The Orchids (29 page)
Authors: Thomas H. Cook
“A beautiful place you have here, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. “You are very fortunate.”
“It is an honor to live in the Republic.”
“I am honored that you think so highly of our country,” El Presidente says. “In the developed world they have curious ideas about our country.”
“They have curious ideas about their own, as well,” I tell him.
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, Don Pedro, it is always such a joy to speak with you. Do you know, no matter how weary I become, I always know that I can come here and be refreshed?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And of course it is not only the food and drink, superb though they are. It is the conversation, Don Pedro. I get so little interesting conversation in the capital. It is always business there, never anything that engages the mind.”
“Please come to El Caliz as often as you like, Mr. President. You will always be welcome.”
“Ah, if only I could come as often as I like, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says with a weary sigh. “But I'm so busy. Once a year is about all I can spare, I'm afraid.”
“Well, my invitation is always extended to you.”
“Thank you, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. He looks about, his eyes finally resting on the nursery. “How are your orchids, Don Pedro?”
“Not as well as they might be,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“Something has afflicted them.”
“I'm sorry to hear it.”
“Would you like to see them?” I ask.
“Most certainly.”
I lead him into the nursery.
El Presidente looks about the room. “It is so like you, Don Pedro, to bring even more beauty to this place than you found here when you came.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
El Presidente walks down one of the rows of potted plants and pauses to lightly touch the petals of a particularly extravagant bloom. “Orchids,” he says, “the most beautiful of flowers.” He looks at me. “How carefully you must tend them.”
“I do not tend them at all.”
“Really?”
“No. Juan, my servant. They are his responsibility. Like most people, he is very attracted to them.”
El Presidente nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see the care he has taken. They are so beautiful.” He fingers another petal for a moment. “I suppose it would be difficult to grow them somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else?”
El Presidente looks at me. “If you had to leave El Caliz.”
“Yes. It would be difficult in another place.”
El Presidente bends forward to touch one of the orchids. “A delicate flower.”
“Beguiling.”
“Yes, that's it exactly. Beguiling,” El Presidente says. He turns to face me. “It would be a shame to have to leave them, would it not, Don Pedro?”
“Yes. It would.”
El Presidente snaps one of the orchids and inserts it into his lapel. “Sometimes I think the world will be saved by our love for such beautiful things.”
“Or our hatred for such simple ones,” I tell him.
El Presidente laughs. “Ah, there you go again, Don Pedro, always making things more complex than they should be.”
I step over to one of the tables, dig under the soil, and take the pouch of chiseled crystal that Juan buried beneath the orchid's roots.
El Presidente smiles. “What is that, Don Pedro?”
I brush the soil from the pouch and hand it to El Presidente. “An expression of my appreciation, Mr. President.”
El Presidente folds his hand around the pouch. “How generous of you, Don Pedro.”
“Only what you deserve, Mr. President.”
El Presidente's hands knead the pouch as if counting the gems inside. “You are too generous, Don Pedro.”
“De nada.”
El Presidente drops the pouch into his other hand, then inserts it into his suit pocket. “You need have no doubt that your generosity will be appreciated, Don Pedro.”
“Thank you.”
El Presidente smiles warmly, then glances at his watch. “I'm afraid I must be going, Don Pedro,” he says sadly.
“I understand. I'm sure you have many duties.”
“But first, won't you tell me one of your lovely stories? You always leave me with something to remember.”
“All right, Mr. President, but it is nothing more than something I read not long ago.”
“I'm sure it will be wonderful,” El Presidente says.
I smile. “It's from Victor Hugo, Mr. President, a mere moment from a longer work.”
“Please go on.”
“The work has to do with the fall of Satan. In Hugo's tale, Satan falls through eons of time. Yet in the battle that preceded his expulsion â a battle fought out on the rim of time â a single feather was plucked from his side, lost to heaven. It totters on the edge of the abyss, glowing in celestial light. And Satan, as he falls, can feel the ache of its loss, a small, insistent pain, and so he locks back from time to time, and there, a billion miles and a million years away, he spies his feather, still balanced on the edge, one piece of him still aflame in holy light.”
El Presidente stands watching me, waiting for me to finish.
“That is all, Mr. President,” I tell him.
“Oh, yes, of course. Excellent, Don Pedro. Superb.”
“Thank you.”
El Presidente glances at his watch once again. “I really must be going, I'm afraid.”
“I will not keep you.”
We walk out of the nursery, and El Presidente tucks his arm once again beneath mine. “You live an idyllic life, Don Pedro,” he says. “Someday I hope to be as fortunate as you.”
“Perhaps someday you will.”
El Presidente steps up his pace slightly, tugging me along with him. “Do you fish much in the river?” he asks.
“No. Dr. Ludtz once enjoyed boating on it.”
El Presidente smiles. “Ah, yes, Dr. Ludtz. I remember him now. How is he?”
“He died yesterday, Mr. President.”
The smile on El Presidente's face disappears. “I'm so sorry, Don Pedro.”
“Old men die, Mr. President. Some are ready. Some are not.”
“Very admirable of you, Don Pedro,” El Presidente says. “Philosophical even about the death of your dear friend.”
“Perhaps.”
El Presidente nudges me forward up the hill toward the helicopter. “I hope you are not ailing,” he says.
“No. I am well.”
“Good to hear it,” El Presidente says. He does not speak again until he reaches the door of the helicopter. The guards are waiting for him with outstretched hands. He turns to the villagers who have gathered to see him off. “Vayan con Dios,” he says. He opens his arms, then draws them in. “Vayan con Dios.” Then he turns and steps into the helicopter. Above the cheering of the villagers, I hear the soft crunch of the pouch in his pocket.
I raise my hand. “Adiós.”
El Presidente waves. “Adiós, Don Pedro. And please, take care of yourself. You are too valuable to lose.”
“Gracias. Adiós.”
I step back and wait with the villagers. Together we watch the helicopter rise in a whirl of red dust. It tilts slightly as it ascends, then leans toward the river and lifts over the trees, as if taken up by the breath of God.
I turn and walk through the crowd of villagers. They step aside as I pass. I make my way to the stairs, then up to the verandah. Inside my office I take the little tin box. It is still filled with diamonds. So valuable are they that I have used only a few in my long years at El Caliz. I place the box on my desk, then take a sheet of stationery from one of the drawers. On it I write a single line: “I have become you, so that you may become me.” I sign the letter, fold it, and root it carefully amongst the diamonds. Soon I shall wrap the box and this journal in thick brown paper and on the outside write the name and address of one who, perhaps, understands the value of memory: Arnstein.
Then I will call for Juan. When he comes, I will tell him to take the package to the village and mail it.
In a while â perhaps a day or two â El Presidente's jewelers will discover the glass within the pouch. Then El Presidente will send his guards for me. Until then, I shall wait for them, as one whose head is full of diamonds. I will wait on my verandah and perhaps allow myself to dream â as some men do â of that far world where no man's mind can long be held within an orchid's dome.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1982 by Thomas H. Cook
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
