As for me, politics is not one of my interests. My free time is spent reading, which means living in other people’s worlds. Still, I have known the country was getting worse and that we are saddled with a government which doesn’t care for its people, other than the rich, of course. My sense of this comes mostly from the jokes I hear at the club. For instance there was the joke about the president going on a fishing trip. He catches a nice little trout. Grabbing it around the middle, he slaps it two or three times across the face. All right, says the president, where are the others?
In recent years these jokes have increased and grown more bitter, so it seemed that an eruption was inevitable. But is it my solipsism that keeps me from being able to separate the dinner at Pacheco’s from the events in the city? Most likely the events at Pacheco’s would not have occurred had there not been this upheaval in the streets. The story would never have been told. But it seemed more than that—not just that our lives were the result of that violence, but that the violence was the result of our lives, that this trouble around us had erupted in part from Pacheco’s story. It puts me in mind of those lines from Julius Caesar:
A lioness hath whelped in the streets;
And graves have yawned and yielded up their dead;
Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol.
My friends at the paper would say I am being too romantic, making connections where none exist. They would say that perhaps I am inventing this to hide from myself my own bad feelings against Pacheco, my wish to hurt him. Of course I only need to express this improbability to show how foolish such an argument would be. Yet there does appear to be a connection between the personal and public. For instance, look at Malgiolio. He takes no responsibility for his personal life and has no interest in the public. In varying degrees this might be true of all of us. If one is not absolutely destitute and downtrodden or physically handicapped, one probably gets the life one deserves. From this it follows that one gets the sort of government one deserves. I mean, if my fellow citizens are fighting in the streets, am I not to some degree responsible?
But perhaps I was being romantic again. Things happen to a person; that is, life deals you a set of cards and you play them as you are able. If I do the best I can and make no trouble for my neighbors, then surely I cannot be blamed either for my existence or my government. There are forces that buffet us through life that no mere individual can withstand. Better to stick to my books and musings about literature and leave the government to those who know best. That certainly was what I’d believed for years, but this evening I had begun to wonder, foolishly perhaps, if it wasn’t that sort of thinking which had helped bring about this current state of affairs.
The others had continued to talk about what might be occurring in the city and I listened, occasionally interrupting with a question. Carrera was a very gentlemanly officer, really someone of the old school, and was one of those men who remained polite even if he intended to kill you. Indeed, he was probably more dangerous than Captain Quatrone, because he would speak with great gentleness but if you went against him, he would act without hesitation. This is a trivial example but when we played cards—poker mostly, but also bridge or whist—he was without mercy.
After we had been talking about ten minutes, I asked, “By the way, do you know anything of Colonel David Kress? He’s one of our group and was supposed to be here tonight.”
Carrera folded his hands before him on the tablecloth and grew more somber. “I . . . I’m afraid I have rather unfortunate news about that,” he said in his stuttering drawl. “Colonel Kress’s regiment was one of those army regiments that attempted to join up with the air force regiments in the south. I know nothing about him personally but they were blocked just outside of the city and there was some fierce fighting. I don’t know the details but I heard they’d been defeated. And even if Kress is alive he’ll certainly have to face a court-martial or even worse, that is unless he gets away. But where could he go?”
We met this news with general silence. Kress has always been popular—a kind man who looked out for the men under his command and who has a very strong sense of connection to our group. When one of us needed assistance in moving or to borrow something or needed help in any way, Kress was the person one could count on. The fact that he might be dead seemed to suggest more than anything that the group had been broken asunder, that whatever happened after tonight, it would be different—a different group, a different city. Certainly, much of this destruction was due to the violence around us, but I also wondered if it didn’t also stem from ambivalent feelings within the group itself. Maybe this was even what Schwab had been referring to, that we needed to take more responsibility for our past selves, which meant taking more responsibility for our present ones. It was hard to understand that, hard to know what it meant. All we knew for certain was that tomorrow would be different and that what we had taken for granted had become suspect and fragile.
There seemed nothing to say. During the whole evening we had made one exclamation of surprise after another and now here was this information about Kress. Carrera looked at us sympathetically. “I’m sorry to bring bad tidings. I didn’t know Kress personally but I always heard well of him.”
“I never thought he was particularly political,” said Dalakis.
Carrera finished his wine. “It’s hard not to be these days.”
He got to his feet and there was general talk about whether he would have another glass of wine or even eat something, then further talk about the casualties in his regiment. Several of his men had already gone to see about bringing back a few of the wounded. Pacheco said he would need bandages, antibiotics.
But I continued to think about Kress, whom I hadn’t seen since our last dinner six months ago. He had been one of the ushers at my wedding and some weeks later he had met us at that small ski resort in Switzerland where I had gone with Cora to spend our honeymoon. He had been married himself less than a year and his wife came with us. Her name was Dorothy or Delores, I can’t remember. We made quite a jolly foursome.
