God's Favorite (21 page)

Talk like this sobered Tony up. Yes, he could imagine his immortal shade returning to his home village, looking for something—succor, meaning, love—whatever it was that life had not provided. But would he find it here?

A green lizard crawled across the encrusted stones and stared at him lazily.

“And how are things among your people?” Tony asked.

“Unfortunate, as usual. Iguana hunting is poor and the jungle is full of narcos. The people are restless because we have not been given cable.”

“I've also had some difficulties lately,” said Tony.

“Perhaps the curse of our people has been passed along through your mother's blood.”

“What curse is this?”

“You mean you do not know our story, about how we came to be cursed by God?”

Tony thought back to the nighttime tales of his childhood, but he didn't remember any such legend.

“The elders tell us that in the ancient times God lived among his people,” Pericles recounted. “One night he gets drunk from too much guarapo and falls asleep on the porch. The women come along and are laughing because God's balls are hanging out. Then the white man comes and says, ‘Why are you laughing? You should cover up God's balls.' And then he covers God. When God wakes up, he's angry with us. He says, ‘You don't even take care to cover my balls—the white man does it for you. From now on, you will always be poor and the white man will be rich.' And that is why the world is as it is.”

“Do you really believe that, my friend?”

Pericles shrugged. “Why not? Is one belief more valuable than another?”

“I don't like to think that God is so stern that our people must be punished forever.”

“Nobody likes to be laughed at, Tony. Especially God. We have learned this lesson at a great price.”

Tony looked out at the broad brown river. Something caught his eye. Bubbles roiled the surface of the water. Below that, there was some huge, half-submerged object tied to the wharf.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

“A whale,” said Pericles. “The captain of a cargo ship found the animal in the mouth of the river. He tried to tow it out to sea, but it kept returning. So for some reason he brought it here.”

“Can't you let it go?”

“We try to, but it doesn't matter, the whale just sits there. His spirit has gone. We keep him here and talk to him to try to help him find it. But he will not be in this world much longer.”

Tony walked to the end of the sodden pier and stared down at the immense gray animal. It was a humpback, the most romantic creature in the ocean, which roams the length and breadth of the cold Pacific singing his love songs and searching for a mate. The animal rolled slightly to one side and presented a giant eye,
the saddest eye Tony had ever seen. The underside of his immense pelicanlike jaw was scratched and raw. For some reason, Tony felt that the entire universe was out of alignment. He was touched by a great sense of sadness, even of despair.

“Do you feed it?”

“It chooses not to eat,” the cacique said. “Everyone feels very bad about this. We don't know what it means.”

Just then, the doleful whale made a noise and sank itself out of sight. Despite the heat, Tony suddenly shivered. “It doesn't mean anything,” he said, more to himself than to his friend. “This happens sometimes, whales beach themselves. Perhaps it's a chemical imbalance. You should not be so superstitious, my friend. It's the whale's bad luck, not yours.” These brave words sounded hollow, even to himself.

When they came back to the town square, the camera crew had packed up and were ready to get back to the helicopter. “We're just waiting on you, General,” the producer said impatiently.

“There's something else I must do,” said Tony.

“You want to get it on film?” the producer asked, casting a glance at her watch.

“No, this I must do alone.”

Yaviza was small but so disorganized that it took him a few minutes to find the road to the cemetery. He ordered his bodyguards to stand back as he walked among the elevated tombs. He had never come here before, and he knew he would never come again. It started to drizzle and within five minutes it began raining in earnest. Tony had neglected to bring an umbrella, but he didn't mind because it all felt so familiar—walking in the rain in the jungle, just as he had done so many years ago.

Finally he found the grave of his mother.

He rarely thought about her. She had been a poor Indian domestic who had worked for an alcoholic government accountant. Tony used to see his father, Ricaurte Noriega, on the streets of Yaviza. Although the father never acknowledged his son, their resemblance
was unmistakable—Ricaurte had the pitted complexion that young Tony would also inherit. As for Tony's sickly mother, she had abandoned him so that she could spend her last year dying in peace. He didn't begrudge her that. Tuberculosis took a lot of Indians, even now.

