The Boiling Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

truth, the sermons were probably intended for the benefit of Paul, whose vices were far more public than mine, and whose mother knew the priest personally. But though pious in his own way, Paul had no use for lectures. Every Sunday after mass he waited for me at the bottom of the church steps, and each week it was something else, some new shipment he thought I could help him “unload.” Now that I was living on the hill, he assumed I had some sort of influence over the products rich people bought.
    â€œI have six cases of shoe polish,” he told me one week. “Premium stuff.” He offered me a ten percent commission.
    â€œDo you expect me to sell it door to door?” I asked.
    â€œJust bring it up in conversation.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I have conversations with these people?”
    â€œThen you can use it on the senator’s shoes. And when people compliment him, you can tell them where you got it.”
    â€œWhy would anyone compliment his shoes?”
    Paul threw up his hands. “Maybe they would if you did a better job polishing them.”
    I had grown tired of his jokes about my supposedly servile existence. “I do more than polish his shoes.”
    â€œOf course,” Paul said, grinning viciously. “I meant no offense, Alexandre. It’s important work. Today you chauffeur his car, tomorrow maybe you’ll be collecting bribes and necklacing unionists. Who knows—a few years from now you could be leading your own juntas.”
    â€œVery funny,” I said.
    Paul stuffed the shoe polish back into his bag. He knew no more about politics than I did, but he had spent enough time around the wrong sort of people to know how to bluff with authority.
    â€œWhat makes you think I’m kidding?” he said.
    â€œSenator Marcus isn’t like that.”
    â€œThey’re all like that.” He tossed the bag over his shoulder and turned to go. “At least the ones that want to survive.”
    â€œNot anymore,” I insisted. “President Mailodet and Senator Marcus are different. They’re looking out for the people.”
    â€œPlease,” Paul said. “They can look after you, if you want. I’m looking out for myself.”
    * * *
    I first learned of Habitation Louvois from M. Guinee, the assistant manager at the Hotel Erdrich. As Senator Marcus’s valet, I spent a great deal of time sitting by myself in the hotel lobby. I must have been a pitiful sight, every day from at least noon to two, struggling to appear neither bored nor overly interested in what was happening around me. After four years in Senator Marcus’s home, I had learned to comport myself around a new class of people, but never before had I been asked to sit, if not among them, then in their midst.
    It was on one such occasion, early in my time as Senator Marcus’s valet, that I first met M. Guinee. I had seen him several times before. He was impossible to miss, scurrying about the hotel in his red jacket with the Erdrich crest. I knew he had noticed me too, and had perhaps wondered who I was, but we had never spoken. That afternoon he approached me where I sat in the lobby, and with a slight bow he said, “Welcome to the Hotel Erdrich.” Nervously I had watched him come, worrying that I had done something wrong. But his tone was warm, and I sensed he wanted me to know I was not as alone as I thought.
    Every day thereafter, M. Guinee was sure to greet me. Despite being several decades older than me and far more advanced professionally, he was always kind. Soon we were having conversations about our work and about the roads and about prices at the market. Most days we spoke in the lobby, the two of us standing; he was not allowed to sit. Sometimes, when business was particularly slow, I accompanied him as he delivered orders from the hotel manager to the rest of the staff.
    â€œI’m merely a messenger in a suit,” he often said. But