400 Boys and 50 More (65 page)

At the threshold, where no doorman stood to open the shattered glass door, he felt in his robes for the reassurance of his gun, but his hand came away empty. The sensation provoked a mood of dread—not, he hoped, a premonition. He was not expecting trouble, but he knew how aggressive misfortune could be. There was nothing for it. He could not retrace his path looking for the lost weapon. Its absence made his throwing of himself on Miguel’s mercy less of a symbolic gesture; it smacked of foolhardiness. Could he count on his cousin, or anyone?

Inside it was dark and sweltering; air conditioners pumped heat into the grim lobby. The walls were papered with posters of President Buique, his mutilated face presiding over this hall of justice; the smoke of cigarettes and confiscated opiates rose everywhere like incense offered to placate the villain. Officers slumbered like children on eviscerated couches. He regarded one sleeper tenderly for a moment, a bony man with a broken yet determined jaw; in his dreams he must be leading armies to glory, such was the beatific expression on his face. Joseph leaned over and nudged him in the ribs, no harder than was necessary to rouse him.

“I wish to report a stolen bicycle,” he said.

The man waved vaguely, as if shooing a fly. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I shall not wait. I want this thief caught and executed.” And in an undertone, “It is I, Miguel. Don’t keep me standing here.”

The officer’s eyes snapped open. He jumped up quickly and grabbed Joseph by the arm, then they were walking down a wide corridor so full of metal desks and office furniture that it was impossible to pass two abreast. Upon the larger of these desks, policemen lay curled and dreaming. Joseph noted the abundance of typewriters in the corridor; he might need one soon to write a formal address to the scientific saviors of the free world. Miguel drew him into an office, pitch-black once he closed the door; a light came on and the room was revealed to be a large utility closet.

“Why have you come back? You should never—”

“I know it would mean your death if we were caught plotting, Miguel, but I do not think that likely.” He realized that his cousin was furious, and he was anxious to cool him down. “Soon enough, if all goes well, I will have removed myself from your care entirely. I intend to leave Bamal.”

“Good! You should have left months ago. I thought you had.”

“Gone where? And how? I’ve spent the last six months learning how the people live, trying not to slip beneath the dust and die with the rest of them, distinguishing myself in this regard. It has taken me time to reacquaint myself with some of the world’s harsher aspects; as you might imagine, I had forgotten what it could be like to live—”

“Like the rest of us?” Miguel shook his head, holding the door of the closet shut, his hand white-knuckled on the knob. “It was plain to see how much you forgot when the Emperor put you at the foot of his throne.”

“You’re glad to see him gone, I take it.”

“Glad?” Miguel’s laughter was dry and unappealing, not meant to be shared. “If you were not Fombeh, if there were no blood-trust between us, I would have shot you myself. It was foolish to risk my life hiding you, making the arrangements I did.”

Miguel took a breath and Joseph said, “So you think you live the common life now, do you? Do you think that out on the plain, the people sleep on soft couches and wait for the cool of night so they can retire with whores in your empty cells?”

Miguel’s jaw creaked as it moved from side to side.

“Buique has done nothing for these people,” he went on. “They flocked to San Désirée to find their fortune by casting a vote, but what have they found? A wealth of fleas, twisted guts, the blood-rot that has begun to eat up the tribes from within. They have come here to die, that is all. And I am different. Why should you oppose me when I say that at last I have decided to live—to more than live?”

“I know how you live.”

“Of course you do, Miguel.” He touched the rags that clothed him. “Forgive me for lording it over you here in my moment of luxury. I was always kind to you when I had power and position.”

“And I returned the favor. I saved your life, which was worth—”

“Exactly nothing as I live it now. I will not ask any great favors; I do not wish to be in your debt. All I require is a change of clothes, access to your typewriter, perhaps a desk to sleep upon tonight.”

“Fresh clothes? And where would I find those?”

Joseph spoke cautiously, foreseeing Miguel’s reaction: “A uniform. Common enough. Like the one you wear.”

Miguel was on the edge of exploding; he would be pushed no further. “A uniform!”

