“Later. First tell me what’s going on here. I want to know.”
“So? But didn’t Max tell you?”
Klebenau had been keeping a polite distance. He walked over to them now, arms held wide in expostulation. “Tell him what, Sophie? How to say voyeur in German? Or Quechua? What can I explain that you can’t explain far better? And two hundred dollars should pay, at least, for a few confidences.”
“A gentleman is not always counting his money, Max. And others have paid even more for the pleasure of entering my Room Nine.”
“Only to look?” Ben said. “Not to go through that door?”
“That is what this room was made for. True, we provide livelier entertainment for some to look at, but when the young lady hires the room it is for herself alone. Her rule is look but don’t touch. That is what she pays for. The room, a bottle or two of that horrible stuff she drinks, and the assurance that when I bring in men for the view I will lock the glass door so that she can sleep undisturbed. Is this so strange? She’s a beautiful girl, rich, unmarried, and very moral. This is her way of giving herself to men without inconvenience. I can tell you stranger things if you want to hear them.”
“She is virgin!” Juana said fiercely. “Virgin!”
“Unquestionably,” said Klebenau. “And how long has she been staging these little diversions?”
Sophie shrugged. “Three or four years, a few times each year. But it was not always the way you saw it tonight. At first no one was permitted in here at all; the curtain must not even be removed from the door. Then later she had the curtain opened although there was still no one allowed in to see her, and finally she told me to invite men to come and charge them whatever I thought was a fair price. Naturally, men came. Not many, but a couple now and then. And always the ones who knew her and her family. Who else would pay to see a woman sleeping? And drunk, too. That is the way she does it. She is already a little drunk when she comes here, and she finishes off the job quick enough. Then in the morning before dawn the Indian gets her out of here and that’s all.”
Klebenau regarded Ben sympathetically. “It would seem to be enough. Now, if you don’t mind leaving us, Sophie, I must discuss some personal business with my friend.”
“So? But there will be no excitement, Max? No breaking things?”
“None. You can see he’s in control of himself. Suffering the effects of violent shock, but young and healthy enough to recover very soon. I’m sorry you don’t know him better. If you did, you would admire him as much as I do.”
“Being a young man is always sad, Max. I like my men old and fat and deceitful like you. Then one always knows what to expect. So auf wiedersehen.” She paused at the door. “And you will not forget the picture you promised me. A master work. Hand painted. The price I leave to you, but the picture must be a showpiece.”
“A master work,” said Klebenau. “An epic by Bouguereau. No, it must be Cabanel. Nothing else would do.”
“These names mean nothing to me, Max, but the French are all great painters, no? So it is in your hands.”
“It is. And auf wiedersehen.”
Klebenau closed the door behind her, waited a moment, then opened it and peered up and down the hallway outside. Evidently satisfied, he closed the door again and turned his attention to Juana.
“Now we are alone,” he told her. “There is nothing to be afraid of. You can speak freely.”
“She is virgin,” Juana croaked like a bird of ill omen. “Virgin.”
“You don’t have to keep repeating that,” Klebenau said impatiently. “I told you this afternoon that Mr. Smith would not think what she does is evil. He knows it’s a sickness. Only a sickness.”
“True. Only a sickness,” said Juana gravely.
“And who gave it to her?” Klebenau asked.
“The patróna. The grandmother. Who else?”
“And when was that?”
“Long ago. Many years ago. On a day when the little one was still a child but first had the woman’s time come upon her.” Juana suddenly grasped the idea that this catechism was intended for Ben. She turned toward him. “On that day when the grandmother learned what had happened she took the child and me, and we went to the galería of Ajaxa. The child had never seen Ajaxa, so he was new and strange to her. And the grandmother led her to him, and took her—so—” Juana seized Ben’s arm, her fingers digging into it “—and she said in an angry voice, ‘Look! See what I show you. This is a naked man. This is a man the way he really is. And this is what you must fear and guard against now that you are a woman. Because it is meant only for his pleasure and your hurt.’”
Juana slowly released her numbing hold on the arm. “And after that the child was sick with fear so that the doctor himself did not know what to make of it. At night she wept and would not sleep and in the day she would not leave the house. It was many weeks and months before her strength returned. But the sickness remained in her spirit. It never left her. It is with her now.”
The grip of those bony fingers had been real and painful, Ben knew, and no part of any dream. “But why was this done?” he said. “Out of hatred? She told me how jealous the old woman was of her. Was that the reason?”
“How could it be, when the same thing was later done to Luz? Only she has a thick head and did not care. No, it was not hate for the child, but hate for men. It was because the patróna says all men are pigs and evil. And the mother and father, knowing what she was to do with the child, did not stop her from doing it, because she is the patróna. The money, the land, the houses, all are hers. There is no one who does not fear her for this.”
Klebenau pointed at the velvet drapery. “And who knows what goes on here?”
“You heard. All of good family know. All. Those who came here told it to the others.”
“And the family?” Klebenau said relentlessly. “Do they know?”
