Free The Orchids by Thomas H. Cook Page A

agreeably.
    â€œRefinements, yes,” Don Camillo says, nodding his head thoughtfully. “A man of refinements.” He takes a deep breath and exhales with affected weariness. “Men of state, regrettably, have little time for such things, such refinements.” He laughs. “But then, I suppose we have our place in the world.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œMen of affairs. Like yourself. Like me.”
    â€œMy kingdom is rather small, Don Camillo,” I say.
    Don Camillo shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t diminish yourself. To run an estate such as this — particularly with the rather backward population of El Caliz — that is no small matter, believe me.”
    Here in the Republic, no man must be diminished. That would debase the sanctity of individualism upon which the totalitarian state is founded. Here in the Republic each man must be free to grab what he can, be it horse or maid — or copper.
    â€œSpeaking of men of affairs, Don Camillo,” I say, “how is El Presidente?”
    â€œVery well,” Don Camillo replies delightedly. He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Of course, we’ve had a little trouble in the northern provinces.”
    As he speaks, I can see the “trouble in the northern provinces” trudging wearily through the jungle, a small, bedraggled army infested with lice and infected with disease. They amputate their gangrenous limbs with penknives and machetes.
    â€œI’m disturbed to hear about the trouble.”
    â€œNothing serious, you understand,” Don Camillo hastens to inform me. “Mere irritations, but they plague El Presidente. They keep him from the sleep he deserves, wear down his strength.” He slaps at a mosquito near his ear. “Damn pests.” He rolls his shoulder, the revolvers eating into his armpits. Here in the Republic, men of state must bear such aggravations.
    â€œWell, perhaps his visit here will relax El Presidente.”
    â€œI profoundly hope so, Don Pedro,” Don Camillo says worriedly. “As I say, he’s not been sleeping well. Bad dreams, I think. Do you ever have bad dreams?”
    â€œSometimes I dream that in the end all the innocent blood that has been shed will be gathered in a great pit and those who spilled it will be forced to swim in it forever.”
    Don Camillo’s face pales. “Dios mío. How horrible.”
    â€œOne cannot help one’s dreams.”
    The light seems to have withdrawn from the two gilded medals that adorn Don Camillo’s breast pocket. “Such dreams. Horrible,” he says. His eyes are full of imagined terrors.
    â€œPerhaps El Presidente’s dreams are better suited to his person,” I say comfortingly.
    Camillo glances apprehensively toward the river. The guards who stand below, near his limousine, stiffen as he looks toward them, then relax as he returns his gaze to me. “Such a vision. Horrible.”
    â€œI am sorry to have disturbed you,” I tell him.
    The monkeys have begun to screech wildly in the trees across the river. Don Camillo turns to his guards and instructs them to fire a burst into the trees. They do so, and I hear the bullets slapping into the thick foliage. One monkey drops from the tree and splashes belly down into the river.
    Don Camillo turns slowly to face me. There is a smile on his face, but something dark behind it. “You seem to have become somewhat morbid of late, Don Pedro,” he says. “I hope you will try to be in better spirits when El Presidente visits.”
    The monkey’s arms slowly rise from the surface of the water, then drop, then rise again. “You should kill it,” I tell Don Camillo.
    Don Camillo’s eyes seem to recede into his skull. “What are you talking about?” he asks darkly.
    I nod toward the river. “The monkey. It is still alive.”
    Don Camillo turns toward the river and watches the arms rise and fall. Then he