“For the moment I must be able to pass freely in places where these garments would only have me arrested. Get me a uniform and I promise you’ll see no more of me. Even if I sleep in the station I’ll do so in secret.”

“Ridiculous. You, passing as an officer?”

“And Buique passing as President, yes, it is ridiculous the way things turn around, is it not? Yesterday I stood at the top, holding the Emperor on my shoulders. Look at me now, Miguel; oh, not with such a sour face. I reflect sadly on the pride of our tribe but, alas, embody the state of the world.”

“You’re mad if you think—”

“Thinking is not what maddens me. It is only when the thoughts stop in the face of circumstance, and I hear the cries of the people out there in the desert, their voices building in a single cry, an insane wind; it is only then that the madness truly leaks in.”

Miguel shook his head, put a finger over Joseph’s heart. “I should have shot you myself.”

“Please, cousin, no regrets. Grant my final request and you may consider all obligations, even those of blood, forever cancelled. When I put on this uniform, I shall put off the Fombeh tatters.”

“Good. You are not of my tribe.”

“Nor any.”

The door slammed behind Miguel and Joseph heard his footsteps dying in the hall. He stared up at the bare light bulb until it seared his eyes. He had expected a strained reception from his cousin, but nothing so bleak as this; the world had truly turned in the last six months—from one season to its opposite.

-3-

It was not uncommon to see San Désirée’s police officers traveling moderate distances on foot; their vehicles were notoriously unreliable, a fault of the climate and not of the mechanics. (There were no mechanics.) It was a good hour’s walk from the police station to the edge of the estates, and by the time Joseph arrived the dust of the road and his fetid perspiration had reduced him to a condition like that of the wretches who were turned away from the gates of the wealthy without exception. He was not the only officer in such a state, however; the sentries at the gates looked no better. There were Fombeh among them, soldiers like his cousin, who had been quick to take Buique’s side and assist the coup in every particular. Turncoats, he thought, but he returned their salutes and dry smiles.

The estates formed a world apart from, and yet contained within, the expanse of Bamal. In the months of his absence they had changed not at all; too many of the residents possessed the resources to shield themselves from change. Joseph strolled along a perfect reproduction of a Parisian avenue, replete with cafes where the fashionable wives and artistes loitered. The morning edition of the
Times
lay in the window of the first shoppe he passed, an expensive satellite-sent facsimile which had sold out to the penultimate copy. Mulattos—the fifth tribe of Bamal—were everywhere, running errands, polishing cars that would never leave the precinct, sweeping the pavement, nodding to him as he passed. Here he was careful to keep his hat brim pulled low over his face, for many of these were people he knew. He did not fear that any would cry out for his arrest, but whispers carried farther than one might think, and within the day Buique himself might have heard rumors. That would never do. He needed time, probably a great deal, to arrange his departure, and he had not yet settled on an approach.

Would it be best to send a brief letter announcing his impending arrival, detailing his hoped-for escape from persecution in his homeland? Surely that would touch the hearts not only of the scientific community abroad, but also of the common people, lovers of human interest. On the other hand, his reputation might have gone ahead of him. Who would dare import a doctor known chiefly for having brought a tyrant (well, Emperor) to power? The red carpets that news would unroll at his feet were not necessarily ones he wished to tread. No, he needed a subtler plan.

Angelica’s house lay around the corner, but he was slowed by a sudden desire to see his former residence. She had waited six months to see him, after all. He knew it might be unwise to haunt his old home, but the impulse was as irresistible as it was irresponsible. Perhaps if he threw an egg at the place he would remove any suspicion from his presence.

Well, he would have a quick look. He doubted they would have made a monument of it, but it was such an elegant building that he couldn’t imagine them razing it on account of its most recent inhabitant. It must have housed worse men since the year of its completion. Buique had probably handed it to one of his lackeys as a gift.

