Strange Pilgrims Read online

"Don't worry," the doctor concluded. "Put your affairs in order and then get in touch with us. But don't forget, the sooner the better."

  It was not a good morning for digesting that piece of bad news, least of all outdoors. He had left the hotel very early, without an overcoat because he saw a brilliant sun through the window, and had walked with measured steps from the Chemin du Beau-Soleil, where the hospital was located, to that refuge for furtive lovers, the Jardin Anglais. He had been there for more than an hour, thinking of nothing but death, when autumn began. The lake became as rough as an angry sea, and an outlaw wind frightened the gulls and made away with the last leaves. The President stood up and, instead of buying a daisy from the flower vendor, he picked one from the public plantings and put it in his buttonhole. She caught him in the act.

  "Those flowers don't belong to God, Monsieur," she said in vexation. "They're city property."

  He ignored her and walked away with rapid strides, grasping his cane by the middle of the shaft and twirling it from time to time with a rather libertine air. On the Pont du Mont-Blanc the flags of the Confederation, maddened by the sudden gust of wind, were being lowered with as much speed as possible, and the graceful fountain crowned with foam had been turned off earlier than usual. The President did not recognize his usual cafe on the pier because they had taken down the green awning over the entrance, and the flower-filled terraces of summer had just been closed. Inside the lights burned in the middle of the day, and the string quartet was playing a piece by Mozart full of foreboding. At the counter the President picked up a newspaper from the pile reserved for customers, hung his hat and cane on the rack, put on his gold-rimmed glasses to read at the most isolated table, and only then became aware that autumn had arrived. He began to read the international page, where from time to time he found a rare news item from the Americas, and he continued reading from back to front until the waitress brought him his daily bottle of Evian water. Following his doctors' orders, he had given up the habit of coffee more than thirty years before, but had said, "If I ever knew for certain that I was going to die, I would drink it again." Perhaps the time had come.

  "Bring me a coffee too," he ordered in perfect French. And specified without noticing the double meaning, "Italian style, strong enough to wake the dead."

  He drank it without sugar, in slow sips, and then turned the cup upside down on the saucer so that the coffee grounds, after so many years, would have time to write out his destiny. The recaptured taste rescued him for an instant from his gloomy thoughts. A moment later, as if it were part of the same sorcery, he sensed someone looking at him. He turned the page with a casual gesture, then glanced over the top of his glasses and saw the pale, unshaven man in a sports cap and a jacket lined with sheepskin, who looked away at once so their eyes would not meet.

  His face was familiar. They had passed each other several times in the hospital lobby, he had seen him on occasion riding a motor scooter on the Promenade du Lac while he was contemplating the swans, but he never felt that he had been recognized. He did not, however, discount the idea that this was one of the many persecution fantasies of exile.

  He finished the paper at his leisure, floating on the sumptuous cellos of Brahms, until the pain was stronger than the analgesic of the music. Then he looked at the small gold watch and chain that he carried in his vest pocket and took his two midday tranquilizers with the last swallow of Evian water. Before removing his glasses he deciphered his destiny in the coffee grounds and felt an icy shudder: He saw uncertainty there. At last he paid the bill, left a miser's tip, collected his cane and hat from the rack, and walked out to the street without looking at the man who was looking at him. He moved away with his festive walk, stepping around the beds of flowers devastated by the wind, and thought he was free of the spell. But then he heard steps behind him and came to a halt when he rounded the corner, making a partial turn. The man following him had to stop short to avoid a collision, and his startled eyes looked at him from just a few inches away.

  "Senor Presidente," he murmured.

  "Tell the people who pay you not to get their hopes up," said the President, without losing his smile or the charm of his voice. "My health is perfect."

  "Nobody knows that better than me," said the man, crushed by the weight of dignity that had fallen upon him. "I work at the hospital."

  His diction and cadence, and even his timidity, were raw Caribbean.

  "Don't tell me you're a doctor," said the President.

