The Assignment Read Free Page B

black knot of hair. Nevertheless, she was in no way unattractive.
    He sighed, put his coffeecup down, and went across to the large french window. The rain had started again and was streaming through the trees along Karlavägen.
    With a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he stood and watched the rain making small pools and streams in the sandy path of the avenue. He heard his wife come into the room.
    “What do you think I ought to do?”
    “It’s not my affair.”
    “You’ve already said that.”
    “But if you think there’s a chance you really would benefit from it …”
    “But perhaps I might be able to
do
some good for once.”
    “To whom?”
    “To all these people.”
    “They themselves have said that only the army can do them any good.”
    “But all the others? Three hundred thousand other people live there too.”
    “That mob? Who can neither read nor write? Who live like animals? What can you do for them? If you’d been a doctor or a priest, but …”
    It was as simple as that then.
    “In some ways you’re absolutely right.”
    “But if this is a real opportunity, then you should take it. I don’t want to advise you. It’d be absurd if I started advising you on your work.”
    “It entails a certain risk too.”
    “You’re thinking of General Larrinaga? You’re no general, Manuel. And you’ve got Miguel as well, if it proves necessary.”
    Miguel Uribarri was her brother. He had for several years been head of the criminal police in the federal capital.
    After a while she said: “But if you can see quite clearly that this is not an opportunity, then you should refuse it.”
    Manuel Ortega clenched his fist and beat on the door frame.
    “Don’t you see that I too want to do something? Something real?”
    “Presumably your work here is considerably more important to the country.”
    Dryly and factually. She was not unintelligent and was almost certainly right—from her point of view and from many others too.
    “I don’t want to be cowardly either.”
    “That’s a point of view for which I have much more sympathy. If it’s my sympathy you want.”
    She left the room. After a minute or so he went back to the chair and sat down. He looked at the clock. Quarter past eleven already.
    She came back.
    “Have you decided?”
    “Yes. I’ll accept.”
    “How long will it be for?”
    “At the most six months. Probably not that long. Do you think it’ll be difficult? With the children?”
    “I’ve managed before.… Don’t worry on that score,” she added with a sudden spurt of tenderness.
    He remained sitting in the chair, feeling empty and listless, almost apathetic. The children came into the room.
    “Children, Daddy’s not coming with us to the beach.”
    “Why not?”
    “He’s got some important work to do.”
    “Oh.”
    “Come on then—off to your room now.”
    They went.
    Manuel Ortega was no longer thinking about the assignment. He was thinking about himself. He thought about himself and his marriage and his family. Everything was perfect. His wife was perfect, apart from that little bit of corpulence. From the very beginning their marriage had been successful and had never really ceased to be. Sexually, it was technically perfect even now. The children were so perfect it almost scared him. Sometimes he wondered whether the years in this perfectionist little country, with its bad climate, had not transformed them into an ideal family, into museum pieces. He could see them standing in a glass case, with labels. Father of family, 42, born in Aztacan, Latin type. Boy, 7, born in London, utterly satisfactory model. Girl, 5, born in Paris. Woman, 35, mother of two children, well preserved. Perfect relationship between equal partners. Please note their tenderness and absolute openness toward each other.
    She said in a friendly tone: “Aren’t you going to call His Excellency?”
    He roused himself, arose, and went over to the telephone. He