“And you kept her laughing the whole time.”
“Laughing until she had to stop to catch her breath,” Ginzburg said. He smiled softly. “I used up all my best material on her.”
Slowly the Camp gate came into view, and Langhof saw Ginzburg’s face harden.
“Have you ever been to America?” Langhof asked quickly.
“No,” Ginzburg said. He shifted his eyes away from the Camp and looked at Langhof. “I’ve always liked Americans. They seem to laugh a lot. I think I would have been a hit there.”
“Probably so,” Langhof said.
“They make good audiences, the Americans.”
“What about the woman? The American? What happened?”
“She went back home. What would you expect?”
“But surely this great love between you should have endured,” Langhof said, jokingly.
“Never overestimate the power of ‘great love,’” Ginzburg said. He allowed a smile to play briefly on his lips. “Have you ever had a ‘great love,’ Doctor?”
“Just an adolescent infatuation,” Langhof said.
“Consummated?”
“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean,” Langhof said.
“That’s always good to hear.”
“But I’m interested in this American woman of yours,” Langhof said. “Did you ever see her again?”
Ginzburg shrugged. “Of course not. She went back to the United States. I saw her off at Marseilles. She gave me lots of kisses, I can tell you. ‘You should come with me, Ira,’ she said. ‘In New York, you’d be all the rage.’”
“Langhof smiled. “So that’s your first name. Ira. May I call you that?”
For a moment Ginzburg’s eyes seemed to lock on the Camp gate, then they drifted toward Langhof’s face. “No,” he said. “You may not.”
THROUGH THE WHITE HEAT of midday I see General Gomez’s jeep bounce up the pocked and gullied road toward the compound. Even in the distance, the gilded falcon that adorns the hood looks massive.
I rise from my chair, steadying myself in the thick, pulsating heat.
The jeep glides to a halt below me, sending a cloud of dust tumbling before it. The General leaps jauntily from his seat and points toward the thick jungle across the river. The gunner in the back of the jeep immediately shifts around, training the sights of his turret machine gun in the direction the General has indicated.
The General stares up toward the verandah, shielding his eyes against the raging sun. “Buenos días, Don Pedro,” he calls to me.
I lift my hand in greeting. “Buenos días, General Gomez.”
General Gomez smiles and trots up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He thrusts out his hand. “So good to see you, Don Pedro.”
I take his hand and shake it gently. “And good to see you, General.” I nod toward the chair. “Won’t you be seated?”
The General draws his pants up by gripping the wide belt of his uniform and tugging upward. Then he sits down. “The road to El Caliz is in disrepair,” he says.
“They are not well tended,” I tell him, “and the rains are very damaging.”
The General smiles broadly and folds his hands across his belly. “So, I understand that El Presidente is to visit you the day after tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“You must be filled with anticipation,” the General adds. He is a short, muscular man with a broad, black mustache and small, gleaming eyes.
“Indeed,” I tell him.
The General watches me for a moment, then shifts slightly in his seat, raising one leg over the other. Several years ago he determined that the parrots were warning the guerrillas of the approach of his troops. He ordered their annihilation, and for weeks squadrons of helicopters combed the jungles of the northern provinces firing at anything brightly colored.
“Would you like some refreshment, General?” I ask.
“No, thank you, Don Pedro,” the General replies. “I’m afraid that I have only a little time to spend with you.”
“Regrettable.”
“Yes,” General Gomez says wearily. He is busy with the greatest task of his life, securing the northern provinces. He has ravaged the coffee fields and trampled the sugar cane. I see the fires of burning villages still leaping in his eyes.
“What brings you so far to the south?” I ask.
The General leans forward conspiratorially. “Don Camillo has no doubt mentioned the trouble in the north?”
“Yes,” I tell him, “but that is in the north, far away.”
The General closes his eyes languidly, the military martyr. “Unfortunately, no.”
“But surely we have nothing to fear as far south as El Caliz,” I insist.
The General runs his index finger over his mustache. “Rebellion is not a wave, Don Pedro,” he informs me, “it is a serpent. It may slither into any crevice.”
Over the General’s shoulder I see Tomás emerge from the surrounding jungle. Instantly he spots the army jeep and retreats back into the brush. He is now old enough to be inducted into the General’s army. Such an eventuality would deny him his trips to the whorehouses downriver. That much he is not willing to sacrifice for the glory of the Republic.
“Like a serpent, yes,” General Gomez continues. It is one of his habits to extend a simile beyond its immediate effectiveness. “As a serpent may creep and crawl and invade the deepest brush, the dankest cavern, so a rebel may invade any area of the Republic.”
“Well spoken, General,” I tell him.
The General smiles happily. He has written a great deal of egregious poetry for the army newspaper, and it is said that he sometimes reads his latest literary creations to whole regiments assembled for that purpose.
“Like a serpent, the rebel forces often go forth under cover of darkness,” the General continues.
In my mind I see the soldiers under his command as they stand, withering in the sun, the General’s absurd warrior poetry sweeping over them like a noxious gas. Their eyelids grow weighty in the liquid heat. The straps of their packs eat into their shoulders. Later they will take out their unbearable anger and discomfort on the peasants to the north.
The General’s eyes lift toward the sky, his shimmering muse. “Like serpents, the rebels coil in their holes and prepare to strike in one sudden thrust.”
I clear my throat loudly, interrupting the General in his poetic flight. “Are you saying that we are in danger here in El Caliz?” I ask.
The General blinks his eyes. “From what?”
“The serpents you mentioned in that memorable image.”
The General nods. “I attempt precision in my images.”
“And always attain it,” I tell him.
“You perceive my meaning, then?” the General asks.
“I presume you fear a rebel contingent may lurk in the vicinity of El Caliz?”
“Precisely, yes.”
I nod thoughtfully, as if considering his remarks. “May I ask what purpose they would have in coming here? El Caliz is very remote, as you know.”
The smile that adorns General Gomez’s face looks as if it has been painted there. “Purpose? You do not understand these rebels, Don Pedro. They need no purpose. They have no purpose.” His eyes close sadly, then slowly open again. “It is part of the nature of human history that men of purpose must continually do battle with those who have no purpose whatsoever. Is that not so, Don Pedro?”
“Precisely,” I tell him. Far to the right, through a clearing in the trees, I see Esperanza pulling a wooden lorry piled high with dried palmetto leaves. Tomás is buried underneath them, picking worms from his arms, his eyes searching the dusty mass for the curled tail of the scorpion.
“The rebels will not fight like true soldiers,” General Gomez continues. He pulls an amber cigarette holder from his uniform pocket, places a cigarette in it, then brings it to his lips. “They fight like the vicious serpents they are. They lie in wait and attack without warning. They are cowards, Don Pedro. They are unworthy of being considered citizens of the Republic.”