That first evening of his visit we had had dinner in the lodge. It was one of those great pine buildings with a large central hall going up five or six stories and balconies all around. While we were at dinner we talked cheerfully about the next day’s skiing. Kress, although affectionate with his wife, was constantly glancing around at other women and actually made contact with one. I have never known whether this was someone he had met previously or if they just made eye contact and came to some agreement. Moments later he excused himself to go to the rest room. In ten minutes he had still not returned and his wife thought he might be sick. Although I had noticed this other woman also leave the dining hall, I went off to the rest room to look for him. Of course he wasn’t there. I glanced around through various meeting halls and function rooms, then, looking from a window, I happened to see Kress’s rented car down in the parking lot, a large Citroën. And there he was with this woman, making love to her in the backseat. I remember standing by the window and looking down, seeing only a confused tangle of arms and clothing.
I went back to the dining hall and about ten minutes later Kress returned perfectly calmly as if nothing untoward had happened. He said he’d had a headache and had gone to his room for aspirin. A few minutes later the woman returned and joined her friends, three women and two men. She didn’t look at Kress and he didn’t look at her. You can imagine that I looked at her a great deal, not with desire but with amazement. I intended to ask Kress about his escapade and I especially wanted to know if he’d known this woman before. I also told myself that I had better keep my own young wife out of his way—not that I felt I had anything to fear, since we were very much in love and totally occupied with each other. But as it turned out I had no time to ask Kress about the woman. My wife had her fatal acci
dent the next day and everything else was pushed from my mind.
Colonel Carrera thanked Pacheco for the wine and we walked with him to the front door. “You may start receiving these wounded men in ten minutes or so. I’m sorry about the inconvenience, but there seems no alternative. And by the way, Pacheco, I would be careful of Captain Quatrone. He’s not like the rest of us. No loyalties. He only serves himself.”
“These are difficult days,” said Pacheco, opening the door, “but that’s no reason to let everything go. A man like Quatrone is only happy when he holds the stick and even uses it. You showed him a bigger stick. I’m sure he’ll behave.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Carrera.
We watched him go, hurrying across the street to his jeep.
—
Pacheco closed the door. Turning, he seemed suddenly tired. Then, lighting a cigarette, he took hold of himself again. “Well, gentlemen, we still have some eating left. Will you join me for dessert?” His damaged cheek was livid and swollen and I found it impossible not to stare at it.
“Really, Pacheco,” said Dalakis, walking back across the hall, “I feel I have eaten enough for a dozen people, but what I am most interested in is that man upstairs. Has he actually lain in that bed for twenty years?”
Pacheco slapped Dalakis on the back and led him toward the dining room. I followed with Malgiolio. I must say I was impressed by Pacheco’s insistence that we continue our dinner no matter what. The marble floor was muddied with the footprints of the soldiers and there were spots of the cook’s blood, although in the dim light the bloodstains only appeared as a brighter-colored dirt.
“You shall get the rest of your story,” said Pacheco. “But you must also have dessert. The cake was my cook’s great creation and it is your duty to her to taste it.” He glanced back at Malgiolio and me. Malgiolio had been dawdling along but his interest perked up at the mention of cake. He looked at me and grinned so that his whole face grew as round as a bowl.
We again took our places at the table. Pacheco rang the little silver bell and after a moment Señora Puccini appeared at the door.
“Señora,” said Pacheco, “we’re ready for the cake and you might start the coffee as well. Is everything all right in the kitchen?”
“It appears to be.”
“The soldiers didn’t do any damage?”
“None to speak of.”
She spoke so flatly and seemed so disassociated from Pacheco’s questions that I thought something was wrong, but perhaps it was only a matter of her mind being someplace else. Actually I felt our dinner was over and was angry with Pacheco for prolonging it despite the fighting and soldiers and the death of the cook. He seemed absolutely callous. If I have so much as a remote cousin die I’m no good for anything for days.
“And did they search you, Señora?” asked Pacheco. She stood behind his chair and he had his back to her.
“Yes.”
“And did they offend you?”
“Why should I take offense? I have no rights over my body.”
Pacheco turned and observed her, then made an impatient gesture with his shoulders. I wondered how much of their life was passed in such interchanges. After a moment, Señora Puccini walked to the door and I heard her departing down the hall.
Malgiolio started to pour himself more wine, then apparently thought better of it and drank some water instead. “Well, what about the story?” he asked. “What happened to that fellow upstairs?”
Instead of answering, Pacheco asked a question in return, a peculiar one, I felt. “Have you ever been horsewhipped by a woman? Señora Puccini tried with me once, but I overcame her. What about spanking, Malgiolio?”
“Are you mocking me?”
“On the contrary, I have an endless curiosity. Sometimes I wish I could contain all of humanity’s sexual experience within my person. I listen to you describe how your fat whore pisses on you and I think how disgusting, but part of me would like to experience it, to see what it would be like.”
“I can give you her address,” said Malgiolio, pouring himself some wine after all.
