The Orchids by Thomas H. Cook Page B

carcinoma growing beside a slow, pestilential river. As he walked, his eyes widened in a detestation so intense he could feel its naked energy in his blood. He conceived a larval hatred for everything that surrounded him: for gaudy lights blinking in hideous pinks and blues as the crackling traffic prowled the streets like huge, iron insects; for the numberless whores with rings of kohl about their eyes flirting with the French foreigners; for the jazz bands hurling strident tones and the colored singers wailing through cigar smoke in darkened cabarets; for the fat, smiling provincials and legless beggars, and the gay blades sporting wrinkled spats; for spike-heeled shoes and lacquered fingernails; for the redbrick burlesque palaces that squatted along the boulevard; for the men who danced with men, and the laughter in that knotted crowd; for the old women snoring in their windows and the drunken soldiers pissing in the alleyways; for the aroma of champagne mixed with sludge; for all the books that fanned the flames of all about him; and for all the politicians who soar above the fumes.
    It is difficult to imagine a repulsion more pure than that of our hero as he walked the streets alone. It is difficult to imagine how he came to associate all that he saw with filth and grime.
    Ah, so that’s the meaning of our tale: No one can guess what winds may blow within a devastated boy. Our little teenage hero, bereft of his first love, sees the sordidness of life, as all artists must eventually see it, and from that awareness he quite innocently surmises that a great purification must take place; this, in turn, leads him to accept those deranged notions that fluttered about the Leader’s mind. Hence, many years later, the Camp. Ah yes, it’s all quite clear now.
    But it is not.
    For although the realities of man’s befuddled life repelled our hero, the eccentricities of the Leader’s ideology did not attract him. He stood between a broken world and the maniacal schemes that claimed authority and competence to rebuild it. He could not accept the one any more than he could the other. And at that moment — at least figuratively — he looked up, and saw the stars.
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    â€œWas that Don Camillo?”
    I look up from my desk. It is Dr. Ludtz who, in his anxiety, failed to knock at my door.
    â€œYes, it was.”
    â€œWhat did he want?”
    â€œThe usual. He always comes before one of El Presidente’s visits. You know that, Dr. Ludtz. He merely wants to make sure that proper arrangements have been made.”
    The tension in Dr. Ludtz’s face dissolves. “And was he satisfied?”
    â€œQuite satisfied.”
    â€œDid you tell him about the red and orange motif?”
    â€œI’m sorry, no. He inquired about you.”
    â€œInquired? What do you mean, inquired?”
    â€œAs to your health.”
    â€œWhat about my health?”
    I smile. “Really, Dr. Ludtz, everything is quite at ease. You don’t need to disturb yourself.”
    â€œAll right,” Dr. Ludtz stammers breathlessly. “If you say so.”
    â€œEverything is quite all right.”
    â€œGood, good,” Dr. Ludtz says. He does not move. For a moment he seems in a trance.
    â€œAre you all right, Dr. Ludtz?”
    Dr. Ludtz shakes his head. “No. No, I’m not. I think I have a slight fever. It seems to have come upon me rather suddenly.”
    â€œHave you checked it?”
    Dr. Ludtz looks slightly embarrassed. “I tried. But — I don’t know how it happened — I broke the thermometer. I dropped it. I’m a little shaky, I suppose.”
    He is sweating more profusely than usual. His shirt looks as if it has been dipped in drool. “Let me check it,” I tell him.
    Dr. Ludtz steps over to me. I take a thermometer from the black bag that sits beside my desk. “Here, put it in your mouth.”
    He takes