The Orchids (13 page)

Dietrich laughed lightly. “True, Dr. Langhof.”

“Well, what would you gather from this, then?”

“That they were executed, of course,” Dietrich said casually. “It's no secret that executions are taking place. My God, we're at war, after all!”

“But this is an odd thing to crop up in the medical literature, don't you think?”

“No,” Dietrich said. “I'd be surprised if such studies were not being made. It's nothing new, as you know, Doctor. Medicine has always used certain circumstances to carry on research that would be impossible in peacetime.”

“I suppose so,” Langhof said. He motioned for Dietrich to go on about his business and then sunk his head again into the open journal.

What was he thinking? Could it have been the unthinkable? Emphatically, no. And when such references began to be sprinkled throughout the medical literature, and when the heads began to arrive upstairs at the museum, each in its own little hermetically sealed tin can, what then? Perhaps for a moment a question entered the intrepid scientist's inquiring mind. But it was not one that could be easily framed. Nor was it one that could be answered under a surgical lamp.

If you had been there, you would know that there are certain things that can only be approached indirectly, through flippancy. And so, confronted by the growing evidence of impropriety in the medical community, Langhof developed that characteristic which had so far eluded him: a sense of humor. He became the master of the quip. Seeing Dr. Friedheim marching up the hall one afternoon with one of those ubiquitous tin cans held securely under his arm, Langhof smiled. “What do you have there, Doctor,” he said airily, “a new head for your totem pole?” Dr. Friedheim rushed by, aghast. On another occasion, he met Dr. Ludtz in the lavatory. He folded his arm over Ludtz's shoulder. “They say human blood cannot be washed from the skin,” he whispered conspiratorially, “but I have found a lye compound that will do it.” Dr. Ludtz stared at Langhof for a moment, not knowing what to say. Then he simply smiled and walked away.

For a time, as you might imagine, Langhof's sardonic remarks were regarded with great concern by the other doctors in the Institute. There was talk of his name being mentioned to those authorities whose task it was to handle such matters. But the smile on Langhof's face, the jaunty carriage of his body, and the wink that invariably accompanied his remarks assured the nervous staff that he was quite a good fellow, an excellent fellow, in fact; one who had a far better attitude about the situation than certain other colleagues who seemed to carry themselves in a perpetual crouch. God only knew what was on
their
minds. But Langhof was sufficiently assured of the value of his work to dismiss its less pleasant aspects with a wink and a laugh.

And so the catastrophic I moved through the Institute of Hygiene as if at one with all that surrounded him — with the vials of acid, the skeleton displays, the books and journals, the shelves of chemicals, the reams of paper, the stacks of tin cans smelling vaguely acrid that seemed to pile up by the hundreds in the rear alleyway. At one, humorously at one, with all of this, the good doctor joked and japed, learning the rhythm of his routine like a standup comic in some cheap nightclub: “It's cold. How cold is it? Cold enough for a freezing experiment.” “It's hot. How hot is it? Hot enough to incinerate — what?” A socialist, a gypsy, a Jew, a homosexual, a communist, or any of a million other designated vermin. For the rhythm of the line, for the best laugh, what would be the funniest reply?

By this process, Langhof held to his moorings. He wrapped himself in the armor of ridicule, his old staple, but which was given added charm now by what passed in those sullen corridors for wit.

And yet, there were times when he felt a sudden, awesome dread, the sense of being propelled into the volcano's mouth on a wave of gasoline. And there were moments, later, when he wondered what might have happened to him if he had pursued these dark intimations rather than dismissing them with a mocking smile. Long after those first weeks in the Institute, Langhof walked with Ginzburg as they made their way from the main camp to the factory works. Ginzburg was chewing on a sliver of rubber band and his almost jaunty step made Langhof remember his own days at the Institute. For a moment he stopped, gently turned Ginzburg toward him, and asked: “Would it be better, do you think, if we — I mean as a species — if we had never evolved the capacity to laugh?”

