Getting to Know the General: The Story of an Involvement

  This continued to prove one of my more confusing Panamanian days. Nothing went quite right, and I soon began to feel just as bewildered as the Guatemalan professor and the Mexican film producer. Chuchu and I had planned to dine together on something more substantial this time than chicken soup. He asked me, ‘Do you mind if I bring the thin girl [the gangster’s wife] to dinner? I want to sleep with her tonight.’ He telephoned and I heard him say that we would be outside the block where she lived in five minutes.

  Round and round the block we drove and no one came, so we went to a café, where a group of reactionaries were drinking and maligning the General. I joined them and argued the other way while Chuchu went and telephoned again. He came back crestfallen. A strange woman’s voice had told him that the girl was asleep, but he couldn’t help wondering with whom.

  So we dined instead with Rogelio and Lidia, and of course the Guatemalan professor turned up a second time – the Sandinistas had agreed to give him lodging because he didn’t want to be alone, since he was still scared of the G-2. He planned to return to Guatemala in two days’ time and he had arranged for a lot of people to be at the airport to meet him in case he disappeared with no one knowing. Would the Dean of the University, I asked, be there? He thought he would.

  In the lift going to my bedroom I was greeted by a National Guard officer in a very friendly way. I checked later with Chuchu who was suspicious of some of the National Guard officers.

  ‘He told me he was Colonel Diaz,’ I said.

  Chuchu reassured me. ‘The best man after the General.’

  I was not to meet him again for five years and then he would be head of security and the General dead.

  6

  Next day the plane really took off for Coclesito with the professors and students. The landing strip was only just long enough for us to touch down. It was extremely hot, the village was ankle-deep in mud, the buffaloes were as uninteresting as buffaloes always are and the deep forest lay all around. The girl students and the professors bathed in the river and some of the buffaloes bathed too. The river looked almost ready to flood again. The collective farm provided quite a tasty lunch, but there was nothing except water to quench the thirst.

  I looked into the village church. It was falling into ruin and there was a chicken run in the aisle. I remembered what the General had said about neglected cemeteries – here certainly was a neglected church, and I thought unkindly of Archbishop McGrath of Panama. Had he so many churches to look after in the Republic that he couldn’t pay a visit to a village where the General had bothered to build himself a small house? No priest had visited the place for the last year. The people looked to the General and not to the Church for a measure of help. I asked how many days of rain there were in the average year. ‘You don’t ask how many days of rain,’ I was told, ‘you ask how many days without rain and the answer is four.’

  Dinner that night back in Panama City was at the flat of a Brazilian refugee, and my suspicion about Chuchu was partly confirmed, for he arrived with the awful Venezuelan woman – was he again in the toils of his tenderness? Among the guests was also an exiled Peruvian general who had been President of the Socialist Party. He told me that in Peru he had had a hundred tanks under his command and he could easily have carried out a coup, but he gave up and went into exile for the sake of ‘military honour’. I was glad to think that ‘military honour’ had not stood in the way of Omar Torrijos in 1968, or probably few of these refugees would have been alive.

  Time was running out, and I felt the same emotion as the year before, a mixture of impatience for home and regret at leaving. Omar had booked me, as he had promised, from Washington to Paris on the Concorde and he was arranging my Panamanian diplomatic passport. Now he was shut away in the house of Rory González, writing his speech for the signing of the Treaty, and for the time being he was unapproachable.

  I had seen less of him than the year before, but my affection had grown. I was beginning to appreciate what he had done and what he had risked in trying to achieve his dream for a Central America which would be socialist and not Marxist, independent of the United States and yet not a menace to her. I felt for him as for a teacher as well as a friend. I was learning from him, even when he was absent, some of the problems of Central America.

  The day before we left for Washington Chuchu and I went to the airport to meet Gabriel García Márquez, the Colombian novelist, who was to be another foreign member of the Panamanian delegation. It was a day of drenching rain and his plane was indefinitely delayed. We left a message that he would find us at the Peruvian restaurant, the Pez de Oro, and we just had time for two pisco sOurs, a drink I had learnt to enjoy in Chile, Allende’s Chile, before the telephone rang. The General was asking for me urgently.

