The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert

for a brief applause. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
    I must have been the last to notice their arrival, for by now the rest of the reporters and photographers had risen from their seats, standing in a circle around Senator Marcus and the minister of health. The reporters were tossing out questions, and Senator Marcus was speaking loudly in his near-fluent English. I marveled at the ease with which he held them there.
    The reporter with the bushy mustache repeated to the Senator precisely the same questions he had asked me, and I understood now that he had rehearsed them in advance.
    â€œThis,” Senator Marcus said, “is an all-too-familiar instance of feckless agitators working to stir up unrest for their own ends. Such rumors as these,” he said with a gentle smile, “are not worth the attention of intelligent men.
    â€œAs my colleague has said”—and with a grand, sweeping gesture from Senator Marcus, the reporters’ heads turned my way—“we stand united. Now if you’ll forgive me, gentlemen, I’m afraid that’s all the time I have.”
    At that, Senator Marcus took the minister of health by the arm, leading him to a table in the corner. The reporters dispersed, returning sullenly to their seats and their glasses, and the conversation I had interrupted when I came in appeared to pick up where it had left off.
    A minute later, when I brought over their drinks, Senator Marcus and the minister of health were in the middle of a conversation of their own. I was hoping to slip away without their noticing. But Senator Marcus glanced up when I set his glass on the table, and he pointed to an empty chair and motioned for me to sit. I did so willingly, knowing what was to come, that I was about to receive the punishment I deserved for speaking so foolishly of things I knew nothing about. I thought to apologize, to show Senator Marcus I regretted having embarrassed him, but I was too ashamed to speak.
    Senator Marcus nodded toward the tennis courts and said to the minister of health, “We’re damn near unbeatable out there.”
    The minister of health swished the sweet drink in his mouth with the face of one prepared to swallow something bitter. “We would have beaten them in straight sets,” he said, “if the net had been regulation height.”
    Senator Marcus rolled his eyes. “There was nothing wrong with the net.”
    The minister of health brought his glass down so suddenly, it was as though he meant to crush a fly. “They’d been playing for an hour before we got here. They’d monkeyed with the net, and they were practicing so they’d be used to it.”
    â€œYou should hear him when we lose,” Senator Marcus said to me with a wink.
    â€œJoke if you will.” The minister of health tugged irritably at the cuffs of his shirt, fishing them out of his jacket sleeves and lining them up with the tops of his wrists. I was amazed they reached that far. Given his odd proportions, they had to have been custom-made.
    In an effort to pacify him, Senator Marcus changed the subject, but he continued to make gentle fun of the minister of health, who had recently come under scrutiny after funds intended for several rural clinics had gone missing.
    â€œDon’t insult me,” said the minister of health. “If I had that sort of money, do you think I’d be playing at these miserable courts?” He snorted viciously. “I’d build my own.”
    When Senator Marcus and I left an hour later, having finished lunch, the minister of health was still grumbling, and I was still at a loss to explain what had happened. I had made a fool of myself, and yet Senator Marcus had asked me to sit at his table and take part in a conversation, as if we truly were colleagues, not master and servant.

Chapter Five
    I n the beginning of May, just a few weeks after Senator Marcus’s victorious rematch, I