“All but Luz and Jerome. The others were told about it by the Doctor Mola who was here to see for himself if it was true. And the mother and father are good people. They have a great love for the child. But they can do nothing about this. They have tried and it is useless. She has told them that if they lock her up or send her to the hospital she will kill herself, and they believe her. Once, the father locked her in her room, and when I found her she had put a stocking around her neck like the rope at the festival and was almost dead. Now they leave her alone and live with this thing.”
“But didn’t something happen last year to give them new hope?” demanded Klebenau.
“It happened. Yes, it happened as I told you. A man came here, a norteamericano who wished to start a great company that would catch fish and sell them in his country.” She nodded at Ben. “He was sent by the same one as you.”
“Burleson,” said Ben. “Was that his name?”
“Yes. But no one cared for this new company he talked about so he went away. I think he was angry, but who knows? He was a man who never smiled.”
“Never mind that,” said Klebenau. “After he left here, what happened?”
“Then the patróna called my Elissa and the mother and father to meet with her on the Victorica, and they talked there for a long time. The child’s sickness was destroying their honor, she said, and since there was no end to the sickness she must go some place far away where people did not know her. Not alone, because the love of the mother and father would not permit this, but married. Yet, all the young men of good family in Santo Stefano knew of the sickness, and none would ever marry her. It was the truth. Even for much money, who would marry a woman that has been seen naked in this place by his friends?
But, said the patróna, there is new hope. The jefe of the norteamericano company was eager to do business here. Then let the father meet with the jefe and tell him that there was a daughter with a sickness to be married off. And let the jefe then choose a young man of good family, but poor and in need of money, to come here and do business for him. A handsome young man, a caballero, honorable and k
ind, who would be a good husband to the child. Then if he would have her, he must take her away to his own country, and she must never again return to Santo Stefano where she is a scandal.
“That is what the patróna said and what was agreed on. The child could not say no, because then the mother and father would be made to suffer. All she could say was that the young man must not know of her sickness, for if he would marry her in spite of it she would not have him. So that was agreed on, too.”
“Ah, no,” said Ben. “In this day and age? My God, no.”
“It is the truth. I swear it. And after that there was a meeting in the city of San Francisco with the jefe of your company who said it would be done. And it was done.”
The pain of it, Ben thought, was like something sharp slowly penetrating him. And it was done. It sounded almost Biblical that way, like something out of the Old Testament. And Seaways commanded, Find me a blind one with a trusting nature. And it was done.
Klebenau was feigning deep interest in the fresh cigar he was unwrapping. “Quite a fellow, that jefe,” he remarked. “Would he be the John O’Harragh you once described with such admiration?”
“James O’Harragh,” said Ben. “Jim to me.”
“Naturally.” Klebenau took his time lighting the cigar. “Well, you can’t deny that he offers a stirring prospect. Wealth, high executive position, the whole chromium-plated cornucopia. All you have to do is pretend that tonight never happened, and it’s all yours. Saint Anthony never faced more of a temptation. But you may not have a saintly fortitude, Smith. If I were you I’d put temptation out of my mind at once, before it becomes irresistible. And I wouldn’t let my thoughts dwell on the woman either. When a man marries, it’s to take himself a mate, not a patient.”
“Did you ever hear of pity, Klebenau? She once begged me for it. Is it something you only express in words?”
“There are other women in these rooms, Smith. Many are as attractive as she is and even more pitiable. After all, they have to allow men into their beds, not merely their dreams. But one and all, they’re paupers. Would you consider marrying one of them?”
“You know it isn’t the same thing,” Ben said angrily, and Juana, who had been following his every word intently, clasped her hands against her breast in supplication.
“It is not the same,” she said pleadingly, “but she must not be your wife. She cannot be a wife to any man. You must go away from here and find another woman.”
“Do you think she would want me to do that?”
“Yes.”
“But how can she remain here? How can she face the men who have seen her like this?”
“That you would not understand. It is a strange feeling, a woman’s feeling. There is shame in it for her, but only because there is pleasure in it, too.”
“Titillation,” said Klebenau. “Think of all the modest women, Smith, who wear silk and lace underwear because it gives them the sense of being violated. Secretly and safely violated. They seem quite happy in that state. And remember that Elissa has a family who accept her, however unhappily, as she is, and who are capable of taking care of her.”
“The father is a good man,” said Juana. “Another would have killed his child for this.”
“A guilty man,” said Klebenau, “for letting the patróna cause this. And he knows it.”
“But he could stop these shows,” Ben said. “A man as powerful as that could put pressure on Sophie, no matter what she says.”
“And if he does?” said Juana. “He knows there are other places like this. On the Calle Contenta there are some where no one is safe. Here one can sleep in peace.”
“Sophie will appreciate that recommendation,” said Klebenau. “Well, Smith, have you made up your mind?”
“To do what? Pack up and run?”
“Nora and I are doing that tomorrow. We’re taking the afternoon plane to Lima, and from there to New York. Come along with us.”
“Is Nora in condition to travel?”
