“I’m coming,” Ruben Iglesias said, not to the door but to the armed man behind him. “I know where my door is.” He knew his life was probably over, and the knowledge of this fact gave him a temerity that he found useful.
“Slowly,” General Benjamin instructed.
“Slowly, slowly, yes, tell me, please. I’ve never opened a door,” the Vice President said under his breath, and then opened the door at his own pace, which was neither slow nor fast.
The man waiting on the front porch was extremely fair, and he wore his white-yellow hair neatly parted and combed back. His white shirt with a black tie and black trousers made him look very much like an earnest representative of an American religion. One imagined there was a suit jacket that had been surrendered to the heat, or perhaps it was off to show the red-cross armband that he wore. Ruben Iglesias wanted to bring the man in out of the harsh sun. Already his forehead and the tops of his cheeks had begun to burn red. The Vice President looked past him, down the path through his own front yard, or what he had come to think of as his own front yard. The house, in fact, was not his, nor was the lawn, the staff, the soft beds or fluffy towels. Everything came with the job and would be inventoried upon their departure. Their own possessions were in storage and there was a time he had thought hopefully that their things would stay exactly where they were while he and his family made their inevitable transition into the presidential mansion. Through the narrow opening of the front gate he saw an angry knot of police officers, military personnel, and reporters. Somewhere in a tree a camera flash popped a bright light.
“Joachim Messner,” the man said, extending his hand. “I am with the International Red Cross.” He spoke in French, and when the Vice President squinted at him he repeated his statement in mediocre Spanish.
His manner was so calm, so seemingly unaware of the chaos that surrounded them, that he could have been taking a Sunday morning collection. The Red Cross was always there to help the victims of earthquakes and floods, the very ones Vice President Iglesias was sent to comfort and assess. Ruben Iglesias shook hands with the man and then held up a finger, indicating that he should wait. “The Red Cross,” he said to the bank of guns behind him.
Again there was a conference between the three Generals and it was agreed that this could be allowed. “Are you sure you want to come in?” the Vice President asked quietly in English. His English was imperfect, perhaps on par with Messner’s Spanish. “There’s no saying that they’ll let you out.”
“They’ll let me out,” he said, stepping inside. “The problem is that there are too many hostages. More hostages is not what they’re looking for now.” He looked around at the terrorists and then back to the Vice President. “Your face is not well.”
Ruben Iglesias shrugged to indicate that he was philosophical about it all, having received the kinder end of the gun, but Messner took it to mean that he had not understood the question.
“I speak English, French, German, and Italian,” he said in English. “I’m Swiss. I speak a little Spanish.” He held up two fingers and placed them about a centimeter apart, as if to say that the amount of Spanish he spoke would fit into this space. “This isn’t my region. I was on vacation, can you imagine that? I am fascinated by your ruins. I am a tourist and they call me into work.” Joachim Messner seemed inordinately casual, like a neighbor stopping in to borrow eggs and staying too long to chat. “I should bring in a translator if I’m going to work in Spanish. I have one outside.”
The Vice President nodded but frankly hadn’t caught half of what Messner had said. He knew a little English but only when the words were spoken one at a time and he hadn’t recently been clubbed in the head with a gun. He thought there was something in there about a translator. Even if there wasn’t, he’d like one anyway. “Traductor,” he told the General.
“Traductor,” General Benjamin said, and scanned the floor, working off a dim memory from the night before. “Traductor?”
Gen, who was helpful but not heroic by nature, lay still for a moment remembering the sharp point of pressure the gun had made against his chest. Even if he said nothing they would remember sooner or later that he was the translator. “Would you mind?” he whispered to Mr. Hosokawa.
“Go on,” he said, and touched Gen’s shoulder.
There was a moment of quiet and then Gen Watanabe raised a tentative hand.
General Alfredo waved him up. Gen, like most of the men, had taken off his shoes and he stooped down now to put them back on, but the General snapped at him impatiently. Gen, embarrassed, worked a path around the guests in his sock feet. He thought it would be rude to step over someone. He apologized quietly as he walked. Perdon, perdonare, pardon me.
“Joachim Messner,” the Red Cross man said in English, shaking Gen’s hand. “English, French, do you have a preference?”
Gen shook his head.
“French, then, if it’s all the same. Are you all right?” Messner asked in French. His face was such a remarkable assemblage of colors. The very blue of his eyes, the very white of his skin, red where the sun had burned his cheeks and lips, the yellow hair which was the color of the white corn Gen had seen once in America. He was all primary colors, Gen thought. From such a face any beginning was possible.
“We are well.”
“Have you been mistreated?”
“Spanish,” General Alfredo said.
Gen explained and then said again, cutting his eyes to the Vice President, that they were well. The Vice President did not look well at all.
“Tell them I will act as their liaison.” Messner thought for a minute, repeated the sentence fairly well in Spanish himself. Then smiled at Gen and said in French, “I shouldn’t try. I’ll get something terribly wrong and then we’ll all be in trouble.”
“Spanish,” General Alfredo said.
“He says he struggles with Spanish.”
Alfredo nodded.
“What we want, of course, is the unconditional release of all the hostages, unharmed. What we will settle for at present are some of the extras.” Messner glanced around at his feet, the carpet of well-dressed guests and white-jacketed waiters who craned their heads towards him. The whole picture was extremely unnatural. “This is too many people. You’re probably out of food now or you will be by tonight. There’s no need for this many. I say release the women, the staff, anyone who is sick, anyone you can do without. We’ll start there.”
“In return?” the General said.
“In return, enough food, pillows, blankets, cigarettes. What do you need?”
“We have demands.”
Messner nodded. He was serious yet weary, as if this were a conversation he had ten times a day before breakfast, as if every other birthday party ended up in just such a knot. “I’m sure you do and I’m sure they’ll be heard. What I’m telling you is that this”—he spread his arm forward to make clear he meant the people on the floor—“is untenable to everyone. Release the extras now, the ones you don’t need, and it will be taken as a goodwill gesture. You establish yourself as reasonable people.”