laundry and sewing. She made most of my clothes when I was growing up. She really was talented. My father worked in the shoe factory for 26 years, until he was too crippled by arthritis to work anymore, then the factory dismissed him.”
“Did you get anything for his years of service?”
“They gave him a small pension, but it wasn’t enough to really live on. Mother kept taking in laundry and repairing clothes because we needed the money. Thankfully, before father died, they were able to pay for my education through high school and two years in a trade school, where I learned secretarial skills. I managed to get a job to supplement our meager income.”
“What happened to them?”
“Father’s health after he left the factory was bad and continued to get worse. We didn’t have money for real medical help, so a local man, who knew native cures, would drop by to treat him. But it didn’t help; about five years ago this last May he died in his sleep. Mother took his death very hard and died 10 months later, probably of a broken heart.”
“I’ve very sorry to hear that. I guess they had you pretty late in life.”
“Yes, I was one of those miracle babies that happened when all hope of having a child is gone. They loved me very much and worked very hard to give me what they never had.”
“They seemed like wonderful people I wish I had met them. They sure did a wonderful job on you.”
“Gracias, Nick.”
I decide to just jump right into the subject eating at me all night. “It worries me that you are associating with anti-government radicals.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“I’ve seen the behavior many times. I was trained to recognize it. The furtive glances around the bar, the conversations in whispers, and secretive body language. Are you saying I’m wrong?”
“I’m not saying anything. If I were a member of some secret radical group, do you really thing I would talk about it to just anybody? After all I have only known you for a month. As it is, just taking you to meet my friends probably was not the wisest move, but I felt I could trust you. Can I trust you?”
“Yes, you can. You’re right. I would be careful too, seeing as how such information could get you killed.”
“Those people you met tonight are my closest friends. I have a lot of relatives as you mentioned but I guess I don’t fit in with them anymore. I think it has to do with the politics of the company I keep. My friends are my family now. Even so, don’t you support freedom? You’re an American.”
“Don’t fool yourself. Americans may believe in democracy, but it’s always about power and money. I believe in freedom only when it won’t get me shot. I lost all my youthful indignation about injustice in the world at the same time I lost my youth. I have enough problems watching out for number one.”
“I don’t think you’re as cynical as you make out. I think you would be with us if this was your country.”
“During the War, I was a spy in the OSS and had to do a lot of things of which I’m not proud, horrible things; things I’d just as soon forget. I did what I did because I believed it was for everyone’s freedom, but my memories are hard to reconcile with that. Maybe you’re right. I would like to think so, but I haven’t really been keeping up with current events in your country.” I let it drop for now.
We continue to talk for another hour, through another cup of coffee. She talks about what she does for fun, needlework, and shows me some of her work. It’s beautiful; she says her mother taught her. We jump from topic to topic; she’s well read, has a quick mind, and has very well thought out opinions. It bothers her that she is somewhat estranged from her extended family; I think she’s lonely.
Watching her carefully, I marvel at her. She has a habit of twisting one of her blouse buttons between her fingers when she is nervous or concentrating. This draws my eyes inadvertently down to her blouse, which embarrasses me. As it is, my willpower’s ebbing with my energy, so I decide to leave before saying or doing something stupid.
“I should go. I need to work tomorrow.” I lie, as I get up from the couch.
She walks me to the door and leans in to kiss me on the cheek. I can smell the mix of her perfume and sweat, feel the heat from her face, feel the touch of her hand on my arm; it’s almost overwhelming, time stops. She smiles up at me and looks deep into my eyes. The urge to wrap my arms around her, to hold her, to protect her wells up in me and is almost irresistible; I resist.
She says, “I’m glad you came, you should come again.”
I tell her sincerely, “I will try,” and leave.
Back in my room, I take a cold shower, then lay in bed for an hour trying to sleep. I’m conflicted about my feelings for Maria; it’s not lust. It’s a love but one hard to categorize. What type of future do I foresee; what part does Maria play in it? It’s almost dawn by the time I finally succeed in falling asleep.
The after-work excursions with Maria and her friends becomes a regular occurrence; once or twice a week for a month. My feelings for her deepen with each excursion; with each nugget of information about her. Slowly the group gets used to me but still doesn’t trust me; they’re suspicious, guarded. One night when Maria and I arrive at the tavern, Esteban and Jorge are standing outside the tavern in a heated argument with two uniformed men; police or paramilitary. As we approach, the conversation seems to be heading toward the arrest of Maria’s friends on what charge I’m not sure. I begin addressing the policemen, telling them I’m an American, and these two young men are nephews of my wife. They hesitate. I continue on the offensive by asking why are my relatives being threatened with arrest; what’s the charge? They say it’s public drunkenness and loitering. I laugh at this, saying they can’t be, we haven’t even begun drinking. With that, I put my arms around Jorge’s and Esteban’s shoulders; we head into the tavern as a conjoined cluster with Maria following close behind. The officers are indecisive and do not follow.
When we get to the table, Jorge says in Spanish, “Gracias, I think they meant to arrest us.”
“I think you’re right, but I doubt that they really have anything on you; it was more like harassment. When I pushed them, their plan collapsed. At least now you know they are on to your activities.”
“Well, we appreciate the help.” He seems to really mean it.
“Glad I could help.”
That night the group seems a little more relaxed around me; slightly less cautious but the suspicion is still there. I can’t blame them; I didn’t trust anyone when I was in the field during the War.
The pattern continues for another month, but now I pick up more and more of the secret conversations. The group is amateur in their approach to being clandestine. They seem to have no rules on security. They meet in the open; most of their family members know what they are doing; they have no sense of the danger they are in nor how their opponents operate. They don’t even have a group structure. Jorge’s the smart levelheaded leader. He’s similar to Esteban in appearance, though taller and without the temper. The rest of the group doesn’t seem to have assigned duties; it’s more like a book club discussion group, than a radical anti-government cell. They aren’t any threat to the government at this stage; but it’s from little seeds like this that real rebellions grow. By now, the government has thick folders on all these kids; plus one on me I’m sure. It’d be interesting to hear what they think of my involvement. Most of my activities during the War are still classified, but, if they can read between the lines, they could figure out a lot about me. I hope not.
I suggest to Maria that I have experience it this type of activity and could help; to pass this offer on to Jorge. But nothing comes of it. I manage to procure a blackjack, like the one I used in the field. It’s easy to conceal; not as lethal as a knife or gun; and, if caught holding one, doesn’t get one in as much trouble, like being suspected as a spy. At home, I always have my straight razor for lethality; a common item that doesn’t label s
omeone as an assassin by having it; like a gun would. These activities bring up emotions I haven’t felt since the War; they’re exhilarating, unexpected. I’m getting back in the Game.
The evening meetings continue into the next month. I don’t add my voice to the political discussions, knowing I’m not really welcome nor is it my place nor my fight. Instead, I listen and digest ideas. Not having much been into politics since the War, especially those of third-world countries, I find the exchanges fascinating. I try to discuss the country’s politics with my colleagues at work, but they show a disinterest similar to my own, prior to meeting Maria.
Maria tells me that she and her friends plan to be part of a mass protest that will march down the main street of the city on Saturday. I don’t like this. There is danger in making your viewpoint public, especially when your opponent is better armed and a lot meaner. I tell Maria this. She says she’s committed; I tell her jokingly she should be. She laughs. I still worry.
On the appointed day, I’m in the crowd watching from the sidelines, trying to spot Maria. I see several men dressed in cheap suits and sunglasses watching the protesters and taking pictures. It’s not too hard to guess that they’re members of the internal security force. I “accidentally” step in front of their cameras whenever I