María Felix Moreno. He could barely read her painted name on the worn and algae-covered stone. Half a century had passed already since her death. He had no real memory of her. If she hadn't done him the favor of dying, he might have remained in Yaviza. God had given Tony a way out, but in return he had taken his mother.

And now Tony stood alone in the rain and wondered why God had chosen him. He might just as well be bare assed and wearing a handkerchief over his penis like his friend, the village cacique. Divine fate had singled him out. But for what?

T
HE SOUND OF HELICOPTERS
roused Father Jorge just after dawn. He was sleeping on the balcony of Roberto's guest bedroom. Six Hueys rising out of the basin of the city converged on the mansion. Intrigued, he sat up in his sleeping bag and watched the helicopters position themselves. A convoy of armored personnel carriers broke through the fences and rolled up the lawn. It was all strange and wonderful. Soldiers spilled out of the carriers and surrounded the house. They wore helmets and gas masks and carried shields bearing the emblem of a snarling black dog, like some futuristic Gestapo. Next door, a neighbor holding a croquet mallet watched the invasion. He noticed Father Jorge and waved.

Someone opened fire.

Father Jorge fell against the concrete balcony floor. It was Roberto, he was sure; the sound of a single automatic weapon—
budderrrrrrrrup budderrrrrrrrup budderrrrrrrrup
—erupted from inside the house. In the yard soldiers pointed toward a second-story window and took cover behind the lawn furniture. Overhead the helicopters canted ever so ominously toward the house.
Suddenly the glass of the sliding door behind Father Jorge exploded as the helicopter in front of him raked the bedroom with deafening, flaming guns. Father Jorge somehow came unstuck from the balcony floor. He rolled across the shattered glass onto the bedroom carpet. All the windows were blown out and the king-size water bed was spewing like a sprinkler. People ran through the halls screaming. More gunshots and the unmistakable sound of boots as the soldiers burst through the doorways. Father Jorge inched through the shards of glass and crawled behind the raining bed.

Then the nature of the sounds changed. The gunshots ceased. Doors were kicked open; there were frightened shouts of surrender, followed by cries and groans and the ghastly crunching sound of people being clubbed and beaten. Father Jorge could actually hear the bones snapping. A sob of fear jumped out of the priest before he could stop it. He quickly bit his thumb to keep himself silent. He began praying furiously, praying that he would not be found. He was terrified but also deeply ashamed of his fear, and he made himself pray for the others who had already been captured.

He could see the boots in the doorway as the soldiers entered the room. He tried to stop his breath. One of the soldiers walked slowly toward the balcony.

“Blood,” said the soldier.

Father Jorge realized that they must be talking about him.

“Maybe I will fire into the bed to see if anyone is hiding behind it,” said the other soldier.

“No, wait!” said Father Jorge. He stuck his hands into the air. “I am coming out!”

The soldiers ordered him to stand, but when he tried to get up he discovered that his bare feet were full of glass splinters. He cried out as the soldiers pulled him to his feet. They were just two boys in uniform; their faces were young and excited.

“I am a priest,” Father Jorge said, humbled by his need to be spared.

One of the soldiers pointed to the door. Father Jorge started to hobble toward it, but the glass in his feet was unbearably painful. He cried out and unthinkingly reached out to one of the soldiers for support.

He did not even feel the butt of the rifle as it broke the jaw below his right ear. He did feel himself being knocked off his feet—actually lifted off the ground—but the sensation was removed and dreamlike. He could see the soldiers standing over him like young giants, and he heard his own voice crying out as they kicked him again and again. And then he felt nothing.

T
HE
N
UNCIO WAS
beside himself with anxiety. In the four days since the assault on Roberto's mansion, he had had no word from Father Jorge. Reports in the news said that Roberto had been beaten into a coma and placed on display in the Comandancia as a warning to other officers. But then a statement appeared over Roberto's signature saying that General Noriega was innocent of Hugo's murder. As for the others who were captured, there was no news at all. The rumor mill said that several people had been shot in the face and secretly buried. The Nuncio could not let himself think about this. If the worst had happened, he would never forgive himself. Why hadn't he been more insistent? He had let his affection for Father Jorge stand in the way of his judgment. He had always known that the price for resistance was high; now it seemed unbearable.

