“YOU’VE GOT TO TAME YOUR NERVES, one way or another,” Enrique said, rubbing his hands together. “Before I get started, these things always put me on edge. But when the moment arrives, I calm down and I take care of it, and that’s that. What about you? Does that happen with you?”
“I’m the opposite,” the Dominican said, shaking his head. “I’m nervous when I wake up, when I go to sleep, when I get out of bed. When I have to act, I’m even more nervous. Being high-strung is just my natural state.”
They were in the offices of the Dirección General de Seguridad, which took up one corner of the Palacio del Gobierno, and from its windows, they could see Constitution Plaza with its leafy trees and the facade of the Guatemala City Cathedral. It was a sunny, still-cloudless day, but the rain would come down that afternoon and would likely go on filling the streets with puddles and rills all through the night, just as it had all week.
“The decision’s taken, the plans have been made, and the people who matter are committed. You’ve got the permits and tickets in your pocket, for you and for the lady. Why should anything go wrong?” the other man said, talking very softly now. And smiling, though without a jot of humor, he changed the subject: “You know what’s good to calm your nerves?”
“A nice swig of dry rum,” the Dominican said with a grin. “But at the whorehouse, not in this miserable office, with all these ears around us, that’s what they say where you come from when they’re talking about snitches, right? Ears! I like the sound of that. Let’s go to Gerona, to that place run by the gringa with the dye job.”
Enrique looked at his watch:
“It’s only four in the afternoon.” He looked dismayed. “It’ll be closed, it’s still early.”
“We’ll kick the door down if we have to,” the Dominican said, standing up. “That’s all there is to it. Fate has chosen. We’re having a nice drink together to kill time. My treat.”
As they were leaving, crossing the room full of desks, the civilians and soldiers stood to salute Enrique. He didn’t linger, and as he was out of uniform, limited himself to nodding at them briefly before departing. A car was waiting for them by one of the side doors, manned by the ugliest chauffeur in the world. He hurried them to their destination, the gringa’s whorehouse, which was closed as predicted. A lone street sweeper limped over to inform them that it only opened “when it was dark and rainy out.” But they knocked at the door all the same, and went on doing so harder and harder until they heard a clanking of keys and chains and it drew open slightly.
“Gentlemen, already?” the woman with the still disheveled platinum-blond hair said, recognizing them with surprise. Her name was Miriam Ritcher, and she forced her accent a bit so she would sound like a foreigner. “The girls are either still asleep or having breakfast.”
“We’re not here for the girls, Miriam, we’re here to have a drink,” Enrique said, cutting her off rudely. “Can we come in, yes or no?”
“For you all, it’s always yes,” the gringa said, shrugging, resigned. She opened the door the rest of the way and stood back, curtsying, to let them through. “Gentlemen, after you.”
At that hour, dim and empty, the bar room looked sadder, shabbier than when the lights were up, the music loud, the boisterous clientele in attendance. Instead of pictures, the walls were lined with posters advertising liquor brands and the coastal rail line. The friends sat at the bar on two tall stools, lit their cigarettes, and smoked.
“The usual?” the woman asked. She was wearing a housecoat and slippers. Arrayed this way, hair unkempt and without makeup, she looked a hundred years old.
“The usual,” the Dominican joked. “And if it’s possible, a tasty gash to lick.”
“You know quite well I don’t care for vulgarities,” the mistress of the house grumbled as she served their drinks.
“Me neither,” Enrique said to his friend. “So show a bit more respect when you open your mouth.”
They said nothing for a moment, and then Enrique asked suddenly:
“I thought you were supposed to be Rosicrucian? What kind of religion allows you to talk all crass like that in front of a lady?”
“Lady—I like that,” the woman said on her way out, not bothering to turn and look at them. She disappeared behind a door.
The Dominican thought for a moment and shrugged.
“I’m not even sure it’s a religion: maybe it’s just a philosophy. I met a wise man once, and they told me he was Rosicrucian. In Mexico, not long after I got there. Brother Cristóbal. He gave off this feeling of peace that I’ve never felt again. He spoke very calmly, slowly. And he seemed to be inspired by angels.”
“What do you mean, inspired?” Enrique asked. “Are you talking about one of those holy men who walk around the streets half crazy, mumbling to themselves?”
“He was wise, not crazy,” the Dominican said. “He never said Rosicrucian, he said the Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis. It made you feel respect for it. It arose in ancient Egypt, in the pharaohs’ days, as a secret brotherhood, hermetic, and it survived through the centuries outside the public eye. It’s widespread in the Orient and in Europe, so they say. Nobody here knows what it is. Not in the Dominican Republic, either.”
“So you are or aren’t a Rosicrucian?”
“I don’t know if I am or not,” the Dominican said, abashed. “I never had time to learn about it. I just saw Brother Cristóbal a couple of times. But it left an impression on me. From what I heard, it seemed like the religion or philosophy that suited me best. It gave you a great deal of peace and didn’t meddle around in people’s private lives. And when he spoke, he transmitted something: tranquility.”
“Honestly, you’re a strange bird,” Enrique said. “And I’m not talking just about your vices.”
“As far as religion and the soul go, I’ll give you that,” the Dominican said. “A man who’s different from the others. I am, and I’m honored to be so.”