“He is a very good writer,” ventured his wife, with a flash of unexpected fire.
“Hah!” said Seixas, glowering in Mendoza’s direction. “A libel is still a libel, well written or badly written, an’ I think I’ll tell Vados what I think of him inviting the—” He caught himself as his wife gave him a warning look.
“You’re quite right, of course,” said Angers, not apparently liking to agree with Seixas but wishing more to condemn Mendoza. “If it weren’t for the fact that his brother runs that rag Tiempo, I’m certain he’d never get his stuff into print.”
“Was that his brother with him — the man who looks like him?”
“That’s right. His name’s Cristoforo. He, his brother, and a man called Pedro Murieta who finances the publication of Felipe Mendoza’s books are sort of literary dictators in the country, which is a damnable shame, because most of the stuff that’s to their taste is on the verge, if not over the verge, of pornography—”
There was a shout from the head of the steps. I only caught the tail of it, but I presumed it was approximately, “Pray silence for his excellency the president,” because everyone on the lawn stopped talking, the band played pianissimo, and there was movement under the pillared portico of the house. Then el Presidente himself emerged, accompanied by his dark and beautiful young wife and by a nervous-looking man with spectacles, whose tie was out of place and whose hair was rumpled as though he habitually ran his fingers through it.
A burst of clapping went up, Angers and Seixas and their wives joining in without great enthusiasm. It lasted till the group was at the top of the steps, and then Vados, smiling, indicated to the nervous man that he should step forward. He did so, blinking in the strong sun and smiling apologetically.
“That’s Pablo Garcia,” said Angers softly, leaning toward me. “The local chess champion, of course.”
I nodded. Then Vados descended the steps to the lawn and he, his wife, and Garcia took three chairs which had sprung from nowhere against the wall at that end of the lawn.
“Well, here’s where we have to start circulating,” said Angers with a sigh. I gave him a puzzled glance, but then realized that everyone on the lawn was beginning to move in a counterclockwise procession. As each visitor passed the President, he or she bowed, and Vados either smiled back an acknowledgment or, in the case of the highly privileged, beckoned them to come and have a word with him. A man who was probably a secretary, wearing a dark suit, stood behind him and occasionally whispered in his ear.
He whispered as I, dutifully circulating with the Angerses — the Seixases had got left behind — came up. The presidential hand beckoned me. I excused myself to my companions and went forward.
“Delighted to have this chance of meeting you, Señor Hakluyt,” said Vados in excellent unaccented English. “I have seen you before, of course — on the television — but not in the flesh, as they say.”
“There I have the advantage,” I said. “I have seen you, and Your Excellency’s lady, in the Plaza del Norte the other day.” I gave a slight bow toward Señora Vados; she really was very beautiful. But apparently she didn’t speak English, and was paying no attention.
“Ah, but such a fleeting glimpse is not a meeting,” Vados said.
“But I’ve met Ciudad de Vados,” I countered. “And I’ve been extremely impressed by it.”
“So you said on the television,” Vados answered, and smiled. “It is always a pleasure to me when someone says that, even after ten years. I regard it almost as my child, you know. To have founded a city, though, is better than having a son, for a son is only an individual as oneself is, while a city — a city is the finest offspring a man can have.” He gave a sudden sigh. “But, as with human children, sometimes it does not grow up quite as one would have wished. Well, that is of no matter at the moment — I will not spoil your afternoon by discussing professional matters. I hope you enjoy your stay in Aguazul, señor.”
He inclined his head, and I said, “Señor presidente — Señora — Señor Garcia,” and backed away. I was glad I’d added the last two words, for the nervous-looking man was having nothing to do but stare at the passing people. At my addressing him, even to say good-bye, he lit up like a lamp being switched on and echoed, “Señor!” with as much enthusiasm as a small boy accepting an offer of candy.
“You were honored, señor,” said a voice I recognized as I rejoined the circular procession. Isabela Cortes was parading past the President on the arm of a distinguished man of about sixty who wore pince-nez in the old-fashioned manner. I acknowledged the remark.
This was a fortunate meeting, of course, because I had a question burning in the back of my mind — a question about the use of subliminal perception.
“Leon,” Señora Cortes said to her companion, “this is Señor Hakluyt whom you saw on my program the other evening. My husband, señor — the professor of the department of social sciences in the university.”
The professor gave me an uncomprehending but beaming smile and shook my hand warmly; then he gave his wife a reproving stare, and she laughed. “Please excuse him, señor,” she explained. “He speaks English less well than I.”
“Please speak Spanish,” I said, since it appeared to be expected of me, and she explained to her husband who I was. Before she had finished, he seized my hand again and told me he was overjoyed to meet me. Señora Cortes looked on indulgently.
“I suppose you know rather few of the people here?” she suggested.
I nodded.
“Suppose. we go over to the refreshment table and take advantage of this carousel to point out some of the notables for you. Thank you again, by the way, for the performance you put on on my program the other night.”
“It was very interesting,” I said guardedly. We were both talking Spanish now, for the professor’s benefit, and I was afraid I might not get the chance to ask my burning question — I probably couldn’t be sufficiently tactful in Spanish.
A waiter offered us another tray of drinks as we stepped aside from the circular flow, and the professor raised his glass to me, beaming again.
“To a successful conclusion of your difficult task, señor,” he toasted.
“If you don’t mind,” I said feelingly, “I’ll drink to that myself.”
We drank; then Señora Cortes moved close to me and began to name prominent personalities in a low tone.
“Over there, do you see? — it is General Molinas” — she was back to English, rather to my relief — “who is the… oh, I don’t know the word: the man in charge of all the forces.”
“Minister of War?” I suggested, and she laughed.
“War, señor? We don’t fight wars any longer! No, he is — ah, I have it! Commander in chief. And there, of course, is our Minister of Information, Dr. Mayor, whom you know — and that is another minister to whom he is talking at the moment: Señor Diaz, Minister of the Interior.”
This time I took considerable note. Diaz was a large, ungainly man — what they call in Spanish an hombrazo — with huge hands and a coarse-boned face revealing more than a trace of Indian ancestry. He wore a well-cut tropical suit which he contrived to make look like a flour sack, and he made sweeping gestures as he spoke; people stood well back even when they were being directly addressed by him. One of the group around him was Miguel Dominguez.
“And there — next to Señor Dominguez — is another minister: Secretary of Justice Gonzales, the stout one with the dark glasses. Then there is Señor Castaldo, who is deputy chief of the Ministry of the Interior, a close colleague of Diaz, naturally… I think all the ministers of the cabinet will be here — yes, there is our director of health and hygiene, Dr. Ruiz.”