  I found him in a small room in Gonzalez’s house, bent over a manuscript – his speech for Washington. There was no question here of a ghosted speech. His handwriting was becoming almost as illegible as mine with his corrections.

  ‘I am nervous,’ he said, ‘but Carter is more nervous and that comforts me a little.’ He told me the story of a Bolivian officer – why Bolivian? – going into action. He found his feet were trembling, so he addressed them, ‘You sons of a bitch, this is nothing to what you are going to feel later.’

  He was unhappy that Carter had invited the South American military dictators to the ceremony of signing – Videla of Argentina, Pinochet of Chile, Banzer of Bolivia, Stroessner of Paraguay, the President of Guatemala. He would have preferred only those moderate leaders who had supported him in his long negotiations, from Colombia, Venezuela and Peru. But Carter had insisted on inviting the whole bunch – except for Fidel Castro, whom Omar would gladly have welcomed, if only for his wise and aggravating counsel of prudence which had led at last to the Treaty. Somoza in Nicaragua had refused, being fully occupied with civil war, and Haiti was to be represented only by her ambassador.

  Omar read me his speech. He was a little nervous of the wicked and amusing way in which he planned to begin it. I encouraged him, but I was not certain that he would stick to his admirable text when he reached Washington. I even added one sentence of my own, but, alas, I can no longer remember that little entry of mine into history. I was also able to show him the right spot to introduce a good idea of his for which he had been unable to find a place and which he was ready to abandon.

  I have a vivid memory of him crouched over his unfamiliar work, worried and unsure of himself. These are the most enduring memories I have of Omar: the young beginner at the art of writing who was finding the choice of words difficult; the visitor to his home town rocking back and forth on the porch of the garage mechanic in Santiago who had been his schoolboy friend; and one other memory which was to be planted three years later of a man tired out, perhaps a little drunk, fallen asleep with his head on the shoulder of his young mistress, who had recently borne him a child.

  That evening was the last of my stay in Panama, and Chuchu and I had dinner with Rogelio and Lidia. The Guatemalan professor had left for his own country, and he had taken with him the piece of embroidery which I had given to Lidia on the San Bias island, returning their hospitality with a petty theft.

  7

  Next day, as we flew over Cuba, Omar sent his greetings by radio to Fidel Castro, although Carter had refused to invite Castro to Washington. Omar was a man who was faithful to his friends, even when he did not fully share their politics.

  We landed in the dark at the military aerodrome outside Washington at eight o’clock. A Marine guard of honour, the glare of television lights, Secretary of State Vance waiting to greet Omar at the end of a long narrow strip of red carpet, the two national anthems which seemed to go on for ever as we of the delegation stood cramped together on the carpet – I had never pictured myself arriving in this fashion in the States, where for a long time I had been refused more than a three weeks’ visa.

  A ninety-dollar suite waited for me at the Sheraton with an enormous sitting-room and a poste
r by Chagall of Vence, a town close to my home in Antibes, hanging over the desk. At the sight of the picture I felt lonely and sick for France. Omar and Chuchu were far away at the Panamanian Embassy, and I wondered whether I would ever see them again except at a great distance in the hall where the Treaty would be signed. I went downstairs to hurry up the slow arrival of my luggage, and it was strange to me to hear nothing but American spoken around me, when I was so used now to Spanish voices. That night I went unhappily to bed, having put Camilo’s letter in my pyjama pocket. I tried the radio – there was an interview on abortion. I tried another channel – it was a talk about the conversion of sewage. Sleep was better.

  Things improved next day. With García Márquez I went to lunch at the Panamanian Embassy and found myself again among familiar faces. Omar was very cheerful after a meeting with Carter. Carter had asked him how to deal with all the dictators who had converged on Washington and he had replied, ‘Just refuse them any arms.’