  "I wish I could, Senor. I'm an ambulance driver."

  "I'm sorry," said the President, convinced of his error. "That's a hard job."

  "Not as hard as yours, Senor."

  He looked straight at him, leaned on his cane with both hands, and asked with real interest:

  "Where are you from?"

  "The Caribbean."

  "I already knew that," said the President. "But which country?"

  "The same as you, Senor," the man said, and offered his hand. "My name is Homero Rey."

  The President interrupted him in astonishment, not letting go of his hand.

  "Damn," he said. "What a fine name!"

  Homero relaxed.

  "It gets better," he said. "Homero Rey de la Casa--I'm Homer King of His House."

  A wintry knife-thrust caught them unprotected in the middle of the street. The President shivered down to his bones and knew that without an overcoat he could not walk the two blocks to the cheap restaurant where he usually ate.

  "Have you had lunch?" he asked.

  "I never have lunch," said Homero. "I eat one meal at night in my house."

  "Make an exception for today," he said, using all his charm. "Let me take you to lunch."

  He led him by the arm to the restaurant across the street, its name in gilt on the awning: Le Boeuf Couronne. The interior was narrow and warm, and there seemed to be no empty tables. Homero Rey, surprised that no one recognized the President, walked to the back to request assistance.

  "Is he an acting president?" the owner asked.

  "No," said Homero. "Overthrown."

  The owner smiled in approval.

  "For them," he said, "I always have a special table."

  He led them to an isolated table in the rear of the room, where they could talk as much as they liked. The President thanked him.

  "Not everyone recognizes as you do the dignity of exile," he said.

  The specialty of the house was charcoal-broiled ribs of beef. The President and his guest glanced around and saw the great roasted slabs edged in tender fat on the other tables. "It's magnificent meat," murmured the President. "But I'm not allowed to eat it." He looked at Homero with a roguish eye and changed his tone.

  "In fact, I'm not allowed to eat anything."

  "You're not allowed to have coffee either," said Homero, "but you drink it anyway."

  "You found that out?" said the President. "But today was just an exception on an exceptional day."

  Coffee was not the only exception he made that day. He also ordered charcoal-broiled ribs of beef and a fresh vegetable salad with a simple splash of olive oil for dressing. His guest ordered the same, and half a carafe of red wine.

  While they were waiting for the meat, Homero took a wallet with no money and many papers out of his jacket pocket, and showed a faded photograph to the President, who recognized himself in shirtsleeves, a few pounds lighter and with intense black hair and mustache, surrounded by a crowd of young men standing on tiptoe to be seen. In a single glance he recognized the place, he recognized the emblems of an abominable election campaign, he recognized the wretched date. "It's shocking!" he murmured. "I've always said one ages faster in photographs than in real life." And he returned the picture with a gesture of finality.

  "I remember it very well," he said. "It was thousands of years ago, in the cockpit at San Cristobal de las Casas."

  "That's my town," said Homero, and he pointed to himself in the group. "This is me."

  The President recognize
d him.

  "You were a baby!"

  "Almost," said Homero. "I was with you for the whole southern campaign as a leader of the university brigades."

  The President anticipated his reproach.

  "I, of course, did not even notice you," he said.

  "Not at all, you were very nice," said Homero. "But there were so many of us there's no way you could remember."

  "And afterward?"

  "You know that better than anybody," said Homero. "After the military coup, the miracle is that we're both here, ready to eat half a cow. Not many were as lucky."

  Just then their food was brought to the table. The President tied his napkin around his neck, like an infant's bib, and was aware of his guest's silent surprise. "If I didn't do this I'd ruin a tie at every meal," he said. Before he began, he tasted the meat for seasoning, approved with a satisfied gesture, and returned to his subject.

  "What I can't understand," he said, "is why you didn't approach me earlier, instead of tracking me like a bloodhound."

