The Honorary Consul Read online

  She ignored his flippancy. "If you will leave those two cards on my desk when you have finished..." Her dress crepitated, as she went out, like a nocturnal insect.

  Doctor Plarr said, "I doubt if her Confession will take very long."

  "Those who have nothing to confess always take the longest," León Rivas said. "They want to please the priest and give him something to do. A murderer has only one thing on his mind, so he forgets all the rest—perhaps worse things. One can deal with him very quickly."

  "You still talk like a priest, Léon. What made you marry?"

  "I married when I lost faith. A man must have something to guard."

  "I can't imagine you without your faith."

  "I only mean my faith in the Church. Or in what they have made of it. Of course I know one day things may be better. But I was ordained when John was Pope. I am not patient enough to wait for another John."

  "You were going to be an 'abogado' before you became a priest. What are you now?"

  "A criminal," Léon said.

  "You are joking."

  "No. That is why I have come to you. We need your help."

  "To rob a bank?" Doctor Plarr asked. He couldn't take Léon seriously, when he looked at those familiar protruding ears and remembered so much...

  "To rob an Embassy—you might call it that."

  "But I'm no criminal, Léon." He added deliberately, "Except for an abortion or two," to see if the priestly eyes would flinch a little, but they stared back at him with indifference.

  "In a wrong society," Léon Rivas said, "the criminals are the honest men." The phrase came a bit too glibly. It was probably a well-known quotation. Doctor Plarr remembered how first there had been the law books Léon studied—he had once explained to him the meaning of tort. Then there had been ail the works of theology—Léon was able to make even the Trinity seem plausible by a sort of higher mathematics. He supposed there must be other primers to read in the new life. Perhaps he was quoting Marx.

  "The new American Ambassador," Léon said, "is planning to visit the north in November. You have contacts here, Eduardo. All we need are the exact details of his program."

  "I'm not going to be an accomplice in murder, Léon."

  "There will be no murder. A murder would be of very little use to us. Aquino, tell him about the treatment they gave you."

  "It was simple," Aquino said. "Not at all up-to-date. Nothing electric. Like the 'conquistadores' they managed with a knife..."

  Doctor Plarr listened with nausea. He had been present at many unpleasant deaths which had affected him less. In those cases there had been something to do, some means of helping in however small a degree. He felt sickness at this narrative in the past tense, just as years ago, when he was a young student, he had been upset by the dissection of a cadaver for educational purposes. When it came to a living body there was always curiosity and hope. He asked, "And you didn't talk?"

  "Of course I talked," Aquino saidi "They have it all in the files now. The counterinsurgency section of the CIA was pleased with me. Two of their agents were there, and they gave me three packets of Lucky Strike. A packet for each man I had betrayed."

  "Show him your hand, Aquino," Léon said.

  Aquino laid his right hand on the desk like a patient seeking advice. Three fingers were missing: the hand without them looked like something drawn up in a fish net from the river where eels were active. Aquino said, "That was why I began to write poetry. Verse was less tiring than prose with only a left hand. I could learn it by heart. I was allowed a visitor every three months (that was another reward they gave me) and I would recite her the verses I had made."

  "They were good verses," Léon said, "for a beginner. A kind of Purgatorio in 'villancico'."

  "How many of you are there?" Doctor Plarr asked.

  "A dozen of us crossed the border, not counting El Tigre. He was already in Argentina."

  "Who is El Tigre?"

  "The one who gives the orders. We call him that, but it is a term of affection. He likes to wear striped shirts."

  "The scheme sounds mad, León."

  "It has been done before."

  "Why kidnap the American Ambassador here instead of the one you have in Asunci6n?"

  "That was our first plan. But the General takes great precautions. Here, you must know it yourself, they have much less fear of guerrillas since the failure in Salta."

  "All the same you are in a foreign country."

  "South America is pur country, Eduardo. Not Paraguay. Not Argentina. You know what Che said, 'The whole continent is my country.' What are you? English or South American?"