H
ERE IN THE
R
EPUBLIC,
night falls like the collapsing of a tunnel. From my verandah I can see lights in Dr. Ludtz's cottage. It is time for my visit. I rise and as I make my way down the stairs, I can feel the bones in my joints grind against each other, sticks of dried wood making fire. At the bottom of the stairs, I hear the night birds in their revelry and I feel — I can still feel — the richness of the natural world, its miraculous abundance. In the Camp — I am coming to the Camp — this plenitude passed through a terrible crucible: greenery reduced to mud and shit; animal to louse and rat and man. And it will always seem odd to the benevolent spirit that while the smoke tumbled from the chimneytops in that near world, here in El Caliz the parrots sang above the flowers, the great kingfishers sliced the water, and the night birds flew in a world carved out of moonlight.

I tap lightly at Dr. Ludtz's door. I hear the sound of the bedsprings beneath him.

“Come in, please.”

I open the door slowly. Dr. Ludtz is sitting on the bed, propped up by three pillows. His hands are under the covers.

“Good evening, Dr. Ludtz.”

Dr. Ludtz smiles faintly, then takes the pistol from beneath the covers. He lays it on the nightstand. “Sorry,” he says, slightly embarrassed.

“How are you? Feeling better, I hope.”

Dr. Ludtz shakes his head. A ring of sweat glistens on his bald pate. “The fever has worsened, I'm afraid,” he says softly.

I pull a chair over beside the bed and sit down. “Are you taking antibiotics?”

“Yes.”

“Liquids?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I'm sure the fever will break shortly.”

Dr. Ludtz stares at me mournfully.

“Really, Doctor, I don't think there's anything to be alarmed about.”

He folds his hands over the covers and squeezes them together rhythmically. “When is El Presidente due to visit us?”

“In a few days.”

Dr. Ludtz glances worriedly at the ceiling. His lips tremble slightly. “I'm sure I'll be ill when he comes,” he says.

“There is nothing wrong with being ill, Dr. Ludtz.”

“But what if he should be offended?”

“You have nothing to fear, Doctor. You must believe me.”

He does not believe me. He has lived in an atmosphere of betrayal too long to believe in anything but God and pistols.

I glance toward the windows, but they are tightly shuttered. He never allows them to be opened. “You should take a look outside,” I say. “It's a lovely night.”

Dr. Ludtz turns his eyes from mine. “Do you believe in hell, Dr. Langhof?”

“No. Nor heaven, either.”

Dr. Ludtz looks at me with astonishment. “Really? You mean, you believe that after death there's nothing. Just oblivion?”

I smile. “Dr. Ludtz, why so morbid? Why these ridicubus questions? Surely you haven't got it into your mind that you're dying?”

“One never knows. I'm not a young man.”

“You have a slight fever. Father Martínez says this same fever is spread all over the province. It is nothing to worry about. It will pass.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” Dr. Ludtz says. Fear is in his face. I can see it like a gray web over his features, spiders crawling in his eyes.

“You're going to be fine, Dr. Ludtz. You need rest, that's all.”

“Forgive me, Doctor. Forgive my morbidity. But may I ask another favor?”

“Of course.”

“I do not want to be cremated.”

I try to smile. “Dr. Ludtz, really, this is unnecessary. You are upsetting yourself.”

He stares at me imploringly. “Please, Dr. Langhof, promise me.”

“All right. You will not be cremated.”

Dr. Ludtz nods toward the closed door. “I have built a little structure, as you know. Out there. I wish to be buried near it.”

“As you wish, Dr. Ludtz. But the likelihood is that you will bury me first.”

“Still, at my age it pays to make plans.”

“All right. I will do as you wish.”

Dr. Ludtz smiles. “I suppose I'm a poor patient, Dr. Langhof. They say doctors always are.”

“It's understandable.”

“I'm sorry to trouble you.”

“It's no trouble, Dr. Ludtz. I only wish that you would not alarm yourself.”

Dr. Ludtz waves his hand wearily. “Even without the fever, there would be things to worry about.” He looks at me sadly. “I suppose you've heard how things are going in the northern provinces.”

“Things?”

“The rebels, Doctor.”

“What about them?”

Dr. Ludtz straightens himself in the bed. “What if El Presidente should be overthrown?”

“That is most unlikely.”

“But this rebellion, the one in the northern provinces. It is said to be gaining strength.”

“The northern provinces are far away, Dr. Ludtz. And even if the rebels were to control them wholly, it would not interfere with El Presidente's dominion in the south.”

