Killing Che

by Chuck Pfarrer

  Tucked into the front was a black-and-white picture of a plump blond woman and three small children. All were smiling, happy. The woman and the children were sitting behind a table heaped with birthday presents and, oddly, a dozen unopened bottles of Coca-Cola. The photograph had been cut with scissors. A man’s face, the head and shoulders of the father, had been clipped from the picture.

  Hoyle studied the photograph and ran his finger over the cut.

  “What kind of guy cuts himself out of his own pictures?” Santavanes asked.

  “Somebody who thinks he’s already dead,” Charlie said.

  18

  A SENSE OF extraordinary peace came to Maria as the rain shivered against the grand windows of the office. She had pushed apart the heavy floor-length curtains and lifted the sashes, throwing open the place as far as was possible to the wind outside. This was hardly ever done; His Excellency insisted that the windows be closed and the curtains drawn at all times, and it was not often that Maria was left alone in the office and free to do as she wished. Minister Alameda was at a conference in Santiago—he would be traveling for the next ten days—and Maria’s officemate, the dour and contrary Señora Truillo, had departed on her annual holiday to Sucre.

  Light and shadow came alternately through the great windows, and Maria could hear the rain splash down off the roof tiles and pour into the courtyard. The mail was opened, the telegrams sorted, and the phones seldom rang. There most likely would be nothing else to do for the entire day. Maria had dared even to quietly play the radio. On the Voice of America, a man sang about San Francisco, a glorious name for a city, a place where people put flowers in their hair. The music was a special luxury. Señora Truillo (no one called her Delores) did not allow the radio to be played in the office; at least, not merely for the purposes of listening to music. The radio atop the file cabinets was there to monitor news broadcasts, more particularly to listen to news reports issued by the minister, and it was properly switched off when not used for business. As the music played, Señora Truillo’s empty chair seemed to assume a sort of vacant scowl.

  It was not merely the absence of Señora Truillo that brightened the morning. His Excellency put out quite a bow wave himself. Maria was amazed at the difference his absence made. This morning there seemed to be something gentler, less momentous, and far less anxious about the entire place. There were, of course, the things between Maria and the minister—intimacies more than those of employer and secretary. But Alameda did his best not to show obvious attention to Maria, and though this sort of affair was not uncommon, Alameda’s attitude toward it was not typically Bolivian. During the hours they worked together, the issue was not denied or even specifically hidden—it was ignored. In his workplace demeanor, the minister was almost North American. For eight hours every day, Alameda pretended, as Maria did, that there was nothing romantic between them. When they were together—alone together or around the city in the presence of others—Alameda was fawning, or remote, or amorous, as it suited him. He was a man, flesh and blood like any other. Alameda’s foibles were those common to public men: He was vain, narcissistic about his person, and haughty about his position in government. But he was also taken with her—“smitten” might be the word—although he would never admit this, nor would he ever say to Maria that he loved her. And Maria knew that Alameda loved himself too much to ever really love anyone else.

  Maria had come to terms with loneliness. She had few friends in La Paz. There was Señora Truillo, who was a polite though always disapproving acquaintance; they were not confidantes. Beyond a handful of contacts from work, Maria rarely spoke to other women. The wives of the other ministers avoided Maria as though she carried an electric charge. She had met one or two other mistresses but found absolutely nothing in common with them. Most were Bolivians, a few Brazilians. Many were in situations exactly like Maria’s—they had apartments and stipends. Maria was friendly to them, but it went nowhere. By the mistresses Maria was resented for her education, by the wives of the other grandees Maria was resented for her beauty and for being what she was: a paramour.

  Maria was a thoughtful woman, and in the face of nearly universal approbation, she’d taken refuge in the world of ideas. Books had eased her loneliness in La Paz. She read widely, in Spanish mostly, but also in French and English. That she was bright was undoubtedly one of the things that had attracted Alameda to her. She was well read and pretty and was not falsely demure. She’d come to know what was expected of her; Alameda liked conversation, and she understood what he liked in bed. Maria knew that she provided a service. In exchange, she was given a job, an apartment, and a few luxuries. Almost immediately, she’d found most social avenues were closed to her. There were occasions, rare circumstances, when other of the great men came together with their mistresses. These events were so furtive as to be untoward—celebrations in private dining rooms, or parties in another of the mistresses’ apartments (the drivers would park a block away). These gatherings had about them an air of conspiracy and vice; Maria disliked them immensely. Alameda sensed her discomfort and spared her these occasions as often as possible. In this way, Maria’s small, not wholly unpleasant world had constricted in the three years she’d been in La Paz.

  The morning’s gloom improved in a series of sun showers, and then, at last, noontime came with a high, timid sunshine. It was about then that Maria turned around in her seat and was shocked to see a man standing in front of her desk. She had not heard the door open; nor had she seen movement out of the corner of her eye. It was inconceivable that a person could enter the office and cross the space toward her desk so silently. Though she was startled, she recognized the man’s face, and her alarm melted into a genuine smile.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Hoyle said.

