On schedule, two-and-a-half hours later the room had filled near capacity. The temperature had gone up several degrees, and people’s passions were ratcheted up with it. Community residents young and old occupied the many rows of chairs, waiting for their elected representative to speak, a quiet rumble of conversation filling the air.
Lobaton was one of the first opposition members to be elected after Juan Carlos led Spain towards a true democracy, winning his seat in 1977 with the PSOE, the socialist workers’ party, and sitting as a cabinet minister for many years when the party finally won power in 1982.
Now, many years later, his faithful were about to lead him into one more campaign. Though he had not officially declared his candidacy for re-election, rumor was that he would make the announcement on this night, and for several days, the buzz had been that he would take on one more battle – despite the distinct possibility that, for the first time, thanks to his party’s general unpopularity, he might lose.
On stage, a row of dignitaries sat in chairs on either side of the podium, with the closest going to the candidate’s wife, Señora Concepcion Delapaz-Lobaton, the daughter of the late, great anti-Nationalist, who was dressed in a formal purple evening gown with Audrey Hepburn-style elbow-length dress gloves, the picture of elegance. Next to her was the family’s long-time lawyer, the businessman and noted “cheque-book socialist,” Oscar Vallejo, a tall, stooped, balding man who fidgeted in his tiny seat and whose suit seemed a half-size too small.
Off to the side of the stage, chief of staff Herberto Jiminez surveyed the crowd. This was Emilio’s neighbourhood, after all, and there were many familiar faces – mostly friendly. His ex-wife Margarita Arriaga was one of the potential problems, slumping in her third row seat with a malicious sneer across her resentful, powdered face. But too much gin usually made her sullen, not angry, Herberto told himself. It wasn’t as if she had caused a major disturbance at a rally – at least not anytime recently.
Near the back of the hall, a few business types stood out like sore thumbs in their tailored power suits. These were People’s Party supporters, spying for Lobaton’s likely opponent, the media magnate Mauro Hernandez. Given that the People’s Party was underwritten by right-wing corporate interests like Hernandez, Herberto had always found its name somewhat ironic.
But these days, the economy was failing badly. People wanted to hear from those who were making money, those who preached the gospel of self-enrichment and were always open for business. The fact that the economy’s failure could largely be attributed to crony capitalism and not just the cost of social programs had become lost on the public, and Herberto feared this would show at the polls, where dissatisfaction over growing debt and insecurity had eroded the socialist party’s popularity. There had been austerity measures, protests in the streets, talk of public worker strikes; the tension was palpable. Given how important the exercise of government had become to the province, the times were daunting for any socialist.
“How does it look?”
Ontiveros had come up quietly behind him. The two men were not fond of one another, however both were professionals in public, immediately awkward in each other’s presence, but sticking to business.
Jiminez shrugged. “The usual suspects. Margarita is sitting in the third row. The mayor is late, again … if he even shows.”
His colleague wasn’t surprised. “It’s not like he’s jumping on board with his endorsement this time around. I suspect he will wait until the very last day or so before showing his hand, if he endorses anyone at all. How’s our boy?”
The chief of staff hadn’t looked in on him. “I made sure he had the room to himself, water’s in the fridge, nice armchair for him to relax.”
“Life sure is tough, eh?”
“Tough to be on top, have everyone handling everything for you.”
Ontiveros checked his watch again. “So let’s say five minutes then. We’ll bring the lights down a little except on stage, and then once you’ve introduced our guy …”
Jiminez waived him off. “I know, I know…like clockwork. He does his speech, we lower the lights at the dramatic part, bring in the spot, he announces, the handful of local press get a dozen questions, and we take him out stage left to waves of applause. I’ve done a few of these, you know.”
The younger man ignored him. “Just go make sure he’s ready. No surprises on game night.”
Jiminez nodded but left it at that, then exited the stage area. He hated the way Ontiveros ordered him around at these things. But that was how things worked: the campaign manager handled the public events, the chief of staff handled the politics, the policy. He was nearly 20 years the campaign manager’s senior, however, and it grated to have to defer to him constantly.
