“You are at the hotel?” Antonio asked. Madrid was in his car, leaving his office.

“Yes. At the hotel,” Russell said. “I’ll have to go down to the lobby. . . . He didn’t come for the meeting. Something’s happened.”

“Are you sure? I mean, sure that you want to do it?” Antonio asked. He sounded upset.

“I want you to go get my things. They’re at my mother’s. I want you to pick them up and make sure that they are destroyed. There isn’t much. On my mother’s dresser. A book of poems. Can you do that for me? I want you to make sure

that it is destroyed. Take all my things. The maid will help.” “Yes, of course,” Antonio said. “But are you sure…?” “Very sure,” Russell said. “Goodbye. . . . Will you be there

tonight, when he comes?” “Yes,” Antonio said. “Goodbye, then.” Russell hung up; he didn’t want to speak any more.

THIRTY-TWO

The bell rang twice. It had been thirty years, or more—Antonio couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been since he’d climbed the stairs to Isabella’s apartment. He’d thought about Isabella every day of his life, but the memory was soft now, just their talking and their making love, nothing about her death.

He’d told no one about what had happened. He was proud that he’d kept his promise and helped her son until the boy had decided to do what he was going to do. And now Antonio didn’t know what to do to stop him.

He hadn’t expected Russell to ask him to come back to this apartment. He couldn’t refuse the boy, of course; he was sure Russell would die. Antonio told himself again, as he waited for the door to open, that Russell had made his own decision to kill Blanco. It had just been so unexpected. Who can tell about a person, Antonio thought, breathing a little hard after climbing the stairs. Russell should never have come back here, that would have been better.

He was about to reach for the bell again when the door opened and Olga let him in.

“I’m here to collect some things for the young gentleman,” he told Olga. She’d aged so much, and she was so stooped now, he hadn’t recognized her. Then he saw the shoulder, and remembered. “Olga? Olga, is that you?”

“Sí, señor,” she said.

“Olga! My god! I thought you’d gone to the United States like everyone else. Where have you been all these years?”

She looked at him.

“Don Antonio?”

“Yes. Isabella’s friend. Do you remember?”

“Sí, Don Antonio,” Olga said.

He took her hand and held it a moment. “God, it’s been so long, Olga.”

“Si, Don Antonio,” the old woman said.

He looked at her for a moment longer, then let go of her hand. “You came to my parents’ house after Isabella . . . after that awful time.” He remembered now how Olga had searched for Isabella.

“Si, Don Antonio.”

“My family was beastly to you. I’m truly sorry. I was out of the country studying. I’m so sorry for what happened.”

She shook her head in acknowledgement of the time she’d spent standing out in front of his house in the rain, coming back every day, trying to get an answer as to what had happened to her mistress. She’d collapsed out in front of the house and been taken to the public hospital, where she’d almost died of pneumonia. The war started in earnest right after that.

“Pase Usted,” Olga said, and led him down the dark hallway.

Antonio followed her. He remembered looking out the window once or twice at the silly Indian girl who’d stood in front of his parents’ house in the rain. At the time, he thought she was mad or interested in blackmail. He’d gone to the university in Chicago soon afterward.

“Don Russell was using his mother’s room,” Olga stopped at the doorway. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Don Antonio?” she asked, her face expressionless.

“Yes. Thank you, Olga. Yes, please.” He walked into Isabella’s bedroom and back into his youth. Olga watched him. He looked old, she thought, and fatter. He had been a handsome young man, very thin.

She turned around and went to the kitchen. She put the blue iron pot on the stove and turned up the gas. For a moment she saw herself standing in the rain. She listened to the water in the pot start to move and dance. She’d been pregnant then, but hadn’t even known it.

She turned and looked at De La Madrid. Like all of his class, he’d taken it upon himself to sit at the dining room table and wait to be served. She closed the door to the kitchen, got out the rat poison and spooned it into the bottom of the cup. Then she filled the cup with essence of coffee, two teaspoons of sugar, and hot water.

She opened the door to the dining room and served De La Madrid. Afterwards, she went back into the kitchen, sat in the same chair she’d sat in years before, and waited.

1988

Guatemala City

Dearest Russell,

Antonio De La Madrid and I are getting married. I wanted to write to you as soon as he proposed, but I had to run to the plantation yesterday because of the harvest. I tried to call you from there, but the beastly Communists had cut the telephone wires again.

So, darling — I just wanted to say that you will be able to come back here and live with us, if that’s what you want. I would like you to finish school there in the States, but you could come for a long, long visit. If you prefer, you can stay here. And there’ll be a house here in the capital, as Antonio wants me to find something for a new family. That

means you’ll finally have a brother or sister! I want you to take a semester off and get to know Antonio. I know you will like him. I don’t ever expect him to replace your father, that would be absurd. But I hope you and he can be great friends. I’ll finish this letter in the morning, as we are going to a party tonight. Good night, mí Capitan…

Antonio struggled against the rat poison. It had been violent and very painful. He’d run first into the bathroom; after he’d been sick, he’d staggered into Isabella’s room trying to vomit the rest of it up, but it was too late. He’d screamed for Olga, but she’d disappeared. In the bedroom mirror he saw his mouth white with foam; he’d grabbed at the hair brushes and pulled the glass top off the counter. It was there that Isabella had slid the letter to her son before she’d gone out that last night. Olga had found the letter and picked it up, seeing her mistress’s handwriting, but she couldn’t read it; she’d never learned to read. She threw it into the fire.

•••

“Where’s Carlos?” Russell asked. Beatrice was in jeans and a T-shirt, and looked upset. There was something wild and desperate in her eyes when he’d pulled open the door to his hotel room.

“Here in the Hotel. But he doesn’t know I’m here. He was to have a meeting with the Americans,” she said.

When she’d knocked on the door, he thought it might be Katherine, with an explanation for why no one had shown up. Seeing Beatrice was completely unexpected.

He’d gone over a thousand times how he was going to shoot Blanco. He planned to shoot Blanco by the escalator as the president rode it up from the lobby to the ballroom. Russell had gone down and selected a place to stand. Then he’d come back to the suite to wait.

He looked at his watch. Blanco would be arriving in two hours. “I went to your mother’s apartment looking for you,” Beatrice said. “I’ve decided to leave him . . . Carlos. I don’t care. I’ve taken the children . . . I’ve brought Olga,” she said. “She’s downstairs in the car park with the children now.”

“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?” he said.

“Russell . . . Olga’s killed Antonio,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” He glanced again at his watch. It was a quarter to six. He had to go downstairs soon, if he wanted his place, before the crowds got too big.