The Orchids by Thomas H. Cook Page B

Trottman said. He rose from behind his desk, stepped back slightly, and raised his arm rigidly in salute.
    Langhof stood transfixed, not with wonder or admiration, but with astonishment. For the gesture, so melodramatic, so ridiculously perfervid, so quintessentially burlesque, was made with such complete seriousness by Dr. Trottman that it was all the ambitious student could do to keep from laughing.
    But Dr. Trottman stood completely still, his eyes staring hotly at Langhof. Finally our hero grasped what was expected of him. He brought himself to his full height, clicked his heels together and, as he had seen the others do, raised his arm. They stood for a moment facing each other, the tips of their fingers stretched out to make a triumphal arch over Dr. Trottman’s littered desk.
    â€œYou will be hearing from me, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said as he let his arm fall slowly to his side. “I trust the news, when it comes, will be favorable.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œGood day.”
    â€œGood day, sir.”
    And then Langhof, our hero, turned smartly toward the door and marched out, closing it behind him. In the hallway he did not tremble as he had that evening in the park when Anna fled away. Nor did he hear music, martial or otherwise. He did not see a vision of perfect order or fall upon his knees, a stricken, sweating Saul of Tarsus. He did not goose-step down the hall, but merely turned slowly, strolling past the darkened professorial offices with a little smile playing on his lips. And if any thought came to him at all, it was of the laughable gullibility of people, even quite intelligent people like Dr. Trottman. How easy it seemed to charm and beguile them, to use the insufferable silliness of the times and yet rise above it all, trip lightly over it — even as he now tripped down the hall with perfect insouciance.

H ERE IN THE R EPUBLIC there is much insouciance. In the village square the men and women leap in a furious guaracha, kicking yellow dust into each other’s eyes. In the bars, the old men lean toward the candles and drink mescal down to the worm while the young ones nod drowsily outside the brothel door. And in the capital, the ermine-coated and bejeweled wives of the ministers of state sit in steamy halls and watch endless fashion shows with strained and calculating faces.
    And yet, from my verandah I can see the foothills of the mountainous northern provinces, a place where, it is said, humor still exists in the form of low-minded jokes about El Presidente. Huddled around their dying fires, the insurrectionists talk of El Presidente’s teeth. It is said that they are made of gold and that he has inserted a small homing device to assure their quick recovery, should anyone be fool enough to steal them. In the northern provinces, every part of El Presidente’s body comes in for ridicule. There is much talk of a silver rectum that makes the sound of a cash register when El Presidente makes his toilet. It is said that his urine is tested by a chemical refinery built exclusively for that purpose and that the four-word motto of the Republic has been inscribed on the lead plate in his head. Just beneath the stitched scalp, it reads in elegant script: FREEDOM OBEDIENCE COUNTRY VULGARITY.
    In the far hills of the northern provinces they laugh like jackals in the blinding heat. They laugh as they flip the sticky pages of Casamira’s Official History . They laugh at the mosquitoes drowning in their coffee. They laugh at fever, vomiting, and infection. They laugh because it is absurd to laugh, and find their laughter strange as orchids growing on the moon.
    In the Camp, they laughed at the milky soup and rotten bread. They laughed at the striped uniforms and the blue tattoos. They laughed at prayer and mourning. They laughed at the ridiculousness of their ever being born. They laughed, while they had strength to laugh, at the slough of their despair.
    And in the