John Brunner - The Squares of the City

Guzman colored a little. He said stiffly, “Your honor is unjustified in his remarks. Senor Dalban conducts a business of import-export, and—”

“And traffics on the side in unofficial goods, I’m told.” I more than half-suspected Dalban’s main business might turn out to be in marijuana or something like that; Guzman’s reply shook me rigid.

“Senor,” he said with a reproachful shake of his head, “is your honor a Catholic?”

Startled, I indicated no. Guzman sighed. “I am, strictly. And yet I would not condemn Senor Dalban for what he does—I come of a large family, and we were very hungry when I was a little boy.”

I began to see that I’d jumped to a stupid conclusion somewhere. “What exactly is this shady business of Dalban’s?” I said slowly.

Guzman glanced around. “Senor, in a Catholic country it is not a respectable matter. But—”

I began to laugh. Suddenly, for all my recollection of his bulk and manner, Dalban seemed far less menacirig. When I had mastered my amusement, I choked out, “Just—contraceptives? Nothing more illegal than contraceptives?”

Guzman waited woodenly till my face was straight again. Then he said, “Even they are not illegal, senor. They are—let us say unpopular in influential quarters. Yet we think, some of us, that he performs a good service for our people.”

“All right,” I said. “Granted. He still came to me and told me that if I didn’t get out of my own accord, he’d seeto it that I was got out forcibly.”

Guzman looked unhappy. “Senor, we are prepared to offer you a bodyguard if you wish—a man who would remain with you day and night. We have good men, well trained. You need only say the word and they are at your command.”

I hesitated. Before learning of Dalban’s real claim to notoriety, I would probably have accepted; now, thinking the question over, I was suddenly reminded of what I had seen on my first day in Ciudad de Vados—the policeman stealing my money from a beggar-boy’s pot.

“No,” I said. “No, I don’t want a bodyguard from your police. And I’ll tell you why.”

He heard me out with his face immobile. When I had finished he gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

“That is known, senor. That young man was dismissed the following day. He has gone back to Puerto Joaquin to work in the docks. He is the only support of his family, and his father was killed in Puerto Joaquin in the great fire. Perhaps the beggar from whom he stole was also the only support of his family.”

He rose to his feet. “I will inform el Jefe of what you have said. Good evening, Senor Hakluyt.”

I didn’t reply. I had a curious sensation, as though I had stepped on what seemed to be firm ground, an ‘instead found myself floundering up to my neck in a river. A river that threatened at every moment to sweep me off my feet.

The Sigueiras case made practically no progress the following day. With incredible persistence Brown hammered at Dr. Ruiz; with corresponding doggedness Ruiz stuck to his guns. Brown got more and more bad-tempered, though the directness and subtlety of his questioning endured; Ruiz got more and more vehement, and it was a considerable relief when the judge adjourned the case until Monday.

Most of all, it was a relief to me. During the course of the week, the city had quieted down. I felt things were near enough back to normal for me to go out and assemble the supplementary data I needed to clarify my tentative conclusions. For one thing, Lucas was deputy chairman of the Citizens’ Party, and seeing how busy he was, I hoped the political front might remain quiet for a while—at least until this Sigueiras case was over.

Accordingly, I went down on Saturday to the market area. The first time I passed the little wall shrine where I had seen the candle burning in memory of Guerrero, I looked for it, but it had gone, and there was no sign of the notice attached to it. I felt a curious sense of relief—as though somehow the influence of symbol-Guerrero was to be measured by that candle.

The relief didn’t last. Sunday morning saw the whole thing flare up again.

The immediate excuse for the disturbance was an article in the Sunday edition of Tiempo regarding the Sigueiras case. It said a number of pointed things about Ruiz, about his close association with the president, and about how this association dated back to the death of the first Senora Vados.

I couldn’t judge how the article would strike someone who had no additional information. To me, though, in view of what Mendoza had said about Ruiz, the implications were unmistakable. I could only assume that Cristoforo Mendoza was hoping to provoke a suit for libel and bring the whole thing into the open—against the advice, presumably, of Maria Posador.

Suppose the evidence existed to show Ruiz a murderer; the consequences would be appalling. If the case was ever allowed to come to trial, the attack on Ruiz would become an attack on Vados himself, for sheltering a murderer and conniving at his crime; Vados would probably liquidate his accusers, the opponents of his regime would rise in arms—and, as predicted by Maria Posador, civil war would tear Aguazul apart.

Or maybe it wouldn’t even be such a roundabout route as that which led to civil war. Someone at least must have understood the message the article contained, or the message had been following it on the grapevine, for Sunday afternoon was the first time for many days I saw National Party supporters standing up boldly to followers of the Citizens of Vados. I saw, in fact, a knife fight developing—I didn’t stay to see the finish—between a tall young man with a huge sombrero who had openly declared his belief that Ruiz was a murderer, and a couple of well-dressed teen-age youths who were slumming in the market quarter.

The fight began in a bar where I’d gone to quench a thirst founded mainly on boredom. The job was now at the stage where it threatened to become pure routine—indeed, I could have earned myself a free weekend by detailing a couple of Angers’ staff to get me my information. But then again, I’d have lost the immediacy of the data. It wasn’t only a question of how many vehicles of what types where and when; it was also knowing from experience what their drivers were—telling from the way a driver approached a stoplight whether he was a resident, a regular visitor, or a complete stranger in Vados; whether he was in a hurry or at leisure; whether he knew where he was going or was stuck in the wrong lane.

But I had to break for a drink and a rest occasionally. I could do it with a good conscience; the standard of driving in Vados was extremely high, bearing out a cherished theory of mine—that bad roads make bad drivers. In Vados, with its elaborately planned street system, one seldom grew impatient, rarely had to sit fuming in a traffic jam, wasted little time hunting elusive parking spaces, never had to pick one’s way gingerly between twin rows of stationary cars in a narrow street. Consequently people didn’t try to hurry so much, didn’t try to cut corners and take risks to make up lost time, didn’t lose their tempers and try to teach other drivers a lesson.

I only wished everything in Vados went as smoothly as its traffic.

It was getting late when I stopped off in another bar, hoping I wouldn’t find a knife fight in this one also. Television was on, but the screen was turned away from half the room, and the sound was directionalized. I had just placed my order at the bar when a voice bellowed behind me.

“It’s Hakluyt, goddam it! The li’l Boydie himself!”

I glanced in the mirror before turning around. It was Fats Brown, sitting at one of the tables between a long-faced Indian and a woman with a tired, middle-aged face who was just looking at him, infinite sadness in her eyes. There was a nearly empty bottle of rum on the table. He had spilled quite a lot from his glass. His was the only glass.