Free His Own Man by Edgard Telles Ribeiro

furniture, Italian leather, which would fit four people comfortably. We each kept an arm draped over the back, his left hand holding the lit cigar.
    Max began to speak somewhat evasively, as if preparing to launch into a series of reminiscences. Except that his voice, which was usually upbeat and energetic, sounded like that of an old man at the end of his career, concerned with recalling scenes from a distant past. I understood that the withdrawal in some sense protected him, as though sparing my friend from threatening memories. Unsure where Max was headed, and imagining that he too was unclear as to what he really meant, I listened closely, aware of a wistfulness behind his words. Thus my surprise when, at a certain point, and completely off topic, he turned to me and asked, “Have you ever asked yourself why some people collaborate with the military?”
    He went on, without awaiting my response: “Out of fear, in some instances … or for money, in the case of minor players.”
    Here he settled back into his seat, further distancing himself from me, and continued. “In our line of work, it’s never for money. At most, it’s out of fear. Or, more often, for access to power. The
expectation
of access to power.”
    As luck would have it, I had taken up smoking again that week. A politically incorrect admission today but one that bought me time right then. I pulled out a cigarette and searched my jacket unsuccessfully for a lighter.
    Max raised his, flicking it at my eye level.
    “How about you?” he asked. “Are you afraid?”
    “All the time,” I confessed, unblinking, as I lowered his arm and lit my cigarette.
    I wasn’t lying. But I surprised myself. I wasn’t sure where that unexpected revelation had come from. After a long first drag, I added, “Every time I land in Geneva for work, I feel I’m entering another world. Not another country, but another
world
.”

12
    “Such an intriguing notion, fear …” He seemed to be warming to his topic.
    Intriguing?
I remember thinking. Fear could be everything, from chronic to unbearable, from dreadful to dark. But
intriguing
?
    Max continued: “Take the guerrilla’s fear, for instance” — and here he looked at me, seeking a tacit sign of approval, it would seem, for not having used the then-common term
subversive
— “the guerrilla’s fear as he weighs the odds of being caught. Which, depending on the case, might mean
being tortured and killed
. It’s a concrete, objective, almost tangible fear, which runs as deep as his beliefs.”
    He winked at me, as if making an amusing side comment. “As the ambassador has a habit of saying, from the depths of his favorite armchair in his Montevideo office, ‘It’s fear shrouded in bravado.’ A fine phrase, isn’t it?”
    I no longer knew if he was kidding or serious. I remembered a colleague who loathed him and was always professing, “Max’s problem is that he lies all the time.” Was he lying? Or simply having fun with me, creating a character inspired by his sinister boss?
    He repeated the line, so that I could savor what was to come. “ ‘Fear shrouded in bravado … that only comes to a head when skilled hands —
pop!
— burst the bravado like a bubble.’ ”
    Unable to contain himself, he proceeded, “You can’t imagine how happy he is when he goes
pop!
He’s like a kid.”
    He exhaled deeply, long enough for the ambassador to take shape between us, eyes flashing maliciously, the poor blood-covered victim hanging in chains, his bravado undone.
    Max calmly went on. “Now, what you were referring to earlier — the fear of someone unaware of why he feels afraid —
that’s
something else entirely.”
    He turned to face me. “Like you, for example. You don’t know why you feel afraid. You just know that’s how you feel. It’s what you tend to think about before you go to sleep. And almost always what you think about when you wake up. Without your having a single thing to feel guilty