The Boiling Season (7 page)

“I'm very pleased to meet you,” she said, stretching out her hand to greet me. Her perfume bore the faint, sweet trace of heliotrope and peach blossoms, but there were darker undertones, too, of something I could not quite identify.

I do not recall what I said in return, or if I said anything at all. I was distracted just then by the realization that the table she had chosen, in the corner of the club room, was the very same table Senator Marcus and the minister of health had favored after their Wednesday tennis matches. It was more than just a coincidence, I decided; it was a sign, and it immediately caused me to wonder what on earth I was doing here. Was I really considering leaving Senator Marcus? If I had any conscience at all, I told myself, I would thank Mme Freeman for her kindness and then excuse myself and never again would I think of treating Senator Marcus so unjustly.

“I've been looking forward to this,” Mme Freeman said, and before I could apologize and explain my own change of heart, she had pressed me into a chair. A waiter appeared at my elbow with a drink, which he set down in front of me with a disapproving frown he intended for only me to see. I wished M. Guinee would take a seat as well, but he continued to stand beside the table, concerned, no doubt, about being seen socializing with a guest.

Mme Freeman had kind eyes, their lids lightly dusted a rosy peach, and the way they looked into mine, I could see she felt no discomfort. This to me seemed both odd and inappropriate, for there was nothing normal about our meeting like this. I could feel—and in some cases see—the reporters crammed into the surrounding tables watching Mme Freeman and M. Guinee and me. M. Guinee's Erdrich jacket made it clear who he was. But who was I? As on the day they had seen me here with Senator Marcus, the reporters must have assumed I was someone significant—someone, perhaps, with inside information concerning the “constitutional crisis” they had come to cover. Perhaps they thought they should have been speaking with me themselves. I could have taken pleasure in their attention, savoring the pride it gave me to have worked my way into a position where I might be mistaken for someone important—but instead every eye reminded me how easily the story of my being here might find its way to Senator Marcus's ear.

“Mr. Guinee tells me you're familiar with my new estate,” Mme Freeman said.

“Oh, yes,” M. Guinee cut in. “Almost as much as me,” and grateful though I was to have him speaking on my behalf, I could not help worrying about other things he might have told her, and how many of them were similarly lies. Sensing perhaps my temptation to confess the truth, M. Guinee quickly added, “And he knows precisely what needs to be done.”

“I'm so glad to hear it,” Mme Freeman said, and I nodded miserably, accepting the part I was playing in this deception. “When can you begin?” she said.

I felt what little English I at the time possessed trickle away, leaving me with only, “Yes.”

With a nod she showed that this, the only word I had managed to utter over the course of the conversation, was the very one she had been waiting to hear.

I
had not known, until the moment I gave it, what my answer to Mme Freeman would be. During the week leading up to our meeting I had thought about little else, but my thinking was seldom the same from one moment to the next. Down at the base of the hills of Lyonville where I had grown up, a man my age was lucky if he found any work at all. If he did, the best he could hope for was a job paying him just enough to feed his family. And yet somehow, without ever having worked toward this end, I found myself in the position of choosing between two jobs, each of which was infinitely better than any job held by anyone I had ever known. Assisting an influential politician or managing the estate of a rich foreign businesswoman? Contrary to everything my father had tried to teach me to feel about people of wealth, I liked and respected them both. Senator Marcus and his wife had shown me great generosity, far greater than I deserved, and that was part of what made the decision so difficult, for it seemed to me that by going to work for Mme Freeman I would be repaying their kindness with ingratitude. But how could I refuse an opportunity like this? It was a job even Paul would have given up his toothpaste and bathroom tissue to take. And what greater honor could I pay to the memory of my mother than to dedicate myself to saving a piece of the island she had believed to be extinct? As for my father, I could think of no better way to satisfy his wishes than to take leave of the hill people and say good-bye forever to the world of politics.

L
eaving Senator Marcus was not easy, but it would have been far harder had he not been so distracted. Even now that the state of siege had ended, President Mailodet seemed reluctant to restore the legislature or give up his emergency powers. Nor was there any sign that the legions of recently arrested political prisoners—students, unionists, journalists—might soon be released. If anything, all indications were that their cells would soon be filled to bursting, now that owning a radio had been added to the list of crimes against the state. The president's newly created security forces were busily confiscating every transistor they could find.

Despite all this, Senator Marcus appeared suddenly rejuvenated. It was as if this crisis had given him a new sense of purpose. Men were arriving at our door early each morning, even before Mme Marcus had risen, and they were staying until long after she had gone to bed at night. I had no way of knowing what was being said behind Senator Marcus's study door, and that was as I wished.

It was on one of the few nights when Senator Marcus did not have guests that I delivered the news of my resignation. We were in his study, and I had brought him his coffee. His first reaction was to set down the papers he had been examining.

He removed his reading glasses and squinted at me with a pained expression. “What will you do?”

“There's an estate.” Until now I had not realized how nervous I was. “A forest preserve. It needs to be protected.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “It sounds wonderful.”

“It is.” And I almost told him then of my mother's stories about the way the island once had been, before the endless turmoil. But how could I, given what had happened, given the trouble we once again found ourselves in, with Senator Marcus caught in the middle of it?

He was silent, and I felt him regarding me with a detached kind of scrutiny, as if he were looking not at but through me. “I envy you.”

“Not at all, sir,” I said, fearing I had gone too far.

“There are times I wish I had a place like that I could disappear to.” I watched his eyes flutter closed. “I don't know what happens to us. We want to make things better, but we always make them worse.”

