She said, “I do not want Charley back, but I do not want him to die either.”
He was astonished by this expression of emotion. She had shown none at all, as she sat and listened to Colonel Perez, and, when she had spoken to him after Perez left, it was of the Cadillac and of the lost sunglasses from Gruber’s.
She said, “He was good to me. He is a kind man. I do not want him to be hurt. I only want him not to be here.”
He began to comfort her with his hand as he would have comforted a frightened dog, and gently, without intention, they came together. He felt no lust, and when she moaned and tightened, he felt no sense of triumph.
He wondered with sadness, why did I ever want this to happen? Why did I think it would be a victory? There seemed to be no point in playing the game since now he knew what moves he had to make to win. The moves were sympathy, tenderness, quiet, the counterfeiting of love. He had been drawn to her by her indifference, even her enmity. She said, “Stay with me tonight.”
“How can I? Your maid would know. You can’t trust her not to tell Charley.”
“I could leave Charley.”
“It’s too soon to think of that. First we have to save bun-somehow.”
“Yes, of course, but afterward…”
“You were anxious about him just now.”
“Not about him,” she said. “About me. When he is here I can talk about nothing-only the baby. He wants to forget that Seńora Sanchez ever existed, so I can never see my friends because they all work there. What good am I to him? He does not want to make love to me any more because he is afraid it will do something to the baby. Do what? Sometimes I long to tell him-it is not yours anyway, so why do you bother about it?”
“Are you sure it isn’t his?”
“Yes. I am sure. Perhaps if he knew about you he would let me go.”
“Who were those people who came to the house just now?”
“Two journalists.”
“Did you speak to them?”
“They wanted me to make an appeal to the kidnappers-for Charley. I did not know what to say. I knew one of them-he used to have me sometimes when I was with Seńora Sanchez. I think he was angry about the baby. Colonel Perez must have told him about the baby. He said the baby was news. He always thought I liked him more than the other men. So I think his machismo was hurt. These men always believe you when you pretend. It suits their pride. He wanted to show his friend, the photographer, that there was something special between us, but there was nothing. Nothing. I was angry and I began to cry, and they took a picture. He said ‘Fine. O. K. Fine. That’s what we want. The sorrowing wife and mother-to-be,’ he said, and they drove away.”
It was not easy to interpret her tears correctly. Were they tears for Charley, tears of anger, tears for herself?
“What a funny beast you are, Clara,” he said.
“Is something wrong?”
“You were acting again just now, weren’t you?”
“What do you mean? Acting?”
“When we made love.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course I was acting. I always try to do what you like. I always try to say what you like. Yes. Just like at Seńora Sanchez. Why not? You have your machismo too.”
He half believed her. He wanted to believe her. If she were speaking the truth there might be something still to discover, the game was not over yet.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I have been wasting a lot of time here, Clara. There must be something I can do to help Charley.”
“And me? What about me?”
“You had better take a bath,” he said, “or your maid might smell the sex.”
2
Doctor Plarr drove back to the city. He told himself it was necessary to do something about Charley Fortnum immediately, but he had no idea what. Perhaps if he stayed quiet everything might be put in order in the accustomed way-the British and American Ambassadors would bring the right diplomatic pressure to bear, Charley Fortnum would be found deposited some early morning in a church and go home-home?—and ten prisoners in Paraguay would be given their liberty-it was even possible his father might be among them. What else could he do but leave things to sort themselves out? He had already lied to Colonel Perez, he was implicated.
Of course, to salve his conscience, he might make an emotional appeal to Léon Rivas to let Charley Fortnum go-“in the name of our old friendship.” But Léon was a man under orders and in any case Doctor Plarr had no clear idea of where to find him. In the barrio of the poor all the marshy tracks resembled one another, there were the same avocado trees everywhere, the same huts of mud or tin, and the same potbellied children carrying petrol tins of water. They would look at him with their blank eyes which were already infected by trachoma and reply nothing to any question. It might take him hours, even days, to find the hut where Charley Fortnum was hidden, and what good would his appeal do in any case? He tried unsuccessfully to reassure himself that Léon was not a man to commit murder, nor was Aquino, but they were only instruments-there remained El Tigre, whoever he might be.
He had heard of El Tigre for the first time one evening when he had passed Léon and Aquino sitting side by side in his waiting room. They were just two strangers among the other patients and he hadn’t given them a second look. All who waited there were the responsibility of his secretary.
His secretary was a pretty young woman called Ana. She was dauntingly efficient and the daughter of an influential official in the public health department. Doctor Plarr sometimes wondered why he had never been tempted to make love to her. Perhaps he hesitated because of the white starched uniform which she had adopted of her own wish-it would creak or crackle if one touched her: she might have been connected to a burglar alarm. Or perhaps it was the importance of her father, or her piety, real or apparent, which deterred him. She always wore a small gold cross round her neck, and once, when he had been driving through the square by the cathedral, he had seen her emerge with her family from Sunday Mass carrying a missal bound in white vellum-it might have been a first Communion present, for it closely resembled the sugar almonds which are distributed on such occasions.
The evening when Léon and Aquino came to see him, he had dealt with all the other patients before it became the turn of the two strangers. He had not remembered them because there were always new faces waiting his attention. Patience and patients were words closely allied. His secretary came with a crackle to his side and put a slip of paper on the desk. “They want to see you together,” she said. He put back on the shelf a medical book he had been consulting in front of a patient-for some reason patients gained confidence if they could see a coloured picture, an aspect of human psychology which American publishers knew well. When he looked back the two men were standing side by side in front of his desk. The smaller, who had protruding ears, said, “It is Eduardo surely?”
“Léon,” Plarr exclaimed, “it is Léon, Léon Rivas?” They embraced with a certain shyness. Plarr asked, “How many years…? I haven’t heard from you since you sent me that Ordination card. I was sorry I could not come to the ceremony-it would have been unsafe for me.”
“That is all over anyway.”
“Why? Have they thrown you out?”
“I am married for one thing. The Archbishop did not like that.”
Doctor Plarr hesitated.
Léon Rivas said, “I am very lucky. She is a fine woman.”
“Congratulations. Who in all Paraguay did you find willing to celebrate the marriage?”
“We made our vows to each other. You know a priest at a marriage is never more than a witness. In an emergency… this was an emergency.”
“I had forgotten things were so easy.”
“Oh, I can assure you not so easy. It needs a lot of thought. That sort of marriage is more irrevocable than in a church. Don’t you recognize my friend?”