The Panama Portrait

by Stanley Ellin

  Ben grew hot when he considered the figure he had cut during the past week. Not only Elissa, but everyone from Bambas-Quincy down to the Indian handmaiden must have had the same picture of him. Obviously, this shrewd norteamericano intended to ingratiate himself with the king by courting the Infanta. With luck he might even assure the success of his mission by marrying her. Shrewd, indeed. An exchange of wedding rings, and the world was his. What cleverness, especially when one could see that the woman herself was not at all repulsive.

  “Why are you silent?” Elissa asked. “What are you thinking?” And when he bluntly told her what he was thinking, she said in protest, “But there was no insult intended. I know that you care for me. I would not be here with you otherwise.”

  “Just the same, you did think I wanted to marry you as a matter of good business.”

  “As a matter of bettering yourself, yes. Why do you speak of it in that voice? You sound like Father Bibieni when he speaks of the festival. Is it a sin for a man to wish to better himself through marriage?”

  “Hardly a sin. In my country it’s called fortune-hunting. The words have a highly unpleasant connotation.”

  Elissa sighed. “How childish you are at times. I know those words and their meaning as well as you do. Believe me, they cannot possibly be applied to you, and I say that in all sincerity. Is that apology enough for my sinful thoughts?”

  “It is. But it still leaves my proposal up in the air. How do you feel about it?”

  She stirred uneasily. “Why must we settle it now? First I must speak to my father about it.”

  “To have him decide for you?”

  “No, but it is the custom here.”

  “And what about your grandmother? Will her opinion be asked, too?”

  “She, too, will be called in. That is hardly avoidable.”

  And this, Ben saw, would have to hold him until the verdict was in. He had little doubt that the verdict would also settle the matter of the Seaways contract. Feudal conventions still reigned in Santo Stefano, romance and commerce were indivisible, and nothing he could say or do was going to change that. In that case, he decided, he might as well resign himself to the situation, and since the auspices were certainly favorable, romantically and commercially, he drove into the town of Playa de Hermanos in a most cordial state of resignation.

  The army post there was the southern terminus of the Córdoba patrol. It consisted of an administration building, a barracks, and a garage, and its commanding officer was a chunky, barrel-chested little colonel who knew his business and who combined hardboiled efficiency with exquisite manners. Before Ben had finished telling his story, an ambulance and truckload of troops had been dispatched down the highway, and Elissa had been offered the use of the telephone in the colonel’s private quarters so that she could explain matters to her father.

  Ben and the colonel watched from the window as the truck disappeared into the darkness. “Useless, of course,” the colonel remarked. “Those jackals are safe in their lairs by now, and it is impossible to smoke them out at night. Still, we must do what we can. A ridiculous situation, is it not, to be on the defensive against brigands?”

  “Not when they handle themselves like trained guerillas. I was told to make sure the authorities here understood that they were attached to the army of the Resistance.”

  “Were you? Well, now I must ask you, Mr. Smith, not to repeat that outside this room, or even to describe the episode itself. You reported an accident on the road, that is all. Otherwise you will be serving as a means of communication for a band of military deserters, escaped convicts, and lawless Indians. We would not want that, would we? Do not be misled. These men are no more an army than the forces once led against the city of Chicago in your own country by the formidable Mr. Capone. You see, I am familiar with the history of such movements. One must be, to fight them successfully. However, enough of that. You and the lady must join me in a toast to the festival and then be on your way. It is late, and the mountain road is a difficult drive.”

  Elissa was a long time at the phone. When she reappeared she looked badly in need of the drink offered her. The colonel’s eyes opened wide as she drained half a glass of his excellent brandy without drawing breath.

  “A magic potion,” he observed, and raised his glass high to admire the golden light glimmering in it. “Is there anything else on earth which strengthens the weak as readily as it weakens the strong?”