  Homero said that he had recognized him from the time he saw him go into the hospital through a door reserved for very special cases. It was in the middle of summer, and he was wearing a three-piece linen suit from the Antilles, with black and white shoes, a daisy in his lapel, and his beautiful hair blowing in the wind. Homero learned that he was alone in Geneva, with no one to help him, for the President knew by heart the city where he had completed his law studies. The hospital administration, at his request, took the internal measures necessary to guarantee his absolute incognito. That very night Homero and his wife agreed to communicate with him. And yet for five weeks he had followed him, waiting for a propitious moment, and perhaps would not have been capable of speaking if the President had not confronted him.

  "I'm glad I did, although the truth is, it doesn't bother me at all to be alone."

  "It's not right."

  "Why?" asked the President with sincerity. "The greatest victory of my life has been having everyone forget me."

  "We remember you more than you imagine," said Homero, not hiding his emotion. "It's a joy to see you like this, young and healthy."

  "And yet," he said without melodrama, "everything indicates that I'll die very soon."

  "Your chances of recovery are very good," said Homero.

  The President gave a start of surprise but did not lose his sense of humor.

  "Damn!" he exclaimed. "Has medical confidentiality been abolished in beautiful Switzerland?"

  "There are no secrets for an ambulance driver in any hospital anywhere in the world," said Homero.

  "Well, what I know I found out just two hours ago from the lips of the only man who could have known it."

  "In any case, you will not have died in vain," said Homero. "Someone will restore you to your rightful place as a great example of honor."

  The President feigned a comic astonishment.

  "Thank you for warning me," he said.

  He ate as he did everything: without haste and with great care. As he did so he looked Homero straight in the eye, and the younger man had the impression he could see what the older man was thinking. After a long conversation filled with nostalgic evocations, the President's smile turned mischievous.

  "I had decided not to worry about my corpse," he said, "but now I see that I must take precautions worthy of a detective novel to keep it hidden."

  "It won't do any good," Homero joked in turn. "In the hospital no mystery lasts longer than an hour."

  When they had finished their coffee, the President read the bottom of his cup, and again he shuddered: The message was the same. Still, his expression did not change. He paid the bill in cash but first checked the total several times, counted his money several times with excessive care, and left a tip that merited no more than a grunt from the waiter.

  "It has been a pleasure," he concluded as he took his leave of Homero. "I haven't set a date yet for the surgery, and I haven't even decided if I'm going to have it done or not. But if all goes well, we'll see each other again."

  "And why not before?" said Homero. "Lazara, my wife, does cooking for rich people. Nobody makes shrimp and rice better than she does, and we'd like to invite you to our house some night soon."

  "I'm not allowed to have shellfish, but I'll be happy to eat it," he said. "Just tell me when."

  "Thursday is my day off," said Homero.

  "Perfect," said the President. "Thursday at seven I'll be at your house. It will be a pleasure."

  "I'll come by for you," said Homero. "Hotellerie Dames, Fourteen Rue de l'Industrie. Behind the station. Is that right?"

  "That's right," said the President, and he stood up, more charming than ever. "It appears you even know my shoe size."

  "Of course, Senor," said Homero with amusement. "Size forty-one."

  WHAT Homero Rey did not tell the President, but did tell for years afterward to anyone willing to listen, was that his original intention was not so innocent. Like other ambulance drivers, he had made certain arrangements with funeral parlors and insurance companies to sell their services inside the hospital, above all to foreign patients of limited means. The profits were small and had to be shared with other employees who passed around the confidential files of patients with serious illnesses. But it was some consolation for an exile with no future who just managed to support his wife and two children on a ridiculous salary.

  Lazara Davis, his wife, was more realistic. A slender mulatta from San Juan, Puerto Rico, she was small and solid, the color of cooked caramel, and had the eyes of a vixen, which matched her temperament very well. They had met in the charity ward of the hospital, where she worked as a general aide after a financier from her country, who had brought her to Geneva as a nursemaid, left her adrift in the city. She and Homero had been married in a Catholic ceremony, although she was a Yoruban princess, and they lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the eighth floor of a building that had no elevator and was occupied by African emigres. Their daughter, Barbara, was nine years old, and their son, Lazaro, who was seven, showed signs of slight mental retardation.

