The Honorary Consul (15 page)

       "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 had 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!"

       The small head with the bat ears and the attentive eyes of a good servant peered round the door. Léon said, "You have slept a long time, Señor Fortnum. That is good."

       "I heard the radio, Léon."

       "Ah, yes." Léon was carrying a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky was tucked under each arm. He said, "My wife has brought two bottles from the town." He showed the whisky proudly (it was an Argentine brand) and counted out the change with care. "You must not worry. Everything will be over in a few days."

       "Everything will be over with me, you mean? Give me that whisky." He poured out a third of a glass and drank it down.

       "I am sure tonight we shall hear them announce that they have accepted our terms. And then by tomorrow evening you can go home."

       Charley Fortnum poured out another dose.

       "You are drinking too much," the man called Léon said with friendly anxiety.

       "No, no. I know the right measure. And it's the measure that counts. What's your other name, Léon?"

       "I told you I have no other name."

       "But you have a title, haven't you? Tell me what you are doing in this setup, Father Léon."

       He could almost believe the ears twitched, like a dog's, at a familiar intonation—"Father" taking the place of "walk" or perhaps "cat."

       "You are mistaken. You saw my wife just now. Marta. She brought you the whisky."

       "But once a priest always a priest, Father. I spotted you when you broke those eggs over the dish. I could see you at the altar, Father."

       "You are imagining things, Señor Fortnum."

       "And what are 'you' imagining? You might have made a good bargain for the Ambassador, but you can't get anything in return for me. I'm not worth a peso to a human soul—except my wife. It seems an odd thing for a priest to become a murderer, but I suppose you'll get someone else to do the thing."

       "No," the other said with great seriousness, "if it should ever come to that, which God forbid, I will be the one. I do not want to shift the guilt."

       "Then I'd better leave you some of this whisky. You'll need a swig of it—in how many days did they say—three was it?"

       The other man's eyes shifted. He had a frightened air. He shuffled two steps toward the door as though he were leaving the altar and was afraid of treading on the skirt of a soutane which was too long for him.

       "You might stay and talk a bit," Charley Fortnum said. "I feel more scared when I'm alone. I don't mind telling 'you' that. If one can't talk to a priest who can one talk to? That Indian now... he sits there and stares at me and smiles. He 'wants' to kill."

       "You are wrong, Señor Fortnum. Miguel is a good man. He has no Spanish, that is all, and so he smiles just to show he is a friend. Try to sleep again."

       "I've had enough sleep. I want to talk to you." The man made a gesture with his hands, and Charley Fortnum could imagine him in church, making his formal passes. "I have so many things to do."

       "I can always keep you here if I try."

       "No, no. I 'must' go."

       "I can keep you here easily. I know the way."

       "I will come back presently, I promise."

       "All I have to say to keep you is—Father, please hear my confession."

       The man stayed stuck in the doorway with his back turned. His protruding ears stood out like little hands raised over an offering.