  10

  Ben was awakened the next morning by sounds of stealthy activity around him. Drugged with sleep he lay with his eyes closed wondering where he was, until a sudden brightness of sunlight on his eyelids brought full consciousness, and with it a tingling exhilaration. He was the guest of Victor Bambas-Quincy on the Victorica, and, as far as his host was concerned, he was a gilt-edged hero. Whatever else Elissa may have told her father over the colonel’s phone, she had driven home that point with overwhelming effect.

  The mountain road had proved as difficult to navigate as the colonel had warned, a steep incline of switchbacks and hairpin turns complicated now and again by blanketed forms asleep on the wayside. Dog-tired, the couple had arrived at their destination well after midnight to find a crowd waiting for them under the porte-cochere of the house. Bambas-Quincy had been unable to speak at first. He had hugged his daughter to him, his emotions evident in the way he rocked her back and forth as she stood there unresisting. Then, when she had been hastened away to her room by her mother and the elderly maid Juana, he enfolded Ben in the same crushing grip, patting him all the while on the back. It was a long time before he found his voice. In the house, as he and Ben were surrounded by excited guests, he finally managed to say with deep feeling, “Thank God it was you. No one else could have saved her. I swear to you that no one else could have brought her back to me alive and well.”

  The sounds of activity in the bedroom ceased, and Ben opened his eyes to find Juana standing at the bedside looking down at him. Hitherto, he had been persistently annoyed by her air of dark suspicion; now he found himself embarrassed by the doglike devotion mirrored on her face. He sat up. “How is Miss Elissa?”

  “She sleeps. She could not sleep in the night, but the Doctor Mola gave her medicine, and now she sleeps. She is in good health. That is your doing,” the old woman said in a half-scolding voice. “It is your doing and not hers.” Then before he could pull his hand away, she caught hold of it and pressed to her withered lips. “May the gods give you long life and many sons.”

  Ben detached himself from her grip with an effort. “All right, I hope they do. But no more of this, please. I don’t like it.”

  “Many sons. Here is your robe and sandals. I have unpacked your valija and placed the clothing in that closet. Behind the other door is the bath. If you wish, I will make the water ready.”

  “No, I can take care of that myself. Don’t you think you ought to be with Miss Elissa?”

  “First I will arrange the bed.”

  Ben saw that he and Elissa were not likely to have any servant problem in San Francisco. He surrendered the bed to Juana, slipped on his robe and went to the window to view his surroundings. They made a breathtaking panorama. An immense plateau lay cradled between two mountain peaks, and the house overlooked the indigo blue waters of a lake shadowed by the eastern peak. Among groves of balsam and cedar around the lake were other estates, their lawns running to the water’s edge. Beyond the lake was a great plain, the morning breeze moving over it in waves of green, and at its far reaches in the shelter of the western peak was a village of huts. Except for the wisps of smoke rising over it, it looked at this distance like the kind of toy village a child might construct out of cardboard pieces.

  A pleasant and familiar sound reached his ears. He leaned out of the window and saw near the house a row of golf tees at which some of the company were trying their skill. Jerome was there along with Luz and her husband, and among others were Salazar, Santa Cruz, Taliaferro, and Blas Miralanda. Of the sports club ci
rcle only Alden-Aragone was absent. His public defense of Chapin must have brought that about, Ben conjectured. Victor Bambas-Quincy was not a man to lightly forgive or forget.

  While he watched, Blas teed up a ball and then swung at it with womanish awkwardness. The ball trickled a few feet away from the tee, and the irrepressible Santa Cruz burst into laughter that could have been heard across the lake. There was something predictable about the whole scene, something that gave Ben the feeling that he was quite at home among these people. It made the morning almost perfect. Only the thought of the gruesome festival to be endured on the morrow kept it from being altogether perfect.

  He called Juana to the window and pointed at the distant village. “Is that where the festival is held? That village?”

  “That is Chicamayo. Near it is the place of the festival. And this is Lake Chicamayo where the water is very cold.”

