Woes of the True Policeman

“That’s the spirit,” said Guerra, “one of these days we’ll go to a pulquería. You’d better come with me. Don’t even think of going alone, eh? No giving in to temptation.”

A gardener went by with a sack of dirt and he waved to them. Professor Guerra began to walk backwards. Over there, he said, more species of agave, the Agave lechuguilla, source of istle, the Agave fourcroydes, source of henequen. The path zigzagged constantly. Bits of sky and small, fast clouds appeared through the branches. Every so often Guerra sought something in the shadows: dark eyes that he scrutinized with his brown eyes without bothering to offer Amalfitano any sort of explanation. Ah, he said, ah, and then he was silent and he gazed around the Botanic Garden with a scowl that flickered between displeasure and the certainty of having found something.

Amalfitano recognized an avocado tree and was reminded of the trees of his childhood. How far away I am, he thought with satisfaction. Also: how near. The sky, over their heads and over the tops of the trees, seemed to be put together like a puzzle. Occasionally, depending on how you looked at it, it sparkled.

“There’s an avocado,” said Guerra, “and a brazilwood and a mahogany tree and two red cedars, no, three, and a Lignum vitae, and there you have the quebracho and the sapodilla and the guava. Along this little path is the cocoyol palm (Cocos butyracea) and in that clearing there’s amaranth, jicama, arborescent begonia, and spiny mimosa (Mimosa comigera, plena and asperata).

Something moved in the branches.

“Do you like botany, Professor Amalfitano?”

From where Amalfitano was standing, he could scarcely see Guerra. Guerra’s face was completely obscured by shadows and a tree branch.

“I don’t know, Professor Guerra, it’s a subject on which I plead ignorance.”

“Put it this way, do you appreciate the shapes, the external aspect of plants, their style, their spirit, their beauty?” Guerra’s voice mingled with the song of the strangled bird.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, then, that’s something at least,” he heard Guerra say as the Mexican stepped off the visitors’ path and into the garden.

After a brief hesitation, Amalfitano followed him. Guerra was standing by a tree, urinating. This time it was Amalfitano who paused, startled, in the shadows under the branches of an oak tree. That oak, said Guerra, still urinating, shouldn’t be there. Amalfitano looked up: he thought he heard noises, little feet pattering in the branches. Follow me, ordered Guerra.

They came out onto a new path. Night was falling and the clouds that had been breaking up to the east were massing again and getting bigger. That’s the sacred fir, said Guerra walking ahead of Amalfitano, and those are pines. That’s a common juniper. When he came around a bend Amalfitano saw three gardeners taking off their overalls and putting away their tools. They’re leaving, he thought as he followed Guerra into the garden, which was growing darker and darker. The man is going to smother me with hospitality, thought Amalfitano. Guerra’s voice droned on, listing the gems of the Botanic Garden:

“The sacred fir. The common fir. Two shrubs, the guayule and the candelilla. Epazote (Chenopodium ambrosioides). The grass called zacatón (Epicampes macroura). Giant grass (Guadua amplexifolia). And here,” said Guerra, stopping at last, “our national tree, or at least that’s how I think of it, our dear, beloved ahuehuete (Taxodium mucronatum).”

Amalfitano gazed at Guerra and the tree and thought wearily but also with emotion that he was back in America. His eyes filled with tears that later he wouldn’t be able to explain to himself. Ten feet from him, his back turned, Professor Guerra trembled.

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