  Doctor Plarr remembered the question, but he still could not answer it as he drove into the city past the white Gothic prison which always reminded him of a sugar decoration for a wedding cake. He told himself that Léon Rivas was a priest, and not a murderer. And Aquino? Aquino was a poet. It would have been easier to discount the danger to Charley Fortnum if he had never seen him lying unconscious on a box, a box so oddly shaped that it might have been a coffin.

  3

  Charley Fortnum woke with the worst head he could ever remember having. His eyes were aching and his vision was blurred. He whispered, "Clara," putting out his hand to touch her side, but all he touched was a mud wall. Then an image came to his mind of Doctor Plarr standing over him during the night with an electric torch. The doctor had told him some implausible story of an accident.

  It was daylight now. The sunlight seeped across the floor under the door of the next room, and he could tell, even through his bruised eyes, that this was no hospital. Nor was the hard box on which he lay a hospital bed. He swung his legs over the side and tried to stand up. He was giddy and nearly fell. Clutching the side of the box, he saw that he had been lying all night upon a coffin. It gave him, as he would have put it, a nasty turn.

  "Ted?" he called. He didn't associate Doctor Plarr with practical jokes, but there had to be some sort of explanation, and he was anxious to be back with Clara. Clara would be frightened, Clara wouldn't know what to do. Why, she was afraid even to use the telephone. "Ted?" he called again in a dry croak. Whisky had never treated him like this before, not even the local brand. Whom the bloody hell had he been drinking with and where? Mason, he told himself, you've got to pull yourself together. It was always to Mason he attributed his worst errors and his worst failings. In his boyhood when he still practiced confession it was always Mason who knelt in the box and muttered abstract phrases concerning sins against purity, though it was Charley Fortnum who would leave the box, his face ashine with beneficence after Mason's absolution. "Mason, Mason," he whispered now, "you snotty little beast, Mason, what were you up to last night?" He knew that when he exceeded the proper measure he was apt to forget things, but never before had he forgotten to quite this extent... He took a stumbling step toward the door and for the third time called out to Doctor Plarr.

  The door was pushed open and a stranger stood there waving a sub-machine gun at him. He had the narrow eyes and jet black hair of an Indian and he shouted at Fortnum in Guaraní. Fortnum, in spite of his father's angry insistence, had never learned more than a few words of Guaraní, but it was clear enough that the man was telling him to get back onto the so-called bed. "All right, all right," Fortnum said, speaking English so that the man would no more understand him than he understood Guaraní. "Keep your shirt on, old man." He sat down on the coffin and said, "Piss off," with a sense of relief.

  Another stranger in blue jeans, naked to the waist, came in and ordered the Indian away. He carried a cup of coffee. The coffee smelled like home, and Charley Fortnum was a little comforted. The man had protruding ears and for a moment Charley was reminded of a boy at school whom Mason had unmercifully teased, though Fortnum repented afterward and shared a bar of chocolate with the victim. This memory gave him-a sense of reassurance. He asked, "Where am I?"

  "You do not need to worry," the man replied. He held out the coffee.

  "I have to
go home. My wife will be anxious."

  "Tomorrow. I hope you will be able to go tomorrow."

  "Who was that man with a gun?"

  "Miguel. A good man. Drink your coffee, please. You will feel much better then."

  "What's your name?" Charley Fortnum asked.

  "Léon," the man said.

  "I mean your family name?"

  "None of us here have families," the man said, "so we are nameless."

  Charley Fortnum turned this statement over in his mind like a difficult phrase in a book; it made no more sense to him at the second reading.

  "Doctor Plarr was here last night," he said.

  "Plarr? Plarr? I do not think I know anyone called Plarr."

  "He told me I had been in an accident."

  "It was I who told you that," the man said.

  "It was not you. I saw him. He carried an electric torch."

  "You dreamt him. You have had a shock... Your car was badly damaged. Please drink your coffee. You will remember things better perhaps afterward."