  Was it at this meeting that Omar broke down and wept in his wife’s arms – Carter has described the scene in his memoirs – or was it the next day, immediately before the ceremony of signing the Treaty at which Omar seemed quite composed? I was not surprised when I read of his tears at the moment when the dream which he had been pursuing for so long seemed on the point of coming true. One had always been conscious in him of a sensibility which he held sternly in check, a sensibility which had to find relief from time to time in the company of a friend whom he trusted (he trusted Carter) or after enough glasses of Black Label. Then it would flash out in a moment of unrestrained self-exposure, just as when I had asked him what was his most recurring dream and he had replied, without hesitating for a second, ‘Death.’ Chuchu told me some years later that he had often seen Omar weep, and perhaps one of the reasons I grew to love him was the complete absence in him of Latin macho.

  Omar told me that he had got on well with Jordan, the President’s aide, and Vice-President Mondale too, who owned a baseball bat which had been signed for him in the States by a famous Panamanian player. Mondale said jokingly to the General that he had intended to give it him as a present, but then he thought it would be inadvisable to bring it with him to the White House in case he was accused of threatening to use a big stick.

  These were the honeymoon hours of the Treaty which was to be signed next day. The Treaty had been passed by Congress and the General had not fully foreseen the way in which it was to be tampered with by the Senate after the signing. The two signatures on the paper had seemed to him, as to all Panamanians, to be virtually the end of the affair. When serious revisions were made later by the Senate it was like a betrayal. Indeed, even in Europe we find it difficult to understand how the heads of state can hold a solemn meeting to sign a treaty which has been passed by Congress and then see it altered after the signature by the Senate – all this parade of dictators and delegations meaning nothing final.

  There were to be two demonstrations in the streets of Washington that night, one against the Treaty and one against the presence of Pinochet in Washington. García Márquez asked me to go with him to the demonstration against Pinochet and unwillingly I refused. I didn’t trust the American people to distinguish between one Latin American general and another.

  During the evening in the hall of the Organization of American States there was a gigantic reception for the heads of state and their delegations, with loaded buffets sufficient for one thousand guests. There was hardly standing room on the first two floors around the buffets, so the charming young Panamanian woman who was looking after me led me to the second floor where there was no food and therefore enough space to turn round in. There too I was more likely to encounter at least one of the dictators. The dictators would hardly be fighting for food around the buffets. I decided if I had the good fortune to encounter Pinochet I would say to him, ‘We have, I believe, an acquaintance in common . . . Doctor Allende.’

  However, Pinochet was not to be seen, but Videla was there and the Guatemalan President, both in civilian clothes looking democratic, and I took up my stand a few feet away from Stroessner of Paraguay who was also wearing a suit. I had seen him last in 1968 on the National Day in Asunción when he was dressed in a general’s uniform and stood on a platform to salute the crippled survivors of the unnecessary Bolivian war as they trundled by in wheeled chairs and the colonels stood stiffly upright in their cars like ninepins in a bowling alley. Now, out of his uniform, he looked more than ever like the flushed owner of a German bierstube. He was surrounded by a subservient group who seemed to be hanging on his words, but perhaps they were playing a part and they were really bodyguards, there for his protection. I thought: If I had a gun and were suicidal how easy it would be to rid the world of one tyrant.

  A man was passing by us to join Stroessner’s group when he was stopped by my companion. She began to say, ‘This is one of General Stroessner’s ministers. May I introduce . . .’ – we each of us put out a polite hand – ‘This is Mr Graham Greene.’ The minister’s hand dropped and left mine to reach after it through the empty air. ‘You passed once through Paraguay,’ he accused me in a tone of fury and went on to join his general. I couldn’t help feeling a little proud that apparently I had been able to arouse the dislike of one more dictator. I had experienced much the same pride when Doctor Duvalier published a pamphlet in Haiti with the bilingual title, ‘Graham Greene démasqué: Graham Greene Finally Exposed’.