To keep his mind from dwelling on the terrible rumors, he began to quietly visit various government officials, seeking information about the missing protesters. He had lunch with Dr. Demos, a man he deeply distrusted, not only because of his association with Noriega, as his pollster and political adviser, but also because he was a Freudian and was inclined to talk analytical nonsense. They sat under the awning of an open-air café on Via Argentina while it rained heavily. A chubasco had blown in from the Pacific, drenching the city with a week of unseasonable
rain. Demos was half Greek. He wore sunglasses despite the downpour and fiddled with a rosary.

“It's an interesting case, I only wish I could talk more about it,” Dr. Demos said, referring to the General. “There are certain aspects of his personality that would make an intriguing monograph. Perhaps a classic.”

“I'm certain,” the Nuncio said politely.

“Of course, I've encountered similar kinds of religious mania in less celebrated subjects.”

“What do you mean by ‘religious mania'?”

“No offense, Monseñor. But if we can speak—let us say—off the record . . . ?”

The Nuncio shrugged in Gallic assent.

Dr. Demos paused dramatically. He was obviously thrilled by the opportunity to discourse upon his favorite subject. “Technically, I am referring to an affect-loaded fixation. If you had studied psychology, Monseñor, you would be familiar with the similarity between religion and neurotic behavior. I include in the term ‘religion' the entire spectrum of spiritual practices, including magic and sorcery.”

“I am very well acquainted with religious neurotics,” the Nuncio said, bristling at Dr. Demos's condescension. “In fact, you might say I am a specialist in this area. But I don't accept that religion and magic are the same.”

“No offense, Monseñor, but both the magician and the priest believe that inner thoughts can control outer events, through incantations or spells or prayer. From the perspective of the man of science, there is little difference between these actions. Similarly, the neurotic believes that his private ceremonies—compulsive toilet flushing, let us say—govern circumstances outside his actual range of influence. It is all magical thinking, and magic becomes religion once it becomes ritualized.”

“So you are saying that General Noriega is neurotic? That seems a rather tame diagnosis.”

“No, no, no! Not neurotic! Not in the sense that we commonly understand the term. He suffers from certain narcissistic disorders that I cannot in good faith describe.” Dr. Demos hesitated. “Of course, everyone is aware of his bisexuality and the allegations of sexual perversion. My point is that neurosis is an affliction of modern man, and the subject in question is not modern. He's a savage who has read Nietzsche, and that's what makes him so dangerous and also so valuable from a clinical perspective.”

Unfortunately, Dr. Demos was no help in the Nuncio's quest to rescue his secretary. “In matters of state, the General really consults no one,” the psychiatrist said. “The best we can hope for is that he will be merciful in the face of public outrage. I've shown him my latest polls, which are devastating, as you can imagine. Unfortunately, the General usually reacts unfavorably to pressure. If anything, he is likely to strike back. I do not advise taking a public stand on this. Be patient and let events take their course.”

The Nuncio returned to the nunciature in a dark frame of mind. He could not fend off the dreadful image of Hugo's headless corpse and the thought that Father Jorge might meet a similar end. As soon as he entered the rear door, he saw Sister Sarita waiting for him, looking deeply concerned, and his heart jumped. He immediately felt light-headed in anticipation of horrible news.

“Monseñor, you have a visitor,” she said.

“Is it important? You know I'm not receiving until after four.”

“This visitor I think you should see.”

When he entered his library, the Nuncio found President Delvalle sitting at his desk with a shoe box in his lap. Ordinarily, Delvalle had the look of a dark-eyed 1950s Latin movie star, with slicked-back hair and flared nostrils, but now his large, fleshy face was pale with anxiety and his eyes were red and puffy—from either sleeplessness or crying, the Nuncio thought, perhaps both.