“You make me feel a little self-conscious,” Brandi said through her pursed lips.
“May I ask what is your special talent?” said Tony.
“Birdsongs. It’s a little strange,” she said apologetically.
“Birds?”
“Yeah, you know, like—” Brandi suddenly emitted a loud croaking noise like the sound of a rusty nail being prized out of an old board.
“Toucan,” said Tony.
“Right,” she said in surprise. “The keel-billed toucan! I’m majoring in ornithology at Ohio State.”
“I, too, have an interest in birds. Tell me, what noise does the falcon make during intercourse?”
“Pardon me?”
“To me, this is the noblest bird of all,” Tony said, turning slightly to include the vixen-eyed Miss U.S.S.R. “When the falcons make love, it is in the air—plunging.” He illustrated the point by clapping his hands together and swooping them down in a headlong fluttering dive.
“That may be true of chimney swifts,” Brandi said doubtfully.
“And if the male does not climax before the ground arrives—” Tony smashed his fist into his palm.
“Is very beautiful, this story,” said Tatyana.
“And what is your special talent?”
“I am contortionist.”
Tony had to steady himself.
“Have you met all the judges?” Tony asked Brandi. He was edging toward his central proposition. “The two Panamanians are close friends of mine.”
“Oh, wow, thanks. But we’re really not supposed to fraternize. People might get the wrong idea.”
“Yes, but it is another matter when the supreme leader of a country takes an interest in your welfare.”
Brandi’s eyes narrowed into tiny emeralds. “We had to sign all these documents. They pretty much frown on girls having anything to do with the judges.”
“In my opinion, is okay if it is the custom of the country,” said Tatyana.
But Tony had one last trick. “You appear to be interested in my complexion,” he said cruelly.
“No!” Brandi cried. “I mean, oh, my God, was I staring? I’m sorry!”
“You are charming when you blush,” he said. “Look how red you become.”
“Oh, God, I’m so embarrassed. And usually I’m not like this. I mean, I volunteer in the state school, so I’ve seen it all, if you know what I mean.”
“You know the story of Beauty and the Beast?” said Tony. “There is some universal human truth in this childhood fable.”
“For sure,” Brandi said desperately.
“This beast, he was not such a bad fellow inside,” said Tatyana.
“I agree,” said Tony. “And it makes me wonder: why do people think that beautiful people are all so good and ugly people are evil? Tell me, Miss U.S.A., do you think I am a wicked man?”
“You’ve been perfectly nice to me.”
“I am glad to hear this, but many in your country say I am almost a devil. I think it is because they don’t know me. They only see this face.”
“That’s so unfair,” Brandi said fervently. “And by the way, you shouldn’t think that just because a person is beautiful on the outside that she is, like, holy or something. You should see how some of these gals behave! I think there’s a few of them that would kill their own mothers to win this thing.”
“But still, you are on one side of my face and I am on the other. To make the journey across, from the beautiful to the ugly, it is asking too much. No one can expect that Beauty will sleep with the Beast by her own choice. In real life, the Beast sleeps alone. It is his fate.”
“Is that really true?” asked Brandi. “I’d think a guy like you, with his own country and all, could pretty much have his pick.”
“It has happened,” Tony conceded. “Many women come to me. But after a while, you see what they are up to. They do not come because of who I am. They come because of what they want. They don’t see me. They see power. They see money. They see their dreams coming true. Because in Panama I can give them anything they want. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? I am like the genie in the bottle. Women make wishes on me. But no one gives the genie his own wish.”
“And what is this wish?” asked Miss U.S.S.R.
“That just once in my life a woman would come to me because she really wants to be with me, because she sees my soul instead of my face.”
Brandi looked a bit distant and troubled. “This conversation sure has gotten personal. I mean, I’m real sorry if I was staring at your complexion. But, you know, we’ve just met, and you’re like the head of a country and I’m a junior in college. So, I don’t know where you’re going with this, is what I’m saying.”