“No one has done as much as you,” I said, striking a more defensive tone than I had intended.

He opened his eyes at the sound of my voice, as if he were surprised to find me still there.

“But we can't all just escape.”

“No, sir.”

“Someone has to stay and see things through.”

“Of course,” I said.

He looked at me strangely, and I worried again that I had said the wrong thing.

“I hope you don't expect me to let you go without a fight,” he offered, not unkindly.

“I'm sorry for any inconvenience this might cause you.”

He folded shut the earpieces to his glasses and then sprang them open again. “Of course it's a terrible time for this to happen,” he said, and in truth I found myself hoping he might try to talk me out of it. But rather than finish his thought, he propped the glasses back upon his nose and resumed reading the papers.

By the next morning, he had forgotten all about the promised fight. He spent the next few days locked in his study with his most trusted advisers.

I
had been looking forward to telling my father. On the Sunday following my meeting with Mme Freeman, I hurried home hours before the start of mass, not wanting to wait until after church. It being Sunday, the shop was closed, but when I got there my father was dusting his shelves, already dressed in his starched shirt and pants. He looked me over cautiously as I came in, alarmed to be seeing me so early.

“I brought you something,” I said, handing him a small box.

He opened the lid and tilted the box slightly to look inside. Nestled within a paper wrapping was a pineapple cake—his favorite. I had gotten it the day before at the Marcuses' bakery.

“You shouldn't be wasting your money on luxuries,” he said, setting the box aside without closing the lid.

“It's a treat,” I said. “For a special occasion.” My saying this seemed to confirm his worst suspicions.

“What occasion?”

His dread was so palpable I nearly changed my mind. I contemplated lying, fabricating an occasion. Where did this come from, I wondered, this need of his always to expect the worst?

“I got a new job,” I said, and my father instantly lowered himself onto his stool, clutching the dust rag in his hand.

“What new job?”

“I'm not going to be working for hill people anymore. Isn't that great news?” I said, and his demeanor was such that I honestly no longer knew if this news was good or bad or something else altogether. What would constitute great news for my father? What calamity would need to befall the National Palace for him to so much as smile? I realized as I stood there in his shop, my own excitement rapidly dissipating, that my father had oriented his life in anticipation of disappointment. I believe this had not been a conscious decision on his part, but a consequence of things having worked out the way they did—the loss of his father's land, the early death of his wife, the venality of politicians, the failings of his son.

“I'll be working in the countryside,” I said. “Just as you always wanted.”

His eyes narrowed in on me. “Doing what?”

“There's a forest preserve. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen.”

“What about your studies?”

“This is better.”

“A forest preserve?” He laid down his dust rag and looked at me with consternation.

“It's a sanctuary for trees and plants,” I said nervously. “And there's a house—”

“But what's it for?”

“It's an enormous garden,” I said. “It reminds me of Mother. It's the sort of place she would have loved. You would like it, too. When you're there, you forget about everything else. All the chaos.”

“What makes you think I want to forget?”

“Wouldn't you love to get away from all of this?”

He suddenly looked exhausted. “You only hear the things you want to hear.”

“That's not true. All my life you've told me how much you hate all of this: the politics, the violence.”

“You've never understood,” he said with a shake of his head. “Being disgusted is not the same as being indifferent. I never taught you not to care.”

How could he so quickly change his mind? It was as if he were willing to say anything in order to find a way to disapprove, even if it meant contradicting himself.

I said, “But I won't have to work for the hill people anymore. I thought that was what you wanted.” He could not possibly deny that it was.

“Trees can take care of themselves,” he said.

“People will destroy them.”

“People are just trying to survive.” My father got up from his stool and pushed past the curtain separating the shop from his bed. He returned a moment later, wearing his hat.

“And I suppose you'll be too far away to come back for church?” He opened the door and stepped outside, not bothering to wait for an answer.

T
hroughout the service, my father would not meet my eye. But for once he seemed scarcely aware of the priest either, failing to respond with the rest of the congregation to any of his usual flourishes. It seemed my father had not come for the mass, but to have a moment alone—even amongst this crowd—with the one authority he believed could show him the way forward. By now my father must have understood the impossibility of changing my mind with any kind of appeal to a higher power, but perhaps he still hoped he might be able to beg some kind of favor. Maybe a fire rained down upon Madame's preserve. Or even locusts, if all else failed. It was difficult to watch, knowing he would only be adding to his disappointment. It was harder still to sit silently, unable to plead my case.

Looking for distraction, I allowed my thoughts to wander, and soon I was back again in the marble foyer of Habitation Louvois, straining my neck to gaze at the crystal chandelier hanging dustily overhead, like a jeweled cocoon. I could hardly believe it was real, that in just a few days I would be calling it home.

The service was almost over when we heard the clamor out on the street. It started with shouting, and then there was the thud of feet running on the hard-packed dirt. Outside, a woman screamed and the priest fell silent, cutting himself off mid-sentence. The shouting grew louder, and I could hear it getting closer. The gunshots, when they came, were not especially loud, but still everyone started at the sound. We all knew what it was. A couple here, a couple there. And then two more in quick succession, somewhere very close by.

“The doors,” the priest shouted, “someone get the doors.” There was scrambling in the back, and first the metal gate and then the wooden inner doors slammed shut, sealing out most of the light.

“O God,” the priest spoke, lowering his head, “Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils, that by reason of the weakness of our nature we cannot stand upright, grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome through Thine assistance. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Around me spilled an echo of
Amen
s, some whispered, some shouted. For once my father's was among the quietest.