  Maria recognized the tall North American who’d waited while his friend delivered a briefcase. She remembered the jokes about famous people, but she did not remember the man as quite so handsome. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a tie. There was a bandage high on his forehead, and his expression was disarmingly bashful.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” he said. “My name is Hoyle.”

  “I remember,” Maria said.

  A second passed, both of them, grown people, inwardly made into schoolchildren. Hoyle’s eyes were on hers just an instant too long. He felt a pang in his chest, and the pain in his ribs redoubled it.

  “I hope it’s all right I dropped by,” he heard himself saying. “There were a couple of things I needed to check with you.”

  Maria stood behind her desk and did not exactly know why. She noticed for the first time that Hoyle towered over her, a big, solidly built man.

  “The minister is not in,” she said.

  “Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to.”

  “Me? Please, sit down.” She gestured to a chair in front of her desk. “What is it that I can help you with?”

  Hoyle sat on a couch next to a coffee table. The furniture was Scandinavian, sleek and ridiculous beneath the vaulted roof of the minister’s palatial offices. As Hoyle settled into the cushions, he winced. The pain in his ribs was still sharp.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Hoyle said. He touched the bandage on his forehead. “I had an accident.” He lied, as he always did, flawlessly. An embassy doctor had examined him that morning and announced that he had a bruised kidney in addition to a pair of broken ribs. Maria was looking at him with an expression of concern that required a bit more information. Hoyle said, “I bumped my head on the steering wheel.”

  Maria shook her head. “They drive like crazy people here.”

  Hoyle placed his hands in his lap. Maria noticed that he was carrying a small clutch of purple flowers.

  “Hadn’t you better put your flowers in some water?”

  “They’re for you.”

  “For me? Thank you.” Hoyle handed them to her. “They’re beautiful.”

  The flowers were purple and
yellow inside, paper flowers sold by the cholas in the marketplace.

  Hoyle smiled. “A bribe.”

  “Oh, I’ve become an important person,” Maria said. She stood and placed the flowers on her desk. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Hoyle said. He did not often drink coffee but wanted any excuse for the meeting to go on. Maria walked to the coffee urn next to Señora Truillo’s desk and prepared two cups.

  “I’m sorry, there’s no sugar. Señora Truillo locks it in her desk.” Maria’s expression was an encyclopedia about Señora Truillo.

  “Doesn’t she worry about ants?”

  Maria smiled. “The ants worry about her.”

  She handed him a cup and saucer. Hoyle returned to the seat on the couch. He’d noticed that Señora Truillo’s desk was adorned with pictures of her family. He did not know this was another of her means to register disapproval at Maria’s affair.

  “Do you have children?” Hoyle asked.

  “Me? No. Señora Truillo is very fond of her family.” A moment passed. “You’re not married?”

  “I was. I married my high school sweetheart. It turned out not to have been such a good idea. My job kept me gone a lot. I don’t think I really blame her now. It’s hard to be alone.” Hoyle shrugged. “That was a long time ago. How about you?”

  Maria shook her head. “I’ve been moving around. Nicaragua and then here.”

  Hoyle did not react to the lie. Maria continued, “I was in Miami once. As a little girl. My father took me for a visit.”

  “That’s a funny town,” Hoyle said.

  “I don’t remember much. I remember there were palm trees and people put cement birds in their front yards.”

  “Flamingos.”

  “That was it. Flamingos.”

  Hoyle finally got to the point. Almost to the point. “What I needed to talk to you about was a procedural thing.”

  Maria sat across from him, her knees primly together.

  Hoyle told himself inwardly not to look at her legs and went on, “I needed some information—hypothetical, really—I needed to find out how a group of people could get into the country.”

  “Visas?”

  “Yes. What I needed to ask you about was the procedure for visa applications. Visas into Bolivia.”

  Maria’s eyes stayed on him, testing. “What did you want to know?”

  “I wondered how a group of people might make sure their visas were granted—so they could travel together. If a group of, say, journalists were trying to get their papers all at the same time.”

  “We don’t normally handle those requests here.”

  They both knew she was lying. Maria knew it acutely, and Hoyle less compellingly.

  He made his voice a perfect blank. “You don’t?”

  “It was done in the past. Before I came to work in the ministry. All visas are handled by the Immigration Police now.”

  Hoyle knew that Alameda sold visas and passports. Charlie had confirmed this on their first day back in La Paz. “Oh. That’s too bad,” he said. “Because now I don’t have an excuse for hanging around.” He stood. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for the coffee.”

  Hoyle walked toward the door, and Maria followed. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” she said.

  “Sure.” Hoyle stopped at the door.

  “Do you know what kind they are?” Maria asked.

  “We have some that look just like them where I was raised—in Colorado. They grow in the mountains. They’re called columbines. They grow right in the snow.”

  “Brave little flowers,” Maria said.

  Hoyle felt oddly as if the world were spinning under his feet. He noticed that her skin seemed to glow, and her eyes made him think of tigers crouching in green forests. This impression took him away for a second, and when he came back, he remembered awkwardly that he had used his excuse and now he was utterly at a loss.

  “Would you like to have lunch?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” she said. “There’s no one else in the office this week.”

  “They’ll never know,” he said hopefully.

  “Sorry.”