  Except for Stroessner’s minister everyone I spoke to in that huge gathering from the Latin American states was unexpectedly friendly. A writer who travels far from home does not expect friendliness. His work probably offends more people than it pleases. For a foreigner to write with inadequate experience of their countries is justifiably resented by those who are native born. I was happy that evening to meet Mexicans who praised The Power and the Glory and Argentinians who praised The Honorary Consul.

  Next morning I had a call from Archbishop McGrath of Panama and we agreed to go together to the signing of the Treaty. In the car he told me of a prayer which he had written specially for the occasion in case he was called on to open the proceedings. He even recited it to me and I couldn’t help thinking of the chickens in the aisle of the ruined church he had never bothered to visit, but in fact no such prayer was invited. He struck me then as one of those agreeable ecclesiastics whose tone of voice never varies and who knows in advance exactly how much and how little he wants to impart. The church at Coclesito belonged to the same country but not to the same world as the Archbishop. The Archbishop was accompanied by a layman who looked like his name – Quigley. I can make use of that name, I thought, one day, in God knows what story.

  8

  It was certainly a Great Spectacular, the signing of the Canal Treaty. We sat in blocks of countries and Panama adjoined the Senatorial block of the United States, with Venezuela on our other flank. We, the Panamanians, were a mixed bag, including not only myself and García Márquez, but more suitably the mother of a student killed by the Marines in the great riot of ’64.

  I had seen nothing like it as a star vehicle since Round the World in Eighty Days. All the familiar actors from how many television screens and newspaper photographs seemed to be there – all except Elizabeth Taylor. Kissinger, before the delegation had settled into their seats, could be seen buttonholing his way around the hall of the Organization of American States with his world-wide grin; five rows in front of me I could see Nelson Rockefeller being strenuously amiable to Ladybird, as though the two of them were sitting out a dance together, and ex-President Ford was in the same row, more blond than I had imagined him from the screen – or had he been to the barber? There too were Mr and Mrs Mondale, Mrs Carter . . . Two rows in front of me sat Andy Young, bright and boyish. All of them were looking consciously unimportant like the stars in Round the World, who had accepted minor parts for the joke of it all. They were not there really to act, only to be noticed, like partygoers having a night out together, pleased to feel at
home with friendly faces – ‘What, you here?’

  The important character actors were up on the platform – an unpleasant sight but more impressive than the stars below: General Stroessner of Paraguay, General Videla of Argentina with a face squashed into such a narrow space that there was hardly room for his two foxy eyes, General Banzer of Bolivia, a little frightened man with an agitated moustache – he had been miscast and misdressed.

  There too was the greatest character actor of them all – General Pinochet himself – the man you love to hate. Like Boris Karloff, he really had attained the status of instant recognition; he was the one who could look down with amused contempt at the highly paid frivolous Hollywood types below him. His chin was so deeply sunk in his collar that he seemed to have no neck at all; he had clever, humorous, falsely good-fellow eyes which seemed to be telling us not to take too seriously all those stories of murder and torture emanating from South America. I could hardly believe that only a week had passed since I listened in Panama to the refugee who broke down when she described how a bayonet had been thrust into her vagina. Hovering behind the dictators was old Bunker, the Refrigerator, keeping an anxious eye on his Treaty, sucking dry lips. He looked like an old, old stork who had been given human features in a children’s book – his head stuck out a long way in advance of his body.

  Pinochet, I feel sure, knew how he dominated the scene – he was the only one against whom people were protesting in the streets of Washington with banners – perhaps they couldn’t spell Stroessner’s name and they couldn’t even remember Banzer’s. Pinochet was tactful, he didn’t wave to his ally Kissinger down below, and Kissinger never looked up at him. Then we all stood for the two national anthems as Carter and General Torrijos entered to sign the Treaty, a treaty a bit shop-soiled as it had been fingered and corrected for thirteen years, yet I feel sure I was not the only one who continued to watch Pinochet. Like Karloff he didn’t need to have a speaking part – he didn’t even need to grunt.