  Lazara Davis was intelligent and evil-tempered, but she had a tender heart. She considered herself a pure Taurus and believed with blind faith in her astral portents. Yet she had never been able to realize her dream of earning a living as an astrologer to millionaires. On the other hand, she made occasional and sometimes significant contributions to the family's finances by preparing dinners for wealthy matrons who impressed their guests by making them believe they had cooked the exciting Antillean dishes themselves. Homero's timidity was painful, and he had no ambitions beyond the little he earned, but Lazara could not conceive of life without him because of the innocence of his heart and the caliber of his member. Things had gone well for them, but each year was more difficult and the children were growing. At the time of the President's arrival they had begun dipping into their savings of five years. And so when Homero Rey discovered him among the incognito patients in the hospital, their hopes were raised.

  They did not know with precision what they were going to ask for, or with what right. At first they planned to sell him the complete funeral, including embalming and repatriation. But little by little they realized that his death did not seem quite as imminent as it had at the beginning. On the day of the lunch they were confused by doubts.

  The truth is that Homero had not been a leader of the university brigades or of anything else, and the only part he ever played in the election campaign was to be included in the photograph that they managed to find as if by miracle under a pile of papers in the closet. But his fervor was true. It was also true that he had been obliged to flee the country because of his participation in street protests against the military coup, although his only reason for still living in Geneva after so many years was his poverty of spirit. And so one lie more or less should not have been an obstacle to gaining the President's favor.

  The first surprise for both of them was that the illustrious exile lived in
a fourth-class hotel in the sad district of Les Grottes, among Asian emigres and ladies of the night, and ate alone in cheap restaurants, when Geneva was filled with suitable residences for politicians in disgrace. Day after day, Homero had seen him repeat that day's actions. He had accompanied him with his eyes, sometimes at a less than prudent distance, in his nocturnal strolls among the mournful walls and tattered yellow bell-flowers of the old city. He had seen him lost in thought for hours in front of the statue of Calvin. Breathless with the ardent perfume of the jasmines, he had followed him step by step up the stone staircase to contemplate the slow summer twilights from the top of the Bourg-de-Four. One night he saw him in the first rain of the season, without an overcoat or an umbrella, standing in line with the students for a Rubinstein concert. "I don't know why he didn't catch pneumonia," Homero said afterward to his wife. On the previous Saturday, when the weather began to change, he had seen him buy an autumn coat with a fake mink collar, not in the glittering shops along the Rue du Rhone, where fugitive emirs made their purchases, but in the flea market.

  "Then there's nothing we can do!" exclaimed Lazara when Homero told her about it. "He's a damn miser who'll give himself a charity funeral and be buried in a pauper's grave. We'll never get anything out of him."

  "Maybe he's really poor," said Homero, "after so many years out of work."

  "Oh baby, it's one thing to be a Pisces with an ascendant Pisces, and another thing to be a damn fool," said Lazara. "Everybody knows he made off with the country's gold and is the richest exile in Martinique."

  Homero, who was ten years her senior, had grown up influenced by news articles to the effect that the President had studied in Geneva and supported himself by working as a construction laborer. Lazara, on the other hand, had been raised among the scandals in the opposition press, which were magnified in the opposition household where she had been a nursemaid from the time she was a girl. As a consequence, on the night Homero came home breathless with jubilation because he had eaten lunch with the President, she was not convinced by the argument that he had taken him to an expensive restaurant. It annoyed her that Homero had not asked for any of the countless things they had dreamed of, from scholarships for the children to a better job at the hospital. The President's decision to leave his body for the vultures instead of spending his francs on a suitable burial and a glorious repatriation seemed to confirm her suspicions. But the final straw was the news Homero saved for last, that he had invited the President for a meal of shrimp and rice on Thursday night.