Can You Believe a Devil's Apology?

Maribel stepped out of thin air into her living room. In her mind, she had just stepped through the bathroom door into the living room. Completely unaware that she had been someone else for a day in far off Massachusetts. As far as she knew she had never been to the United States in her life.

It was just after 8:00 AM. She had slept a bit late this morning. Yesterday she had just stayed in the city, done a little shopping and waited. She expected to be contacted by Rafael, but she had no idea if it would be weeks or months. She sat down at her computer terminal at her desk and powered it up. So slow… It would have been faster if she had just sent it to sleep instead of powering down at night, but she didn't trust that the power would stay on every night, all night, so she preferred a safe shutdown, just in case. Here in the city, it was a minor risk, but still not rare enough that she wanted to risk it.

She checked email, yesterday's report from Food First. Production numbers, inputs, yields, payments received, product out… all the usual data. She copied the relevant fields for the folks back at the University, she didn't even know which university. Given how much trouble this damn agricultural processing machine was causing here in remote Guatemala, maybe the secrecy was warranted after all. At first, she had thought they were being paranoid, but after the last few days… She hit send, and the email went off to this week's forwarding email address.

She made herself a fruit plate and a cup of coffee, bringing it back to her desk. She checked her personal checking accounts, and her investments. Her stock account was up again. Her investments were actively managed by one of the financial gurus from her father's company back in Peru. She didn't know who he was beyond seeing a name on the monthly statements, but he was a damn genius. If he did as well with her father's much larger portfolio… She didn't really know how rich her father was. He always said he had enough for his purposes, and enough to set up his children in comfort so long as they didn't "spend too much on stupidity." He had to be very wealthy though. She always tried to convince him to give more to help those in need, and he mostly just told her he was already helping in his own way. He had, however, recently broken from that long tradition to fund Food First for her. She wondered if it was for her, or just to help his professor friend in the United States test his new machine. Knowing her father, he considered it a special bargain to accomplish two tasks at once, pleasing his daughter and getting an early hand in a potentially lucrative new technology.

Either way, she knew that he had placed great trust in her to manage this operation, to protect the confidentiality of the experimental machine and its software, conducting field tests in a challenging environment.

She was amazed at the potential of the new technology. The farmers here had never seen anything remotely approaching the increased yields it provided for their harvests. To them it was like a magic trick, turning their corn harvests into more masa than they usually got with twice as much corn. It could perform the nixtamalization, husk removal, grinding, forming and baking all at once in a tiny space, and so quickly. They had wanted to see how it worked, of course. She always asked them if seeing inside the machine just once was worth having it sent back to the United States to keep its secrets safe. Of course, no one wanted to risk the boon they were getting from having access. Not only did they have plenty for their families, enough to sell at local markets or even enough to bring to bigger cities for a higher price, but there was enough left over to help feed their poorer brothers and sisters in the rural Mayan villages far into the countryside.

A true miracle, thanks to Jesus and the good will of the ancestors they would say, unaware of the irony of sharing the credit between the Catholic Church and the old Mayan spirits. She smiled. Maribel herself wasn't sure what she believed, really. On the one hand, she was not religious believing that no god would let his children suffer so much in this world, regardless of any nebulous promise of eternal salvation after death. On the other hand, she thought that the simple act of doing good things, of helping people find safety and happiness was something like holy work. The reward for this kind of holy work was seeing their smiles, watching their children grow up happy and healthy, not after she died, but here and now in this life.

So, while her own fortunes gew at the hands of her unknown investment manager, Food First was having issues. She did not charge more than the farmers could afford for the services the charity provided but overhead should have been low. Except now she had the extra expense of guard details and fortifying the building. It was expensive.

She had hoped, when first invited to meet with Rafael Camal de Leon, that he might be moved by her mission to help the people of his home country and might offer some financial donation to aid her work. Now she had to guard against him stealing her production equipment and killing her workers… or even killing her.

She was not one to shy away from difficult tasks, though. She would find a way. Her father, of course, had made it clear that he thought the funds he had provided to start the operation should be enough with proper management. Asking him for more would be telling him that she wasn't proper management. That was not going to happen. Her own funds were tied up in a trust her father had set up long ago. It provided her with a very good stipend, but she could not touch the principal until his death, no matter how large it grew in the interim.

Her hand radio interrupted her reverie. It was the same high tech walkie talkie used by the Food First crew and her bodyguards, another gift from one of her father's tech companies. She picked it up, noticing the call was from Luis. He would be on duty watching her house to protect her from any and all threats. A momentary panic washed through her. Had Rafael sent his stooges to attack? She held down the 'accept connection' button and spoke, "Luis? What is it? Is everything ok?"

"Everything is fine. There is a messenger here to deliver a letter to you. It is from Rafael Camal de Leon. The messenger says he was told to wait while you read it and to bring your reply back to Mr. Camal de Leon. We are at the front door, if you want to accept the letter. He is unarmed and will wait outside with me, while you read it, if such is your desire."

Her mind whirled. It was a message from Rafael. Another invitation? Maybe an ultimatum? "I'll take it, just a minute." She stood up from her desk and walked over to open the door.

Good morning, Miss Flores," Luis said, "Here is the letter." He handed her a formal envelope just like the one in which the original invitation was in.

"Thank you, Luis," she said taking the letter. She closed the door. She turned her back to the door and leaned up against it for support. For some reason her knees felt a little wobbly. She opened the envelope and pulled out the card. Inside was a folded slip of paper, but she read the card first. It read:

My dear Miss Flores,

I would like to apologize for my outburst and abrupt exit from our otherwise pleasant meeting on Saturday. I acted unprofessionally and discourteously. I am truly sorry. I was overcome with emotion at the painful memories that were stirred up during our conversation. I tell you this not as an excuse, but to reassure you that no blame for our meeting's hasty end should be assigned to you. Somehow, I felt comfortable to bring up such personal memories in your presence, but did not realize how much I would be affected by them. As further apology, I have enclosed a personal check for a charitable donation to Food First. My people assure me that your organization is a registered charity in Guatemala and that my donation is tax deductible if I have a proper receipt. I trust you will be able to provide me such a receipt, and I further wish that you might bring it to me in person, so that we can continue our pleasant discussion. This time, perhaps we might meet over dinner. I suggest tomorrow evening at Gracia Cocina de Autor at 7:30 PM. I await your response.

Best regards,

Rafael Camal de Leon

The letter was written by hand, with exquisite, elegant penmanship. Of course, it was, she thought, everything about that man was elegant. She remembered the slip of paper, a check! $50,000 US Dollars! That would certainly be a huge help with Food First's expenses. It was Rafael's fault she needed extra security in the first place so, of course he should pay for it, she thought indignantly.

Dinner, tomorrow… What should she wear? It wasn't a formal business meeting exactly… Oh, she almost forgot the messenger waiting for her reply. She tried to think whether she had any good stationery to write out a reply. Would her handwriting be as elegant as his? Damn it, why did she care? She turned and opened the door. "You may tell Mr. Camal de Leon that I accept. Luis, after you escort him away from the house, would you come in for a moment to discuss some important matters?"

"Of course, Miss Flores," he replied.

"Thank you," she closed the door and leaned against it, feeling weak in the knees again.