Joseph had to change his course only slightly to reach the old house; in bygone days he had slipped between his house and Angelica’s in secret, taking the servants' walk that joined the rears of each place. Thus their relationship had remained a private matter; not even Mome, who mooned for her constantly, had known. She had always insisted on that, and it was fortunate for her that she had; else where would she be now, with the world turned on its head? She had kept herself poised in the worst of the upheaval. And he had always considered it a statement of her high regard that she had not attended his execution.

Now he slowed as his colonial manor came into view. It had been painted recently, he was pleased to see, and the lawn kept in excellent condition. He knew instantly that he dared not draw close, for hunched among the hedges at the side of the house was Kulchong, the gardener who had raked the lawn clippings and fed the flowers for all the various occupants of the last forty years. A pleasant old man, Kulchong, and good company, appreciative of fine liqueurs and candid with his opinions of Joseph’s latest scents; but this was not the time to strike up old acquaintances. Careful, now. Curtains drawn, Kulchong preoccupied, no one else on the street. He glanced at the post-box with its gilded letters, expecting to see the name of some innocuous public servant, and instead he almost betrayed his anonymity.

He turned swiftly on his heel, a brisk military movement in keeping with his outfit. It was necessary to keep his composure. Self control was essential now. The days ahead would surely be full of many such rude little shocks. Little? He was stupefied actually. That was not the house of a public servant: the name of his nemesis was emblazoned the mail-box!

Doctor Dodo had gone too far.

Shame burned him, hotter than the sun over Bamal. Why must fate be so intent on rubbing his nose in misfortune? Let Dodo dwell in his former home, let him commit obscenities on the same mattress where Joseph had slept; why did Joseph have to learn of these things? Couldn’t they simply go on without his knowledge? It was as though his own apprehensions created a vacuum that nature rushed to fill with dreadful oddities. If this were so, he must resolve to be fearless, to give nature no advantage, to follow his course without deviation.

The weight of the morning’s events sat on his shoulders as he ambled toward the last person in San Désirée capable of disappointing him. It seemed inevitable that she would be waiting to spring some trap, however innocent. Very well. He wouldn’t be discouraged; to bow before circumstance would get him nowhere, least of all to freedom.

He straightened his back, tried to look at ease although the sky was like a vast lens focusing the sun’s rays on his head; he led himself by the nose to the house of his last hope.

There was no one in sight, not on the wide lawn nor in any of the French windows. He hoped she was awake. The gate crashed behind him when he went through, and the Dobermans she kept began to howl; they were not let loose until nightfall, but the sound of their baying struck a chill through him. The beasts had never learned to recognize or trust him, though with her they were like puppies. He chuckled. Angelica treated them all like puppies. The more vicious and violent a man threatened to become with her, the more she babied him, the less serious became her attention. That was why Mome had never gotten close to her; his cruelty repelled her, but she’d always convinced him that the distance between them was something he’d created. She made it seem like chivalry, a game.

He reached the door without mishap or mauling, only to find it already open and Angelica’s valet waiting. Leon could be a startling chap, appearing the moment before you called him, vanishing with your request half-uttered only to return with more than you had asked for—exactly as much as you needed. Leon must have recognized him immediately, but he was implacable. Bowing slightly, he asked Joseph in, then started away into the depths of the house.

“A moment, please,” Joseph called. “Who will you say is calling?”

Leon smiled very faintly. “An officer, sir, of the police. Of course, if you wish to give a name. . ..”

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

“I’m sure Madame will be with you shortly.”

“I’m glad to hear you say it. I’ll wait in the study, shall I?”

“As you wish.” Leon did not offer to show him the way.

Joseph went into the richly furnished library whose tall windows overlooked the lawn and the blazing street. The noonday sun ruled the rest of the city, but here Angelica was queen and she kept a cool house. Nothing had changed here since his last visit. Her gilded lorgnette rested on the corner of her writing desk, beside an unfinished letter written in lavender ink. He knew nothing of antiques, but every piece of furniture was a collector’s piece according to Angelica. She had once offered to redecorate his house, imparting her knowledge of fine objects to the task, as well as her European connections. Hers was an old family with its roots extending far beyond Bamal.