  “Then what is the Victorica? That mountain?”

  “No, no. All that you see here is the Victorica.” The old woman held her arms wide. “This is all the place of the gods. Now I will go. If you wish something, you will ring the bell and there will be a servant for you.”

  He managed very well without a servant, and with a sharp appetite for breakfast descended the broad staircase to the ground floor of the building. The doors of the dining room were open. He approached them and then stopped short. A voice had reached his ears, a deep basso, loud, clear, declamatory, and absolutely unmistakable. Max Klebenau! Nemesis here in the enemy camp, and, from the sound of him, waging open battle.

  It was too late for Ben to retreat. Victor Bambas-Quincy saw him at the doorway and rose to greet him. The others at the table also rose—Ian Kipp, Dr. Mola, Virgilio Barruguete, the man of letters, and a stranger, a fragile, white-haired little gentleman with an ascetic face and large, mournful eyes. Only Klebenau remained seated, his fingers impatiently drumming on the table.

  Bambas-Quincy embraced Ben with rib-crushing affection. “My dear Ben, you look altogether refreshed. A good night’s sleep, that was what you needed, hey? Now you must be hungry as the very devil. Here, take this chair beside me, and in one minute you shall have your breakfast. You have already made the acquaintance of the doctor and Virgilio and Ian, have you not? And Mr. Max Klebenau?”

  “We’ve met,” said Klebenau shortly.

  “Very good. And this,” said Bambas-Quincy, nodding toward the white-haired stranger, “is Mr. Dagoberto Guzman, chairman of the Commission of Culture. Among his many duties is the arrangement of the festival ceremonies. That is an onerous task, I assure you. Unfortunately, it is being made even more difficult at present by Mr. Klebenau.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Klebenau,” “I am interested in saving the life of a man who can contribute more to culture with his little finger than all your commissions put together.” He turned to Ben. “David Chapin intends to enter that festival tomorrow, Smith. How much would you want to bet on his chances of surviving it?”

  “Chapin?” said Ben in stupefaction.

  “If he does not attempt the impossible,” Dr. Mola interposed, “his chances are excellent. My examination of him made clear that he has good muscle tone, superb reflexes, and no symptoms of physical disorder. He is, perhaps, a little underweight, but that is all in his favor. I have attested to these facts when I issued his Certificate of Participation. On what grounds can I now withdraw that certificate? There is no law which empowers me to do that, even if I wished to.”

  “Then pass that law,” Klebenau said. “Today.”

  Ian Kipp snorted with outrage. “Oh, come, man. You’re not addressing the Sultan of Sulu, you know. No one here has the authority to do any such thing.”

  “Laws and more laws,” said Bambas-Quincy. “Is that the solution for everything?”

  “So it must seem to our modern world,” observed Barruguete. “Ah, what a lesson it could learn from the ancient Locrians. When a citizen among them wished to propose a new law, he had to stand forth in the assembly with a noose fixed around his throat, and if the proposal was defeated he was strangled on the spot. We may envy the wisdom of such people.”

  “I am not concerned with ancient history,” Klebenau said heatedly. “I am concerned with keeping David Chapin alive. I have already explained that my arguments mean nothing to him. He won’t listen to me or his wife. All right, now it’s up to you. Withdraw his right to enter the festival, and there is nothing he can do about it.”

  “And I have already explained to you,” said Guzman unhappily, “that this is impossible. It cannot be done. There is no precedent for it, and to establish such a precedent would be disastrous. There is always someone—a mother, a wife—to protest a man’s entrance into the festival. The Axoyac women are capable of great sentiment. They could end the long and remarkable history of this custom overnight. Unthinkable. It is a man’s privilege to put his rope on the gallows. He alone must have the right to refuse that privilege.”

  Klebenau’s lips tightened. He looked at Ben as if he were about to invoke his support, and then, Ben saw with relief, thought better of it. He stood up with an effort, supporting himself with both hands on the table to do so. “So that’s the story,” he said. “You won’t do anything because you can’t, and you can’t do anything because you won’t.”

