The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (87 page)

Menardo had tried to telephone his friend the general twice earlier in the week, but each time the secretary had said the general was out of the office. After his last round of secret meetings with the U.S. military, General J. had promised a full report to Menardo. Fortunately there was always Friday afternoon at the shooting range. Menardo could take his partner aside and they could arrange to have dinner later. Menardo had not felt such uneasiness since his childhood, when the others had made jokes and kept secrets from him.

Even Alegría had noticed Menardo’s nervousness on Wednesday. At first Menardo had tried to deny anything was bothering him, but Alegría had been strangely insistent; she wanted to know what was wrong. Alegría had even guessed it was something to do with the general. She got quite excited and demanded to know what was wrong between him and the general. “Wrong? What could be wrong?” Menardo had raised his voice indignantly; he did not see how Alegría could jump to the conclusion something was wrong. Women did not understand the friendship men shared, otherwise Alegría would have known that everything was fine, everything was going great and was about to get even better. Let the general do the talking. These United States “businessmen” wanted to remain behind the scenes; they needed reliable local “partners.” Wednesday evening at dinner Alegría had mentioned the women’s
club was only meeting twice a month now. Alegría said she did not care since she had wanted to take some business trips to the United States later anyway.

Changes were all around.
The phrase repeated over and over inside Menardo’s brain. The old man had always put the phrase at the beginning of the story about Prince Seven Macaws, who had been undone by two sorcerer brothers. Menardo had no control over his thoughts lately because of the worry. Somehow the worry had mobilized Menardo’s earliest memories, and he remembered the voice of the old man, his grandfather, acting out stories and changing his voice for different characters.

Changes were everywhere. Aircraft and helicopters supplied by the United States government were on patrol for groups of illegal refugees, who anyone could see were leftist strike units disguised as Salvadorean or Guatemalan refugees. Menardo had agreed with the police chief and the general: only blood spoke loudly enough; “shoot to kill” was the only answer, but the politicians and diplomats weren’t buying. Satellite television was to blame. Blood spoke too loudly for television. International outcry followed. That had been the reason the police chief had “secret units,” and the military had always had “counterintelligence units.”

AT THE CLUB on Friday, Menardo intended to talk with the police chief, and then to the general, each separately. Menardo sensed a growing conflict between the military and the police. The police chief supported the capture and incarceration of illegal refugees by the State Police, who had always attended to matters of internal state security. But the general argued the military must be called in. The police chief did not deny the refugees might be secret enemy agents—saboteurs and provocateurs sent north to wreak havoc on Mexico City. The chief favored refugee prison camps where the refugees could do field work at
nearby plantations during the day. The plan called for hiring hundreds of new police officers and would cost millions. General J. opposed any more refugee prison camps. He advocated harsher measures.

Menardo agreed with General J. that the bands of illegal refugees trying to make a run for it should be gunned down from the air like coyotes or wolves. A little blood here and there was better than big pools of blood flashed across the globe by satellite TV. Mass the refugees in camps and sooner or later, as their numbers grew, so would their unrest and boldness until a bloodbath occurred.

Menardo agreed with the general the best policy was to kill them as you found them. Otherwise, you ran into all the logistical problems the Germans had encountered with disposing of the Jews. General J. thought Hitler had underestimated the German people. The Jews could have been killed by mobs and death squads without the cumbersome and incriminating death factories. Fifty here, a hundred there—the numbers added up over weeks and months at a steady rate; this was why “disappearances” and death squads were superior to Hitler’s death factories.

General J. prided himself on his knowledge of military history. If Hitler had not been crazy, he might have realized it was not necessary to kill all the Jews. The general himself would have killed only key figures, and the remaining Jews would have been demoralized and docile the way the remaining Indians were. But the Jews would have made far superior slaves than Indians ever had; Hitler had wasted great potential. German factories might have hummed night and day powered with Jews, and the Germans might have been the first nation to enjoy complete leisure and wealth in the industrial age.

Indians however were the worst workers—slow, sloppy, and destructive of tools and machinery. Indians were a waste of time and money. No refugee camps for them—the best policy was quick annihilation on the spot, far, far from satellite TV cameras. The general and Menardo had agreed on that. Menardo and his friend had agreed on nearly all things.

Thursday evening Menardo had quarreled with Alegría at the dinner table, and she had left the room in tears. She had been asking question after question about the general, about the governor, about the chief of police. She kept coming back to the police chief until finally Menardo had lost his temper. Alegría was not just another wife—he knew that. Other women did not bother about their husbands’ colleagues.

Later Menardo had knocked softly on Alegría’s bedroom door and had held his breath so he could hear if she replied. Menardo wanted to explain himself. He wanted to explain the entire situation; he had never told her about “the concerns” his partner and others in his club had expressed when he had announced his marriage with her. Menardo thought Alegría should be alerted about some of the people she had associated with at the university. Subversives and radicals were thick—communists were everywhere, so Menardo could hardly blame Alegría. She had told him about the classes she had taught at the university, and of course it wasn’t her fault if communists had enrolled.