“What he says is he wants love, like anyone else,” said Tatyana. “In Russia, we understand this. Does not matter, old and young, beautiful and ugly. Matters only that two souls recognize each other. Even Stalin, he was an ugly man, but a great lover. He fathered many Russian children.”
Tony felt his resolve wash away in this tide of Old World wisdom. Besides, there was more than one way to accomplish his goal. He would just have to learn to be more flexible. He had a powerful feeling that Miss U.S.S.R. could teach him something about that.
THE PARTY GUESTS at Roberto’s powder blue mansion in Golf Heights were still gossiping wildly about the unexpected triumph of Miss U.S.S.R. in the Miss Universe pageant.
“Rita told me that Tony took the Russian girl on a joyride in Panama One.”
“How would Rita know?”
“She is the cousin of Tony’s pilot’s mother.”
“Some say he uses the plane to engage in exotic sexual practices.”
“In the air itself?”
“Everyone agrees the American girl was far prettier.”
“Perhaps this is the reason the Americans have begun to investigate the narcos in Panama.”
“Tony should have let her win. He will ruin business for everybody.”
“Have you read the New York Times? On the front page they say he is responsible for Hugo’s death.”
The Nuncio paused at this last conversation. He, too, had been surprised by the unanticipated change in American foreign policy toward Noriega, which was reinforced in the article by Seymour Hersh blatantly accusing him of running drugs and laundering money and setting up Spadafora’s murder. People here generally assumed that the Times was the official organ of the American government. The Nuncio also knew that Hugo’s relatives had been making frequent trips to Washington to talk to influential American politicians, but he found it inconceivable that the Americans would turn against their long-standing regional ally and reliable intelligence asset, particularly after the Americans had supported far more appalling and repressive regimes in Guatemala and El Salvador.
These days the Nuncio worried all the time about Father Jorge, whose increasingly provocative sermons placed him in the center of the growing middle-class rebellion. The Nuncio had welcomed the opposition leaders into the nunciature, and so far their meetings had gone unremarked. Age had rendered him harmless, at least in the eyes of others. But Father Jorge was another matter. At every mass he invoked Hugo’s name, keeping alive the shock and the anger over the assassination to his growing number of parishioners. One saw Hugo’s face everywhere now; posters were pasted all over the city—even in the provinces, the Nuncio had heard. The country was smoldering, volcanic, more unstable than ever.
“Monseñor, can it be true that the Americans have ordered Tony to leave the country?” asked one of the partygoers, an attractive daughter of a shipping executive. “They say he is being investigated in the American Congress.”
“If they had really turned against him, he’d be gone, wouldn’t he?” said the smart young man who was with her. Like most Panamanians the Nuncio came in contact with, the young man had an exaggerated idea not only of the omnipotence of American power but also of the capacity of American intelligence and its interest in the affairs of other countries. A
merica was an obsession with them, occupying spiritual territory that the Nuncio believed properly belonged to God.
“From what I hear, the Americans investigate scandals all the time,” said the Nuncio. “They even put them on television. It seems to be some kind of national sport.”
“But who would ever testify against him?” the young man demanded. “Nobody has the nerve.”
“Even if someone did, it is unclear what difference it would make,” the Nuncio observed. “It is one thing for the Americans to investigate their own politicians, but quite another for them to meddle in things they don’t understand in a country where they have no jurisdiction. But then, quite extraordinary things have been happening these past several months. I’ve stopped trying to predict where they might lead.”
The Nuncio detected a strange restlessness among the partygoers, who were mingling around the pool and the garden, drinking daiquiris and wine spritzers and gossiping with an intensity that no longer seemed fun. Many of them were dressed in the white garments that had become a characteristically ironic Panamanian political statement, meant to symbolize Tony’s handkerchief—the one they hoped he would wave as he said good-bye to Panama permanently.
