Vengeance(93)

Often as he strolled along the immaculate paths, the General found his way past the plots holding chilies and cilantro, yams, jicamas, beans, tomatoes, and corn to the little potting shed. There was a pipe for water, and some fastidious former owner had installed a small toilet. Manuel or one of his predecessors had acquired a hot plate and a barbecue, and on some nights the General smelled bracing, peppery concoctions or, more rarely, the scent of meat or chicken bathed in herbs.

It was on these nights that the General thought of the back-country, so terrible and beautiful, and of what he had done and ordered there. Sometimes, the smells were so intense, so delicious — as if they were the scent of memory rather than the cookery of an impoverished gardener over a few charcoal briquettes — that the General imagined a single mouthful of such food would restore him to his old headquarters deep in the past.

I’m getting old, thought the General one evening. He felt that it would be wise to fire Manuel that night, that very moment, and yet he did not. In fact, he found himself drawn more and more to the night garden and to the shed, which always seemed dark to him, though he knew for a fact that it was wired for power, and he sometimes saw a faint light emanating from it when he looked out his bedroom window at night. He told himself that he could have the power cable disconnected, just as he could fire Manuel. There were always gardeners in need of work.

One day, Alejandro had an orchid to show him, a minuscule cluster of green leaves. It was a hybrid, the boy said. A new one. If it turned out to be as beautiful as he hoped, it would be named for his mother.

The General looked at his smiling face and said, “What a splendid idea.”

Nonetheless, when Alejandro went off to school, the General felt grumpy and out of sorts. Who was this gardener to remind him of Maria? He stepped onto the terrace and studied his lush foliage. The original garden had been too tidy and suburban for his taste. Now, without its ever looking sloppy or unkempt, the garden reminded the General of his native thickets and jungles. Though the birds’ songs were different, there were moments when he felt at home, when he felt returned, almost. He traced the beginning of those moments to when Manuel had taken up residence in the garden.

It would have seemed a simple matter for the General to question the old man directly, but this he did not do. First, he was confident that the man would lie, on principle, if not out of fear, and second, it was surely beneath his own dignity to investigate one of his servants. If he had real questions, he would let Hector and Jesus handle the business; they would soon discover anything he needed to know about Manuel. Anything.

The awareness that this might be done consoled the General. In his mind, having the power to do something ran a close second to actually doing it. Besides, Alejandro was often alone, and the General preferred for him to have a companion within the compound instead of running wild among the neighborhood boys with their motorized scooters and skateboards and their delight in surfing rough water.

Already the boy’s English was full of slang and his Spanish corrupted. There could be no harm in the old gardener, and the General thought himself well enough protected by asking the occasional question.

“Manuel must be very patient,” the General said one day. “He teaches you a great deal.”

“He had a son once,” Alejandro said. “A boy like me.”

“And where is his son? Back home or here?”

Alejandro shook his head. “He did not grow up. He is dead.”

“Ah,” said the General. That explained much. Alejandro looked reflective, even melancholy, and the General thought it well to add, “So many children die back home. The peasants are ignorant of even the simplest care.”

Alejandro did not answer this observation, and some delicacy kept the General from pressing him.

Another time, he asked Alejandro where Manuel came from.

“The highlands,” Alejandro said. “He picked coffee and then he made gardens for the plantation owner.”

“Do you know what village that might be?” The General kept his voice low. There were lots of coffee plantations, and he did not fear the answer. It would be too much of a coincidence. Still, even the idea was unwelcome.

Alejandro shrugged — a nasty habit he had picked up from the boys next door.

“Answer your father.” Unintentionally, the General spoke so sharply that Alejandro flinched.

“I don’t know.”

“I was just curious,” the General said, to pass over the moment.

“I can ask him,” Alejandro said.

“It is not important,” said the General, though now he greatly desired to know, to know that it was not Santa Lucia de Piedras. But he did not want to disturb Alejandro. There were surely other ways to find out.