Alegría did not answer his knocks, so Menardo had poured himself a big brandy to carry to bed. With the brandy he could gradually put distance between himself and the worries that lined themselves in rows like soldiers. Riots and looting had resulted in heavy casualty losses, millions and millions in claims that Universal Insurance had to pay. Menardo felt the brandy begin to ease the tension he felt in his stomach. He sat in bed watching satellite television with the sound off—an international beauty pageant on a beach somewhere. Innocent enough, but sometimes lately, a word or even a phrase was enough to set off a tight, panicky feeling in his chest. The hot vapors of the brandy rolled down his throat and pushed aside all effects of the words. Words, only words.
Rifle, revolver, return.

Menardo had dozed off for only an instant because when he awoke, again the bathing suit contest was still on the TV screen. But in the instant Menardo had fallen asleep, he had begun to dream. He was a tiny child in the village again, carried in the old man’s arms; Indians from nearby villages had joined the others in long lines to greet Menardo in his grandpa’s arms. The faces Menardo saw in the dream he recognized as all the old people who had passed on; they called him storekeeper and asked him to sell them food on credit. Although only an infant in the dream, Menardo had been able to talk, but only Spanish, which none of the old ones seemed to understand. He felt the greatest anxiety trying to make himself understood by the Indians, who could be seen in the distance joining the line of people already waiting to speak to Menardo.
Return. We return.
He was trying to explain to them he did not have enough to feed everyone, not enough to go around, but they understood no Spanish, only Indian, which Menardo had refused to learn.

The dream did not frighten him, but he was puzzled because he
had not dreamed about the village or the old people there since his youth. Then suddenly they had all been lined up—probably because the TV beauty-pageant contestants had all been lined up. Menardo poured himself more brandy. The liquor created an invisible, warm wing that lifted him up, out of the reach of the words, where he floated more powerful than any of them—the general, the governor, or the police chief. He finished the brandy and closed his eyes to enjoy the sensation. He rubbed his fingers lightly over the left front panel of the vest inside his pajama top. The triumph of modern science—man-made fiber, rayon, nylon, and now the deceptively thin and soft fibers of “wonder fabric” that stopped all bullets and knife blades.

The beauty pageant was no longer as soothing to watch because the young, ripe beauties who had just been eliminated were huddled together bewildered, while ten smiling finalists stood front stage in the spotlight. Menardo frowned. He did not like to see weeping women, not even when they were beauties in bikinis. What did they expect? They could not
all
be chosen. Menardo had never been chosen for school teams—soccer or baseball—because he had been too fat. Menardo snapped off the television and reached for the information booklet about the vest. He was familiar with the diagrams and the cross-section drawings illustrating how bullets became enmeshed in the wonder fibers that saved your life. He did not like to admit this to himself, but he had begun to enjoy the nightly ritual of the brandy, then looking at himself in the mirror wearing the vest and pajama bottoms. The vest was bright white against his skin. He appreciated the low cut in the front and back, which protected his genitals and lower spine. It was perfect. Lightweight and whisper soft; only your wife knew you were wearing body armor. Secrecy was essential; otherwise assassins aimed for the head. The brochure on the vest always made good bedtime reading because the technical details gradually put one to sleep. The photographs of actual tests filled Menardo with confidence. All of it was a matter of trust—trust of the high technology that had woven the vest fibers, and trust in those most intimate with you.
Trust.
Menardo had repeated the word over and over until he was asleep.

MENARDO HAD AWAKENED Friday morning feeling well rested and happier than he had felt in months. He had not awakened sweating and moaning in one of his nightmares. The day was sunny, and a mild breeze smelled of Alegría’s roses and mock orange blossoms in the garden. Menardo felt happy and confident about his meeting later that day with his friend the general. Alone together, just the two of them, they could iron out any misunderstandings that might have sprung up if the general had learned about Sonny Blue’s visit. Conducting business with the U.S. government or its citizens had always aroused some nervousness and wariness even between friends and partners. Menardo expected General J. would have a good deal to report to him too, although he understood some of it was top secret between the U.S. and the Mexican military commanders.

Menardo had not felt so happy at breakfast with Alegría since the wedding. He had skipped his newspapers and looked across the table at her while he drank his coffee. He had felt love shining in his eyes, but Alegría apparently had not because she had demanded to know what was wrong, why was he staring at her? Was he trying to drive her crazy? Menardo did not get angry, but got up from his chair to hug her and soothe her. Couldn’t she tell? His worries had gone, they had disappeared suddenly during the night. All his little insecurities about his friend the general—all the little fears that his partner would throw him over for a deal with the U.S. military.

By the end of breakfast, Alegría had seemed more relaxed. She was talking about a business trip to Phoenix and L.A. Alegría said she wanted to see what interior designers in the United States were doing; too much of the French or even the Italians was boring; Alegría wanted what was fresh and exciting. “I feel fresh and exciting,” Menardo had said to Alegría as he rang Tacho to bring the car. But Alegría had been too intent on her travel plans to notice his wit. He kissed her on the cheek when he heard the car pull up. Before he stepped out the door, Menardo straightened his tie and collar, then patted down his suit coat, smoothing
the fabric to better conceal the outline of his vest. He wanted the vest correctly in place when he stepped outside.