“Has anybody seen our host?” one of the guests asked.
People shook their heads no.
“I hope Roberto isn’t ill.”
“Perhaps the chastity has affected his immune system.”
“Do you notice who is here? Everybody in the opposition.”
“Shit! You don’t think we’re being set up?”
“Roberto? No, he’s too crazy.”
“But he is PDF all the same. And he has invited all the opposition—we are all rounded up in the same place.”
As the partygoers chatted and fretted, a silence began at one end of the garden and spread like a shock wave around the poolside and the snack table and the gazebo under the mango trees where the drinks were being served. The Nuncio looked toward the source of the reaction. Roberto stood on the stairwell overlooking the pool house. The Nuncio had never seen him without a crisp military uniform and spit-shined shoes. Now he was barefoot and garbed in a sheer white robe. His wife stood beside him wearing a look of total chagrin.
“My friends, don’t let the change in my appearance alarm you,” Roberto said. “For some months I have been on a spiritual journey, and the clothes you see me in now are only an outward manifestation of my inner transformation. I know it must seem strange to you, but for the battle to come I am going to need the assistance of a higher power. A few minutes ago, I made a prayer to myself and to my guru, Sai Baba, whereupon I solemnly declared holy war on General Manuel Antonio Noriega.”
Several people laughed and then abruptly stopped, unsure how to react. Was it a prank or had Roberto gone completely insane?
“My only weapon will be truth, but against the truth no evil man can stand for long,” Roberto continued. “Do not fear for me, my friends. Sai Baba will protect me. His power is greater than any witchcraft. With your help and prayers, we will purify our country and restore civilian rule.” Roberto put his hands together and bowed. Then he walked back up the stairs into his house and disappeared.
It was quiet for a moment, then the partygoers turned to each other and began speaking in urgent whispers, saying Roberto’s mad, he’s berserk, the whole country is a laughingstock. They were shocked and embarrassed but the fact that they were whispering betrayed their fear. The Nuncio wondered what was going to come of this bizarre turn of events. He had always thought that Roberto was vain and superstitious, but he never questioned that the man was also competent and clever. Possibly there was more to this gambit than mere religious mania. In any case, Roberto was right: the truth is a powerful weapon. The Nuncio just hoped it didn’t blow up in his face.
BLESS ME, FATHER, for I have sinned.”
Through the screen in the confessional, Father Jorge could distinguish the shadowed outline of a middle-aged military man. Lately, it was becoming unusual for soldiers to attend mass at Our Lady of Fatima because of Father Jorge’s growing reputation as an antigovernment priest. But still, in this overly militarized society, nearly every mass had a smattering of uniforms among the pews, some representing families that had lived in this impoverished parish for generations.
He asked the officer to recite his sins, expecting the usual response. The rate of infidelity may not be as high in Latin America as popularly believed, but in Father Jorge’s experience no Latin man ever missed the opportunity to talk about it. He sometimes thought that was the entire reason they came to confession. He usually dosed them with a novena.
“It’s a very grave offense,” said the smoke-scraped voice behind the screen.
“God forgives every sin that is truly repented.”
After a pause the soldier said, “A murder was committed.”
“Did you commit this murder?”
“No, Father. But I knew about it, and I think I could have prevented it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was ordered to be silent about it.”
“Did you take part in it in any way? In the planning or the execution?”
“Not in this one,” the soldier said hesitantly.
“Were there others?”
“Yes,” the soldier said. He was quiet for some time. “There was another man. Someone they described as an enemy of the state.” Once again the soldier became quiet, and when he resumed, his voice was thick. “I wasn’t part of the execution team, but I did gather information on this person. He was not a communist, as some have said. He was a brave man, a sincere patriot. I gathered the intelligence they needed to find him and kill him. That is the only way they could have planned this. I didn’t know how they were going to use it. But this weighs very heavily on me.”