“Judging from the self-control she displayed at David’s funeral this morning, I’d say she is. A deeply moving ceremony, too. There’s a burial ground on the mountainside above Chicamayo which is dedicated to the victims of Ajaxa, and most of the village was there in attendance. Also that little priest. A hard man to like, Father Bibieni. We got to talking about the great Zurbaráns in the cathedral, and it turned out he detests them because they’re too earthy, poor benighted soul. I’m also afraid he has serious intentions of some day trying to destroy that statue of Ajaxa in the museum. I took the trouble this afternoon of meeting with the curator and warning him about it.”
There are many forms of hysteria, Elissa had said, and Ben wondered which one he was now struggling against. “You mean that with everything that’s happened you took the trouble—you were afraid that the statue—?” and then, while the other two regarded him with astonishment, he gave up the struggle and laughed. Rocked with wild and helpless laughter, knowing that it was the sound of the nightmare ending, the sound of sanity returning to his own world. “Klebenau, you’re a great man. Yes, I’ll be on that plane.”
“I thought you would. But one favor. Let me be your emissary to the Bambas-Quincys. Let me be the one to tell them your decision. I can drop you at the hotel and then make it to the mountains and back by breakfast.”
“I can just as well send them a message.”
“No. Let me do it my way. I’ve never met the old lady, and I want to before I leave. Forgive me for saying it, but it will be a pleasure to meet her under these conditions.”
“Out of vengeance?”
“Partly. Vengeance is the kind of emotional purgative I need right now. Do you mind?”
“If it’s your idea of a happy ending,” said Ben, “I don’t mind at all.”
Klebenau shook his head. “Ah, youth. Well, some day you’ll learn.”
“Learn what?”
“That there are no happy endings,” said Klebenau. “There are only brief, happy interludes.”
13
Nora and Klebenau were already in the airport terminal when Ben arrived there, and after he caught sight of them he found himself reflecting, more or less dispassionately, on the shifting tides in the affairs of men. Short weeks ago he had been greeted in this building by Blas Miralanda, the handpicked representative of the family Bambas-Quincy. Now to say farewell in his place was an odd assortment of the local citizenry. Juliana Aguilar with her arm around a beady-eyed little Indian woman in formal regalia, Pepe and his shy Prima, and a few young men in nadaista garb, all ducking their heads in polite tribute when he joined them. There were others waiting nearby, too—well-dressed and prosperous travelers who clearly found this strange gathering a source of much private amusement. Idiots, Ben thought. The eternal spectators.
As he had expected, Nora was haggard with strain, her eyes and nose reddened by spent emotion. “Yes,” she said in answer to his awkward condolences, “but it’s all over now, isn’t it? Really over. And you had to suffer because of it. I’ve thought about that a lot. You can’t possibly know how grateful I am for what you did.”
“It wasn’t enough,” said Ben. “It could have been more.”
“No need to blame yourself,” said Juliana bitterly. “We all conspired against David. All of us. Those who loved him, as well as those who hated him.”
The little Indian woman plucked her sleeve, chattering away at a great rate in Quechua, and Juliana managed a smile. “This is the mother of Miguel Tercero who was in the festival,” she told Ben. “He drove her out of his home because she joined the protest against the ceremony, and now she lives with me. She wants you to know that you are a much braver man than her son who is a fool and an ingrate.”
“He is,” said Ben. “And it’s good of you and Tito to help her. But where is Tito?”
Juliana lowered her voice. “Far away. He left last night to join a hunting party in the jungle. They say the hunting has been very good lately.”
“Goo
d or not, he’s made a sad mistake,” Klebenau observed. “A poet has no place fighting doctrinaire battles with a gun. He’ll find that out soon enough.”
“It was either that or become a follower of Father Bibieni, Max. You know what the festival did to him. But after he talked to Bibieni yesterday, he said it was like meeting someone from out of the Dark Ages. The past is not for him. Now he is committed to the future.”
“And what does this particular future promise,” said Klebenau, “when it will be arranged by men who may have good intentions now, but who’ll quickly become corrupted by power once they seize it?”
“Ah, yes,” said Juliana scornfully, “I know that stale argument. Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. But somehow this warning is never directed at the power of the status quo. I wonder why.”
“You know why,” said Klebenau. “But I know Tito should have taken that warning to heart. Those hunters don’t want their poets to explore the meaning of life. They want only hymns to the glory of the hunt and its success.”
“And to the end of oppression here and the festival that symbolizes it. Come back some time, Max, and you’ll find that there is no more gallows in the arena. There will be only a flowering tree, and children playing around it.”
“Yes, and a firing squad doing its work in the basement there. Well,” said Klebenau, “let’s not part on bad terms. I have a suspicion that the future will be yours, Juliana, and I earnestly hope that Tito lives to share it with you.” He held up the bulky umbrella he was carrying. “Don’t let my forebodings distress you. You can see I’m always prepared for storms even when there’s not a cloud in the sky. And now we must be on our way. Nora, dear—”
Nora and Juliana clung to each other. “You’ll write to me,” said Juliana. “Remember.”
The Panama Portrait Page 25