions and povertystricken villages and on battlefields. And these two vines of history grappling, twining, crowding out every other growth, leaching the earth, reducing it to an arid garden in which nothing would grow except an old man’s fantasies.
‘David! Where are you?’ Debora’s voice calling from the courtyard. She came running through the breezeway. Behind her, Sotomayors and Madradonas were gathered at the entrance to the pension, shaking hands and talking. ‘David,’ she said. ‘It’s over. We’ve done it!’
He was unable to break himself out of his shell of gloomy speculation and stood waiting for her to continue.
‘Peace,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be peace.’
Her face looked like peace. A beautiful, dusky, smiling Third World peace. But he couldn’t relate. ‘Good,’ he said, stepping out of the garden. He sat on the tiled walk, began putting on his shoes.
‘Don’t you understand?’ Her smile had faded. ‘The negotiations are over. The treaty’s going to be drawn up tonight and signed tomorrow at the party.’
‘A party?’ That, he thought, would be an appropriate absurdity.
‘Yes, there’s going to be a celebration at the palace.’
‘Swell.’
She frowned. ‘You act like nothing’s happened.’
‘Look…’ he began. Never mind.’
Her face softened, and she knelt beside him. ‘I know you haven’t had much faith in all this, but it really has worked. You haven’t seen how hard these people have been trying.’
‘Hope so.’
She drew back from him as if needing a new perspective. ‘Do you? Sometimes I think you hope just the opposite, though I can’t understand why.’
He felt distracted, disinterested. Her words seemed parental in their reflex and cautionary morality.
She slipped an arm around his shoulders. ‘You’ve been working too hard. But you’ll see. Come with me. Talk to everybody. That’ll make you feel better.’
He was torn between the urge to convince her of a sober truth and the hope that she would remain happy. But deciding that a moment’s peace was better than nothing, he let her lead him out into the congratulatory melee of the courtyard.
That night, an overcast night with a few stars showing between glowing strips of cloud, he fell into a conversation with Tully outside the pension. Gilbey and Jack were sitting by a potted fern in the entranceway, and Tully was standing with Mingolla about a dozen feet away, talking about Corazon.
‘Sometime I t’ink she gonna drop de act,’ he said. ‘But den de nex’ minute, she go inside herself again and I can’t touch her. Damn, I’m getting’ used to it… used to bein’ wit’ a woman dat frown when she feel a smile comin’ on.’
‘Maybe she’ll still come around.’ Mingolla looked back into the courtyard, where, illuminated by spills of light from the windows, three Sotomayors were sitting and chatting in aluminum chairs by the pool.
‘I guess it ain’t ’portant whether she do or she don’t,’ said Tully. ‘I be fah her even if she start t’rowin’ t’ings at me.’ He sucked at his teeth and pointed at the Sotomayors. What you be t’inkin’ ’bout dis shit, Davy?’
‘Tell ya the truth, I haven’t thought much about it at all.’ He studied the Sotomayors, taking the measure of their languid gestures. ‘Debora seems convinced that everything’s great.’
‘Dat don’t tell me what you feelin’.’
Mingolla let the question penetrate. ‘I guess I figure they’ll screw things up somehow. But there’s nothing I can do ’bout it.’
‘Yeah, dat’s my feelin’.’ Tully scuffed the sidewalk. ‘You still got dat map I give you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You hang on to it, y’hear?’
‘You thinking ’bout running?’
‘All de time, mon. All de time.’ Tully stretched his arms overhead, his elbow joints popping. ‘Dis de kind of night it be good to have a drink or two.’
‘I gotta bottle.’
‘Dat’s not my meanin’,’ said Tully. I’m wantin’ some riot.’ He clapped Mingolla on the back. ‘Like dem nights over in Coxxen Hole. ’Member dem?’
‘Sure do,’ said Mingolla. ‘That was all right.’
‘Better dan all right.’ Tully made a disgusted noise. ‘Dat’s how I know dis barrio ain’t got no future. Dere ain’t no riot, no livin’ wild. De place dead already. Y’can’t make peace in a graveyard and ’spect anyt’ing good to come of it.’ He cast a sad eye on Jack and Gilbey. ‘How de fuck I ever wind up here?’
‘Beats me,’ said Mingolla. ‘I used to hate Roatán, but it’d sure look good to me now.’
‘Yeah, dat little island not so bad.’ Tully kicked a loose pebble on the concrete. ‘Ain’t it fuckin’ strange, Davy. How you start out wantin’ to rule the worl’, and in de end all you wanna do is hide from it?’