Immediately off the wing was a dark blue door, leading to a small store room that they’d had set up as a small rest area for Lobaton.
Jiminez opened the door softly. Inside the tiny room a single bulb hung down, and the candidate was resting in a plush armchair, dressed simply but elegantly in a light grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. His speech lay on the side table, next to his diabetes kit and his customary mineral water. He was quietly reading the paper, legs crossed and relaxed but already looking tired, at just 7 p.m. He took off his spectacles momentarily and lowered the paper.
Jiminez, who harboured ambitions of his own, wondered whether his boss was biting off one more than he could chew, charging into one battle too many. But there was never going to be a right moment to raise such a possibility.
“Boss…”
“Eh… It’s not time already, is it?”
Jiminez nodded. “You OK?”
“Sure, sure. You know Herberto, too many years, too many damn speeches.”
“There’s an easy solution to that.”
The candidate chuckled. “Not yet, amigo. But time is on your side.”
Lobaton stood up, rising quickly for a man of 74 years. With the new retirement age being pushed through, he was determined to show his constituents one last time that age was no barrier to achieving one’s goals, even if they were disappointed with him for being unable to prevent the law from changing, so that public pensions did not kick in until age 67. They understood that as a small, minority opposition party, it was no longer up to him, Prudencio had told him several times.
He picked up his kit and glasses off the table. Then he retrieved his walking stick, which was leaning against it, and his speech. He’d carefully timed out every word, labored over by Prudencio the night before, at 15 minutes. It was long, but held no risk of inducing boredom. It was full of his typical passion, his fiery rhetoric for the common man and for Spain, challenging his supporters to take up his banner with all the loyal fervency of a medieval crusade. It was everything his supporters and handlers expected from him.
“Let’s go,” he said simply.
They left the small room and moved to the stage side, and as Jiminez mounted the steps, the invited guests rose in readiness to greet him. The crowd followed on their cue, and the volume of background murmurs rose to a buzz.
Once Jiminez had reached the podium, he pulled out his small reminder card … although it was strictly habit, from 20 years of being reminded to have a backup plan. He had introduced the candidate so many times, he could recite any detail by heart. If there ever came time to write a Lobaton biography, he supposed, he would be perfect for the job.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he said. “I am Herberto Jiminez, chief-of-staff for your Member of Parliament, a man who needs no introduction but deserves one nonetheless. In this community, this city, he was a hero to the cause of Spanish freedom, and against the forces of repression. He paid a high price for all of us, and yet this is a man who has never stopped serving his community, who has never rested, who has served for many years without peer in the Congress of Deputies.”
None of this history lesson was necessary, of course. Every man, woman and child in the room knew Lobaton??
?s story. But it was this shared knowledge that helped give rise to their common purpose, and the introduction may as well have been a mantra, or a prayer.
“People have asked of late whether age has caught up to him. Let me assure you, he’s as tough and willing to fight for the people as ever, and I am proud to know him, proud to work with him. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Member of Parliament for La Saida Norte, our hero and brother … Emilio Lobaton!”
It had been customary for many years now for the crowd to roar its approval at his name, and in truth, Lobaton had begun to enjoy it, to cherish it even. He had faced many challenges in his life, overcome many obstacles.
But the approval of his people still coursed through him, an endorphin rush each time that brought a grin to his face. He waited for a two-count before striding onto the stage as enthusiastically as his aging legs and walking stick could carry him, the din from the crowd so loud it almost drowned out the music, the freedom anthem L’Estaca which, although Catalan, had been used by Lobaton in his political career since its release in 1968.
He greeted each of the dignitaries in turn, fist-pumping handshakes and hugs, reserving the biggest for his wife, the daughter of his late mentor and long his own political student, though 20 years his junior. They stood in the spotlight for a moment, their hands entwined, their eyes locked passionately for just a moment as the crowd roared its approval.
Then he pushed on, first to the front of the stage, where he waived to the crowd enthusiastically and, for Prudencio’s sake, gave a few random finger points. Then he moved on to the podium, carefully resting his cane beside it, before raising both hands to the strobe of camera flashes and the crowd, urging everyone to sit and be calm.