  Guzman looked flustered. “I sympathize with you, but I am an administrator of rules, no more than that. In honesty, I must also confess that I am a willing administrator. Custom can be as precious as a man’s life. Generations come and go, but custom must survive them all. It provides our past for us. Without it, we would always be starting over again like Adam.”

  Klebenau inclined his head ironically. “Your sympathy touches me.” He turned to Bambas-Quincy. “And yours. Thank you for arranging this entertaining little meeting. I trust you won’t mind if I walk down to view the lakefront before I leave?” The look he darted at Ben as he said this could not be misconstrued.

  “If you wish,” said Bambas-Quincy, and waited only until his unwelcome guest was out the door before delivering a sulphurous commentary on him to the remaining company.

  It was difficult for Ben to detach himself from them after breakfast. When he finally succeeded in doing so, he found Klebenau, as he had expected, seated on a bench among a grove of trees at the lake’s edge.

  “It took you long enough,” said Klebenau.

  “I couldn’t help that. But what’s all this about Chapin? What’s gotten into him, for God’s sake?”

  “What got into Bluebeard’s wife? That damned Indian, Luis, convinced him that hanging yourself opens the door to the universe. It provides a transcendental experience. It brings you face to face with the ultimate reality.”

  “That was some time ago, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s been eating into David ever since. It would. You can’t imagine what it’s like, Smith, to be an artist who’s unable to pick up a brush. Someone in that position will seize on anything that might help release his creativity again. Then a few nights ago he and Juliana got into a terrific fight about the festival, one of those windy subjective idealism versus dialectical materialism debates that makes everyone furious and settles nothing. He was pretty drunk, too, half of what he said was incoherent, but when the smoke cleared away, the one thing he knew was that he must try the experience himself to prove its validity. That can happen to people. They start with some vague notion, then when they’re forced to defend it they hug it to their bosoms like an only child. It becomes obsessive. They’ll die to defend it.”

  “Doesn’t he understand he’s risking death?”

  “If anything, that would be the final inducement. I told you he was pretty drunk during the argument. He’s been drinking heavily for a few years now; lately he’s been worse than ever. I don’t drink myself, but I’ve known quite a few compulsive drunks in my time, and all of them gave me the feeling that they were sick of life but not willing to do more than try to blur its outlines. David has passed that point. The idea of deat
h wouldn’t frighten him. It would attract him. Not that I think he intends to kill himself on the gallows. No, he passionately wants to find the answer to the riddle of the universe there. But if he fails in that, he’d probably just as soon be rid of the whole problem altogether.”

  “He may change his mind before it’s too late,” Ben said.

  “He won’t.” Klebenau laughed mirthlessly. “We rented a car to come up here, and he had me register it in my name so that if anything happened to him, there wouldn’t be complications.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At Chicamayo. Luis is teaching him the art of strangulation in ten easy lessons. They’ve been at it since we got here.”

  “Sober?”

  “Completely. He’s managed to arrive at some kind of ecstatic state without going near a bottle. I’ve seen him like that before, but only when he was at work on a painting.”

  “And Nora?”

  “He made her stay in town with Juliana. She’s the one who’s drinking now. Nora, I mean. Not that Juliana herself doesn’t feel pretty suicidal about the whole affair. With the best of intentions she’s managed to have everything lead right up to this. Poor woman, she’ll blame herself for it the rest of her life.”

  “She may bear up better than you think,” said Ben. “Let me ask you something. Is she connected with the revolutionary movement here? I don’t mean merely sympathetic. I mean active in it.”

  “Why?” said Klebenau, and when Ben had briefly recounted the previous night’s ordeal, he said, “Yes, that’s life in Santo Stefano, Smith. And death. Weren’t you aware of it? You once told me that your company sent you off with a detailed report about this place. What was in that report, if not all this?”