Free The Orchids by Thomas H. Cook Page B

turns back to me. “Sometimes we catch one of those bastards from the northern provinces, those rebels. We tie a rope around his waist and hoist him up in a helicopter. Then we fly very low over the marshes, dragging him just above the water so that the reeds can do their work.” His lips curl down. “After a while there’s not much left to pull up, so we just cut the rope, you know?” He leans forward and stares at me menacingly. “You know why I am here, do you not, Don Pedro?”
    â€œAs always, my friend, you have come to make sure that all the proper arrangements have been made for El Presidente’s visit.”
    Don Camillo traces his thin mustache across his lips with the tip of his index finger. “I must be sure about his safety, Don Pedro.”
    â€œWhy should he not be safe in El Caliz?” I ask. In the river, the monkey’s arms no longer rise and the body begins to drift downstream with the river’s lethargic flow.
    â€œWe are a free people in the Republic,” Don Camillo says. “People may travel as they like. Perhaps they may travel to El Caliz, perhaps enemies come here.” He smiles. “Perhaps already there are enemies living in El Caliz.”
    â€œThere are no enemies here, I assure you, Don Camillo.”
    Don Camillo sits back in his chair. “The world is full of monkeys. Like the ones in the tree, you know. They chatter constantly. Big talk. Crazy talk. But one has to take it seriously.”
    â€œEl Presidente has always enjoyed his visits here,” I tell Don Camillo.
    â€œVery much. Correct,” Don Camillo says. “He very much looks forward to it.”
    â€œThis will go well, I assure you.”
    Don Camillo looks relieved. “I hope so.” He stares about as if looking for traces of copper. “I suppose you have already made plans for the visit?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMay I know what they are?”
    â€œA large banquet. The whole village will be invited. I know how much they love El Presidente, and how much he loves them, as well.”
    Don Camillo smiles happily. “Splendid. That should improve his spirits.”
    â€œSuch is my intent.”
    Don Camillo eyes the wall of records inside my office. “There is a particular musician El Presidente admires, Don Pedro. I wonder if you might have any of his recordings.”
    â€œWhat is the name?”
    â€œChop-pin.”
    â€œChopin,” I say gently.
    Don Camillo smiles self-consciously. “Oh, is that how it is pronounced? I have only seen the name written on the albums. One does not hear such names pronounced very often here in the Republic.”
    In the Camp, the orchestra was not permitted to play Chopin, because he was a Pole. “It wouldn’t matter if you did,” I tell Don Camillo.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t matter if you did hear such names pronounced here, Don Camillo. Pronunciations are of no importance.”
    â€œExactly,” Don Camillo says. “Although I’m sure El Presidente knows the correct form of speech.”
    â€œA man of refinements,” I add.
    â€œProfoundly so,” Don Camillo says. He slaps his thighs. “Well, I think my work is done here, Don Pedro. I’m happy to see that you have made the proper arrangements for El Presidente’s visit.”
    â€œEverything will be taken care of, you may depend on it, Don Camillo.”
    Don Camillo rises, draws a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and mops his brow. “This business in the northern provinces, it has exhausted me.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear it.”
    â€œAh, well, part of the job,” Don Camillo says. He replaces the handkerchief. “It’s those people up there. They are never satisfied. No matter what El Presidente does for them, they want more.”
    â€œPerhaps if they had more copper —”
    Don Camillo laughs. “Copper? No, there’s