Dr. Ludtz swabs his brow with a large cloth. “How can you be so sure?”

“Such places as the northern provinces are always weak,” I tell him confidently.

“But they are sometimes successful, are they not?”

“Rarely. They rely too much on courage, Dr. Ludtz.”

Dr. Ludtz's body trembles slightly. “A chill,” he says fearfully. “I've been getting these periodic chills.”

“It may be anxiety, Dr. Ludtz. Would you like a sedative?”

“No,” Dr. Ludtz says quickly, flatly. “I don't take sedatives.”

“Very well.”

He appears relieved that I do not press the matter. Perhaps he thought for a moment that it was my intent to kill him. Here in the Republic, one cannot be too careful.

“Thank you for the offer,” Dr. Ludtz says, regaining his calm.

I push my chair back slightly and rise. “Well, have a good night's sleep. I will look in on you in the morning.”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Langhof.”

I turn, walk to the door, and open it.

“Dr. Langhof?” Dr. Ludtz calls from behind me.

I turn to face him. “Yes?”

“Do you really believe that it's just oblivion?”

“Yes.”

I walk out, closing the door behind me. The night is black as a dream of death. In oblivion there will be no color, not even blackness. But if there were a world beyond this world, perhaps we would be reborn into it not as our physical selves, but as the simple, irreducible essences of what we were. The killer would be born again, not as a man or woman, but as some perfect engine of destruction — a pistol or an ice pick. The comedian would return only as a laugh, the victim only as a scream. In such a world Ludtz might be reborn as a crusty little tomb, and Langhof as a maggot imprisoned in a tear.

I
T WAS
on a morning brilliant as this one that I arrived at El Caliz. The sun was rising over the ridge like a burning eye. But more than anything else, I remember the burro. I remember the way it staggered forward under my weight, its ears pinned back with the strain. It was very hot, hotter than people in temperate climates can imagine, a heat that sank into the body like a boiling liquid poured through bread. The burro must have felt this heat as I did, but it was not deterred. I had paid for it with a diamond that glinted exotically in the merchant's hand. He, the merchant, was round-faced with oily black hair and skin the color of scorched wood. He looked at the diamond and asked me what it was. When I told him, he laughed. I assured him that it was real, but he only grinned at me and said that it was pretty anyway, no matter what it really was, and that perhaps his wife might be charmed by it. And so he sold me a wheezing old burro for a jewel he thought counterfeit. The burro was gray with spots of black around the neck and down the legs. It had the face of a sad old man.

I took the reins, which dropped from the bit in the burro's mouth, and walked away. I had a small, tattered map to lead me to the property I had purchased in the capital from the dissolute and debt-ridden son of a dead patron. I had paid for it with diamonds. Diamonds and stars, the twin themes of my romance.

Not long after I arrived at El Caliz, the burro fell into decline. It coughed and wheezed, spitting up large gobs of yellow mucus. I gave it various injections, but it was hopeless. The burro was rotting from within. And so late one afternoon I lifted my pistol to its head and shot it between the eyes. It shuddered as if the world had moved beneath it, then the front legs collapsed and it dropped to the ground, blood streaming from its black nostrils. I told Juan and a few other servants to throw it into the river. They dragged it to the river bank and hoisted it into the water. I stood and watched it float away. The head and hindquarters were covered by water, so that all I could see was one swollen side bobbing slightly like a hairy gray ball. I started to turn away, but suddenly the body began to jerk and tremble. Waves of blood spread out from around the carcass, and I could see water splashing with thousands of piranha. For the one and only time in my life, I utterly lost control. I ran after the burro, ran into the water after it, firing wildly and sending up sprays of tiny, glistening fish. Waist deep in the river, I continued to fire, emptying clip after clip. The surface of the river was split by sprays of bullets, but the piranha continued at their work until the burro turned over, slowly like a sleeping man, revealing the white bones of its stripped side. My hand jerked up and I could feel the barrel of the pistol cool against my temple. At that moment, Juan leaped into the river after me and grabbed my wrist in a tight, unflinching grip. His voice seemed to come to me from down a long tunnel. “No, Don Pedro. No.”