“Perhaps I will take you up on that. The only trouble is that afterward I would probably have to beat her. But tell me about beating, Malgiolio. Have you ever had a woman whip you?”
“With her hand, yes; with a stick, yes; with a Ping-Pong paddle, yes; with a whip, no.”
“How bizarre,” said Pacheco. “What color was the Ping-Pong paddle?”
“Red, I think. I didn’t see much of it,” said Malgiolio. There was an expression on his face that I could only interpret as pride, mild pride.
“And did you like it?” I asked.
“‘Like’ is not really the right word,” he said. “But it was pleasurable, even gratifying.”
Dalakis pushed his chair away from the table so that the legs scraped loudly on the floor. “What a disgusting conversation. If I could leave here, I would.”
“And you, Dalakis,” said Pacheco, “have you ever had a woman mistreat you?”
Dalakis lifted his big hands to his tie and tugged at the knot. He appeared shocked. Since his wife had deserted him, I thought Dalakis knew quite a bit about being mistreated by women. But before he could reply the door opened and Señora Puccini returned wheeling the cart, on top of which was the most amazing cake I have ever seen.
First of all, what made it amazing was that it was basically a wedding cake with eight round layers of decreasing size, ranging from nearly three feet in diameter to about six inches, but instead of having white frosting, it was bright red with a rich strawberry taste, as I was soon to discover. It was the sort of cake which conventionally has a cupola on top with two little figures of the man and wife. Although this cake had little figures, they weren’t at the top, nor were they man and wife. Instead there were sixteen little male figures representing the sixteen men in our group of old schoolboys. There was a soldier to represent Kress and a policeman to represent Schwab. There was a doctor with a stethoscope to represent Pacheco and a priest to represent Julio Hernandez. There was a little man in a butcher’s apron for Paul Sarno, who owned a market on the other side of the city, and a man in a tuxedo who was probably meant to be Henri D’Arcy, a diplomat stationed in Rome. There was a white coated figure who was probably Leonid Shapiro, a chemist teaching in the south, and a little man in blue coveralls who I assumed was Paco Pezzone, who owned a car dealership. And then there were eight little figures in coats and ties who were meant to be the rest of us—Berruezo, Vicuna, Serrano—including a portly gray-haired man with a pipe who I thought was meant to be me. But the fact that it was a wedding cake astounded me, especially since Pacheco had delved into so many of the women that these men were attached to. Even Hernandez, the priest, had a sister whose heart Pacheco was said to have broken. Not that Hernandez was so celibate, for there were many stories about him.
Pacheco had begun to cut the cake, giving us each a large slice. Even the interior was red, with tidbits of strawberries and walnuts and a rich strawberry filling between the layers. I glanced at Dalakis and Malgiolio to see if they thought the cake in any way odd, but they seemed more impressed by it as spectacle than symbol. Between the sixteen figures, which stood on seven layers of the cake, were whole fresh strawberries. Of course such a thing was terrible for my illness, even for my ulcer, but there are times when one cannot help oneself. I have always loved cake while feeling guilty about doing so. It seems so adolescent, even pre-pubescent, as if cake were something which one should reject after puberty. What a childish pleasure to fill one’s mouth with such sweet glop. There even seems something wrong about it, as if it should be eaten in private, and I thought of myself as a child up in the attic with my trains sitting in the half-dark with my fingers covered with frosting and my lips covered with crumbs.
Both Dalakis and Malgiolio were shoveling great forkfuls of cake into their mout
hs while Pacheco watched. I admit it may have been the best cake I have ever tasted, and even though there was enough for thirty people, I felt a twinge of pleasure that Carrera and Schwab had left before the cake was introduced. How to describe it? Light, sweet, moist with a strong strawberry flavor—the sort of cake made with dozens of egg whites and gallons of cream. I don’t know what it reminded me of, sex possibly or the apotheosis of a summer day. You see how foolish these descriptions become. But in its spectacle, it seemed to be a part of Pacheco’s story and so it did not seem out of place when Malgiolio began to urge Pacheco to tell us about the man upstairs. At first Pacheco suggested waiting until we had finished, but Dalakis said no, we wanted to hear it now.
Pacheco leaned back in his chair. Joining his hands in front of his face, he made a tent out of his fingers and appeared to study it, or perhaps it was more of a cage than a tent. I should say that he had taken quite a small piece of cake and barely nibbled it. When he had held it to his lips, I noticed that the strawberries and the bruise on his cheek were exactly the same shade of red.
“It was quite simple, really,” he began, “yet also astonishing. You know I told you that this Collura fellow, Antonia’s fiancé, kept making these trips down from the capital on his motorcycle. Quite a long way, nearly four hundred miles. Perhaps he did it twice a month, rushing down on a Friday after work and getting in quite late. Well, one Friday night or early Saturday morning in early autumn he was brought into the hospital. I wasn’t there at the time but I came in a few hours later. He’d had an accident and was unconscious. His neck was broken. It seemed certain he would die.
The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Page 19