  Charley Fortnum obeyed. It was very strong coffee, and it was true that his head began to clear. He asked, "Where is the Ambassador?"

  "I do not know of any Ambassador."

  "I left him in the ruins. I wanted to see my wife before dinner. I wanted to see that she was all right. I don't like leaving her for long. She is expecting a baby."

  "Yes? That must make you very happy. It is a fine thing to be the father of a child."

  "I remember now. There was a car across the road. I had to stop. There was no accident. I'm quite sure there was no accident. And why the gun?" His hand shook a little as he drank his coffee. He said, "I want to go home now."

  "It is much too far to walk from here," the man said. "You are not fit yet. And the way—you do not know the way."

  "I will find a road. I can stop a car."

  "Better to rest today. After the shock. Tomorrow perhaps we can find you some transport. Today it is not possible."

  Fortnum threw what was left of his coffee in the man's face and charged into the other room. Then he stopped. The Indian stood twelve feet away in front of the outer door, pointing his gun at Charley Fortnum's stomach. His dark eyes shone with pleasure, as he moved the gun a little this way, a little that, as though he were deciding his target, between the navel and the appendix. He said' something which amused him in Guaraní.

  The man called Léon came from the inner room. He said, "You see. I told you. You cannot go today." One cheek was flushed red from the hot coffee, but he spoke gently, without anger. He had the patience of someone who was more used to enduring pain than inflicting it. He said, "You must be hungry, Señor Fortnum. If you would like some eggs...".

  "You know who I am?"

  "Yes, yes, of course. You are the British Consul."

  "What are you going to do with me?"

  "You will have to stay with us for a little -while. Believe me, we are not your enemies, Señor Fortnum. You will be helping us to save innocent men from imprisonment and torture. By this time our man in Rosario will have telephoned to the 'Nación' to tell them you are in our care."

  Charley Fortnum began to understand. "You got the wrong man, is that it? You were after the American Ambassador?"

  "Yes, it was an unfortunate mistake."

  "A very bad mistake. No one is going to bother about Charley Fortnum. What will you do then?"

  The man said, "I am sure you are wrong. You will see. Everything will be arranged. The British Ambassador will talk to the President. The President will speak to the General. He is here in Argentina on a holiday. The American Ambassador will intervene too. We are only asking the General to release a few men. Everything would have been quite easy if one of our men had not made a mistake."

  "You were not very well-informed, were you? The Ambassador had two police officers with him. And his secretary. That was why there was no room for me in his car."

  "We could have dealt with them."

  "All right. Give me your eggs," Charley Fortnum said, "but tell that man Miguel to put away his gun. It spoils my appetite."

  The man called Léon knelt before a small spirit stove on the earth floor and busied himself with matches, a frying pan, a bit of lard.

  "I could do with some whisky if you have it."

  "I am sorry. We have no spirits."

  The lard began to bubble in the pan.

  "Your name is Léon, eh?"

  "Yes." The man broke two eggs one after the other on the edge of the pan. As he held two half shells over the pan there was something in the position of the fingers which reminded Fortnum of that moment at the altar when a priest breaks the Host over the chalice.

  "What will you do if they refuse?"

  "I pray they will accept," the kneeling man said, "I am sure they will accept."

  "Then I hope to God God hears you," Charley Fortnum said. "Don't fry the eggs too hard."

  ***

  It was not until the afternoon that Charley Fortnum heard the official news about himself. The man Léon turned on a pocket radio at noon, but the battery failed in the middle of some Guaraní music and he had no spares. The young man with a beard whom Léon called Aquino went into town to buy more batteries. He was a long time gone. A woman came in from the market with food and cooked their lunch, a vegetable soup with a few scraps of meat. She made a great show too of cleaning the hut, raising the dust in one part so that it settled in another. She had a lot of untidy black hair and a wart on her face and she treated Léon with a mixture of possessiveness and servility. He called her Marta.

