The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert Page A

learned that the reporters in the club room of the Hotel Erdrich had been correct in their assertions about the existence of a new constitution. But they were wildly wrong about its contents.
    At a surprise press conference in the library of the palace, President Mailodet held up the hefty document, cradling it like a fragile treasure. To a cascade of applause he listed five new reforms, one for each of his gentle fingers, which he unfolded in order, starting with the smallest: a fairer tax code, certain legal protections, expanded electoral reform, the elimination of several unpopular government offices, the naming of a special committee to oversee police activity.
    â€œThe people have spoken,” the president said. “And now I am giving them what they asked for.”
    The following Sunday, the day before the constitution was to be put to a public vote, my father and I went after the morning’s mass to a gathering at a neighbor’s house. Except within earshot of my father, whose intolerance for politics was well known, everyone was talking about the vote. Even though no one but Paul knew I was working for a senator, the fact of my living now in Lyonville was enough for people to come to me for advice. I felt proud to be able to tell them with confidence that the new constitution was a necessary step toward progress.
    â€œThe president is a very kind man,” I said again and again.
    â€œHave you met him?” one of my father’s neighbors wanted to know.
    â€œI see him often,” I said. “He’s a very gentle man.”
    â€œAre you voting for it?” asked another.
    â€œOf course,” I said, though privately I doubted I would have a chance. The Senator and I had a great deal to accomplish on Monday.
    Only Paul seemed unimpressed. As the afternoon turned to dusk, we finally had a moment to ourselves. Ducking behind a pair of towering reed baskets, Paul produced a glass flask and uncorked the top.
    â€œHe’s just another tyrant,” Paul said between sips. “No different from any of the others.”
    Across the yard a calico cat, its fur spiked with grime, tore into the tough, stringy flesh of a snake, pinning the limp brown body with one of its paws.
    â€œPresident Mailodet isn’t like the others,” I said, refusing his offer of a drink. “He’s a good man.”
    â€œHow do you know?” His voice echoed from the mouth of the bottle. “Did the senator tell you so?”
    â€œYou don’t know the slightest thing about either one of them,” I said.
    Without even glancing, Paul tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder. “What do I know? I’m just a humble businessman.” Then he reached down into his tattered bag and pulled out something square wrapped in heavy paper. There were words in gold script on the label: LAVENDER SOAP . He handed it to me.
    â€œJust in case your senator doesn’t turn out to be so clean after all.”
    * * *
    The following day, as Senator Marcus knew it would, the constitution was approved by an overwhelming margin. On Tuesday, the measure came before the Senate, and after several more days of contentious debate—led on one side by Senator Marcus—the new constitution passed. The margin was three votes.
    That evening, when we pulled into the driveway, Mme Marcus was waiting at the top of the steps with the rest of the staff. I opened the door of the car, and the Senator emerged to a chorus of cheers.
    Inside, the new footman poured champagne.
    A t the Erdrich the next day, every table in the club room and every stool at the bar was taken. Never had I seen so many white people in the same place. The international press corps had arrived. Overnight their numbers had multiplied exponentially, and we were turned away for lunch. There was nothing left from the menu to serve.
    â€œThink how disappointed they’ll be when they don’t get their bloodshed,” I heard Senator