“There were trees everywhere”.
I cursed, ailment and spat out that little Mexican’s name.
The bomb would go off soon and Pedro was nowhere to be found. There were trees everywhere. And bushes. Where did all this shrubbery come from, I wondered. And where was Pedro. If I had some shears, and some gardening clothes, I could cut a fucking maze into these grounds, inviting passageways, blind alleys, junctions and vortices.
I could sell tickets. Get all the kids and their dogs to come, and they would say “Bravo, Pishu, Bravo!” We would sell candy and take pictures and all the corn-maze people would be jealous. They would steal in under cover, bringing shears and blow torches and defoliant, stretching their plasticized faces over perfect-toothed liar’s smiles. They would cut egresses and dig tunnels, aping my masterpiece; leaving piles of dogshit for unsuspecting grandmothers to discover as they lean back on the freshly mown lawn to enjoy their picnic lunches.
They would destroy my creation with their jealously, their jack-boot morality, and I, in return would—
Wait. Movement. A odd shape bobbling amongst hedges in the shadow of the palace grounds. A sombrero.
It was Pedro.