  “Dinner?”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t you ever eat?” Hoyle asked. He had no idea that his smile was crooked in an irresistible way. It was now Maria’s turn to feel the world turning. “Coffee, something. In the future sometime?”

  Maria was disarmed and answered, “Sometime, perhaps, Mr. Hoyle.”

  “Paul.”

  “All right. Paul.”

  Hoyle heard the massive door click behind him. He walked down the cloister, and the last few clouds rolled away from the sun, and then the wind started to blow like it was never going to stop.

  THE POLICEMAN AT the corner was large and fat, and his gray uniform jacket was pulled tight across his belly, the buttons under enormous strain. His face was full, and below his nose was a small, square mustache flecked through with gray. As Maria passed him, he shook his head and pointed across the street.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Home,” she said. “Calle Cochabamba.”

  Others tried to pass on the sidewalk, and the policeman held out his arms, pointing again back down the block. He raised his voice but did not shout, addressing the pedestrians on the corner: “They are going to close the Plaza Murillo.”

  “Why?” someone asked.

  “Because of the protesters,” he answered, and looked again at Maria. “Don’t get caught in the crowd, chica,” he said. “Army troops are coming. Everyone move back, please. Move back.”

  A few people turned around, while others stood perplexed and dumb. Two young men came across the street carrying a placard emblazoned with a hammer and sickle. The policeman set after them, waddling across the street and blowing his whistle. The men shouted back at him, calling him a fascist, and quickly ran around the corner, the policeman breathlessly following. For a moment the crowd on the sidewalk milled together, the sight of the policeman chasing the protesters more comical than sinister, and most people chose to ignore the entire thing.

  Maria continued down the street, prepared to turn back, but by the time she had reached Avenida Colón, she neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary, so she continued on her usual route home.

  Hoyle had counted on this as well, that Maria would stay on her normal path. He sat parked in the Land Cruiser at the corner of Mercado and Socabaya, scanning the crowd as it passed. Neither Hoyle nor Maria had counted on a protest march. No one could have foreseen it. What had begun as a rumor in the morning was compounded by a second rumor of the deployment of military police to the congress—this drew students and, during the early afternoon, crowds of the curious. More people swarmed toward the congress building and the Plaza Murillo, and the crowds became dense. Engine idling, Hoyle waited for Maria, his meticulously planned chance encounter made increasingly unlikely by the volume of people in the street and the real possibility of a riot.

  He waited, and at half past five, he was convinced he had missed her.

  Within a few blocks, Maria became aware that the crowd had grown both larger and more discordant. She noticed also that it was overwhelmingly male, and younger than the office workers and professionals who normally filled the streets in the late afternoon. She attempted to turn back, but the crowd pushed her forward, and she took refuge in the door of a shop. The mood of the passing groups changed by the minute, jubilant then agitated, determined and silent, then shouting slogans and singing. Maria waited for a break in the throng, then scurried down a block, an instinct for refuge propelling her toward her apartment.

  Around the corner, she was quite surprised to see a tank at the intersection. Atop it a dozen soldiers stood unemotionally, weapons on their hips, bayonets pointed into the air. The crowd moved respectfully past the high olive sides of the tank. Now and again someone in the cr
owd would shout “Viva Bolivia” as though it were a magic charm against being shot down by one’s own army.

  Maria stopped on the corner across from the tank. The sight of it and the size of it were amazing to her. She did not wish to get any closer to the square or to the large number of soldiers jumping down from the sides of a dozen trucks parked in front of the Hotel Austria. A confrontation seemed inevitable, and Maria was aware that bullets fired into crowds created random tragedy. She recrossed the street, increasingly worried, and saw a white Land Cruiser stopped at the curb. The driver leaned across the front seat and opened the passenger door.

  “I think you better get in,” Hoyle said.

  In the crowd, someone threw a paving stone at the tank. It bounced off the armored side with a dull clang. There were a few more shouts of “Viva Bolivia,” and as the tank’s engine coughed over, the crowd surged away from it, like a wave drawing away from a beach.

  “Get in,” Hoyle said again, and this time Maria did not hesitate but climbed in and snapped the door shut after her.

  “Thank you,” Maria said. “I’m lucky you came by.”

  That he had waited for her, Maria could not know; it was Hoyle who had been lucky to pick her out from the crowd.

  “Are you always this gallant?”

  “It’s all a question of timing,” Hoyle said. He spun over the steering wheel and turned around in the street. He leaned on the horn, and the crowd parted in front of him. A clutch of students drifted past. They were carrying a blackboard taken from a classroom. On it was chalked ABAJO PULPO YANQUI, Down with the Yankee Octopus, and the slogan struck Hoyle as oddly poetic.

  “Anti-invertebrates,” Hoyle said, and Maria laughed brightly.

  “You don’t take this personally.”

  “Why should I? I’m not an octopus,” he said, and she laughed again.

  The tension was broken, and within a matter of blocks, the crowds had abated. By the time they turned up the Mariscal de Santa Cruz, traffic was returned to its normal state of chaos. It seemed incredible to Maria that three blocks away, the city went about its business, willfully ignorant to the human storm gathering at Plaza Murillo.