  Once Charley Fortnum, with embarrassment because of the woman's presence, said he wanted to use a lavatory. Léon gave an order to the Indian who led him to a cabin in the yard at the back of the hut. The door had lost one of its hinges and wouldn't close, and inside there was only a deep hole dug in the earth with a couple of boards across it. When he came out the Guaraní was sitting a few feet away playing with his gun, sighting it on a tree, a bird flying past, at a stray mongrel dog. Through the trees Charley Fortnum could see another hut, even poorer than the one to which he was returning. He thought of running to it for help, but he felt sure the Indian would welcome the chance to try his gun. When he got back he said to Léon, "If you can get a couple of bottles of whisky I'll pay you for them." No one had stolen his wallet, he had noticed that, and he took out the necessary notes.

  Léon gave the money to Marta. He said, "You will have to be patient, Señor Fortnum. Aquino is not back. No one can go till he returns. And it is a long walk into the town."

  "I will pay for a taxi."

  "I am afraid that is not possible. There are no taxis here."

  The Indian squatted down again by the door. Charley Fortnum said, "I'm going off to sleep a bit. That drug you gave me was pretty strong." He went back into the inner room and stretched out on the coffin. He tried to sleep, but he was kept awake by his thoughts. He wondered how Clara was managing in his absence. He had never left her alone for a whole night before. He knew nothing about childbirth, but he had an idea that shock or anxiety could affect the unborn child. He had even tried to cut down his drinking after he married Clara—except for that first married night of whisky and champagne when for the first time they made love properly, without impediment, in the Hotel Italia in Rosario—an old-fashioned hotel which smelled agreeably of undisturbed dust like an ancient library.

  They had gone there because he thought she would be a little scared of the Riviera Hotel which was new, expensive, and air conditioned. There were papers he had to collect at the Consulate at Santa Fe 939 (he remembered the number because it represented the month and year of his first marriage), the papers which if inquiries were made would show that there was no impediment to his second marriage—it had taken weeks to get a copy of Evelyn's death certificate from a small town in Idaho. He was able at the same time to leave his will in a sealed envelope in the Consulate safe. The Consul was a pleasant middle-aged man. He and Charley Fortnum ha
d hit it off right away when for some reason the subject of horses came up. He invited them back after the civil and religious ceremonies and opened a bottle of genuine French champagne. That little drinking ceremony among the file boxes compared very favorably with the reception in Idaho after his first marriage. He remembered with horror the white cake and the relations-in-law who wore dark suits and even hard collars, although it was a civil marriage which was not acceptable in Argentina. They had been prudent and not spoken of it when they returned. His wife had refused a Catholic marriage—it was against her conscience as she had become a Christian Scientist. Of course the civil marriage made her inheritance unsafe—which was also an indignity. He wanted very much to arrange things more safely for Clara; to ensure there were no cracks in the walls of this second marriage. He intended to leave her, when he came to die, in a security which was impregnable.

  After a while he slid into a deep dreamless sleep; he was only awakened when the radio in the next room began to repeat his own name—Señor Carlos Fortnum. The police—the announcer said—believed he might have been brought to Rosario because the telephone call to the 'Nación' had been traced to that city. A city of more than half a million inhabitants couldn't be searched very thoroughly, and the authorities had been given only four days in which to agree to the kidnappers' terms. One of these four days had already passed. Charley Fortnum thought: Clara will be listening to the broadcast, and he thanked God Ted would be around to reassure her. Ted would know what had happened. Ted would go to see her. Ted would do something to keep her calm. Ted would tell her that, even if they killed him, she would be all right. She had so much fear of the past—he could tell that from the way she never spoke of it. It was one of his reasons for marrying her, to prove she would never under any circumstances have to return to Mother Sanchez. He took exaggerated care of her happiness like a clumsy man entrusted with something of great fragility which didn't belong to him. He was always afraid of dropping her happiness. Someone was talking now about the Argentine football team which was touring Europe. He called, "Léon!"