Father Jorge wanted to know more, because he was convinced that the soldier was referring to the death of Hugo Spadafora. But the task of confession was only to assess the nature of the sin and prescribe an appropriate act of contrition. Moreover, it was obvious from the soldier’s statements that he was an intelligence officer, so each of them was cautious about how to proceed. “These also were actions you were ordered to undertake?” the priest asked.
“Yes, and if I had refused to carry out my instructions, my career would have been finished—like that! I was afraid and so I obeyed the commands. But now I have the blood of two good men on my conscience.”
“We all must take responsibility for our actions,” Father Jorge said.
“Yes, I believe that, Father. But I have seen what happens to others who have tried to stand up—nothing is spared to make them regret their actions. I feared the consequences to myself and to my family if I resisted my superiors. Also, I am a soldier. It is part of my nature to obey my officers’ command. And yet, as a Christian, I know that I will be judged for my behavior. My commanders will not take my place in hell.”
Father Jorge was moved by the officer’s moral awareness and his expressive understanding of his dilemma, but he also realized that the man was involved in evil of the highest order. “It’s true that we often do things we know to be wrong just to be able to exist safely in the world, but Christ has called us to a higher duty,” he finally said. “I ask you to pray on this. Ask Jesus to intercede for you. Open your heart to him and heartily repent of your sins.”
“I have been praying, Father.”
“And I will pray as well. But you must also refrain from any further sin to protect your immortal soul.”
“This is what concerns me, Father. How can I do what you ask? I know that my soul is in peril. But what am I to do? I must follow orders, even if they are illegal or immoral. My children depend on me. I’m too old to start again. And I don’t want to face the consequences of resistance.”
“God requires us to be his servants every day. You can take encouragement from the fact that he will not ask of us something we cannot deliver. For every problem we face, there is a Christian solution that
God provides. You must search your heart to understand what God wants of you. I am sure you will find a way to the right action. Indeed, you have already begun—just by making this confession you are opening your heart to his guidance. Rejoice in this and do not be afraid.”
But when the soldier left, Father Jorge wondered about his own advice. What choice was there for such a man? He was caught up in a system of wickedness that was so total that it offered no obvious means of escape. Father Jorge worried and prayed about the situation until well after midnight and then slept poorly all night.
CHAPTER 10
THE MORGUE WAS on a small side street behind the Hospital Santo Tomás, a block away from the American embassy. The Nuncio had been passing it for years without ever realizing what it was, and as he waited in the outer office for the chief pathologist, he devoutly wished that he might have been permitted to continue in his ignorance. There were some tasks that he was simply not suited for. He was too ridiculous, sitting here in his brilliant white cassock and wearing a mask over his nose that the receptionist had provided him. Even in the outer office the odor of decay was frighteningly penetrating. The Nuncio tried to concentrate on the soap opera that was playing on the staticky television. There was a colored engraving of Jesus on the wall and a gallon jug of bleach on top of a file cabinet. An elderly couple were staring at him from the slumping couch across the narrow foyer. They were probably waiting to identify a dead relative. Perhaps he should make an offer to pray with them. He decided not.
Finally the pathologist appeared, a small man with a wavy black toupee. His name, Crespo, was printed on the breast pocket of his blue cotton scrub suit. “You are here to see Mitrotti, I understand,” the pathologist said. “Very well, come on, they are bringing him out right now.”
The morgue looked nothing like the gleaming and hygienic rooms that the Nuncio had seen on American television shows, where the dead were carefully tagged and filed in orderly spaces, like books on a shelf. Here the dead were in a state of arrested chaos. Instead of the individual drawers that the Nuncio expected, there was a large chilled room like a meat locker filled with undraped corpses dressed in the clothes they died in, many of them frozen in agonized contortions, twisting, resisting, eyes open, paralyzed screams on their mouths. A stiff, dead arm reached eerily into the air. Death seemed frightfully unpeaceful.