After a few seconds, it was near-silent. The lights dimmed save the stationary spotlight over his podium and the odd camera flash, as the crowd looked on breathlessly
The room was his. He paused, letting the silence sink in for a moment, a moment he then grabbed.
“My friends, Spain is in a place of transition, a time rebirth,” he began, his voice echoing over the loudspeaker system. “A challenge lies before us, a challenge from which we can never shirk, a challenge we have faced before, together: that challenge is to ensure fairness and opportunity for every Spaniard. That challenge is to ensure a greater Spain!”
The crowd stood again, spontaneously breaking into applause, women in best Sunday dresses clapping with vigor, old men nodding knowingly at their wives, assured by his direction. The seriousness of the moment was written across every line in Lobaton’s face. He motioned them down again, his forehead beginning to bead with sweat under the hot spotlight. “Please, please my friends…”
As he waited for the roar to subside, he subconsciously scrunched his toes in his dress shoes and pressed his fingertips against the dais, getting some feeling back; at his age and with his poor circulation, standing in place for any length of time was not a good idea. Then he continued.
“It is easy in these difficult economic times to look at the mistakes of governments past, to vent our frustrations that times are not better for the common man. But it is pointless, fruitless, and an exercise in seeing the worst in history, to acknowledge nothing but our failures and to forget our many successes, our many social gains. But troubled times are something for which, admittedly, Spaniards have much precedent.”
It sounded like an admission of humility for the government’s faults during his time in cabinet, but it was actually a carefully crafted reminder of just who was addressing the room, a call to remember the days under Franco, and that people’s freedoms were illusory for some forty years.
He took a small handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped the sweat away. Damn. Lobaton hated showing any weakness. His tongue felt dry and for once, he was glad he had his notes, as he was feeling faint.
“In this turbulent time, I have given much thought to my future in politics,” he said, before pausing dramatically, knowing it would begin a chain reaction. The murmur across the room grew loud, and near the back of the room, a handful of young supporters began chanting his name in three syllables, “Lo-ba-ton! Lo-ba-ton! Lo-ba-ton! Lo-ba-ton…,” signs and placards bobbing up and down throughout the crowd.
Again, he raised both hands and motioned for quiet, his eyes serious, passionate. He took a quick drink from the bottle of mineral water Jiminez had left under the podium, feeling tired after the initial adrenaline, but holding it together. His toes had gone numb again and the end of his left index finger was sore. Goddamn diabetes, he thought. Amazing to have made it this far.
Lobaton marshalled his strength. A knot built in his stomach, a sharp pain. Should have avoided the seafood at lunch, he thought. Feeling nauseous.
“My friends, they say we are in for a fight. They say that maybe the day is done for the party that has given the most, sacrificed the most and cared the most about Valencianos, the party by and of the people, despite what these right-wing pretenders call themselves,” he said. “Well as you know, I have never backed down from a fight!”
The crowd began cheering again as the dignitaries stood and applauded. He motioned for quiet one more time, feeling a tick behind his left eye, a twitch. He tried to hold it in. “And so, even though they say we cannot win, that we will not win, I am proud to announce…”
And then, he stopped, both hands on the podium, staring straight ahead, the words barely off of his tongue, his mouth still open, gaping slightly, dry. He looked confused for a split second, swaying in place, but tried to smile, to keep his cool. His eyes danced around, as if momentarily lost, looking for a way out. The sweat was coming down in rivulets now. Lobaton took two deep breaths, trying but unable to draw in breath, then two more, panicking, sucking for air. He could feel his heart pounding uncontrollably. Then he clutched vainly at his chest. He staggered for a half step before his knees buckled and he collapsed, crashing stiff-legged into the podium, then to the stage.
The crowd surged forward and the camera flashes reached a crescendo, a torrent of bright strobe light. “Get back!” Jiminez screamed from the edge of the stage. “Give him room to breathe! Somebody get a doctor! WE NEED A DOCTOR!”
It was no use. Before that night, Emilio Lobaton had survived government purges, decades of bitter political fights, the constant scrutiny of the media and two high-profile marriages. But he would not survive to fight the next general election.
He was as dead as his party’s chances.
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