Angel said, ‘Benz has sent his finance minister to Washington.’
‘Trying to get beer?’ said Lucas.
Angel did not smile.
Chori said, ‘Trying to buy armoured personnel carriers and helicopters to suppress the revolution. But the Yankees don’t want our lousy pesetas.’
‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Lucas.
‘You are English?’ asked Angel.
‘Australian,’ said Lucas. He looked at the two men – as different as chalk and cheese – and was still curious about the relationship between them. Lucas’ time in the army had made him a good judge of character. He decided that no relationship between these two would endure. They would clash and the result would be messy.
No one had invited Lucas to sit down but he sat down anyway. The chair he’d chosen faced the TV. Chori politely switched it on for him. For want of something else to do, they watched a few minutes of a film about pollution. The camera dwelt upon unusually clean factories, very sincere scientists and happy Latin American workers wearing upon their white coats the badge of an international chemical company. The programme was followed by commercials: an American soft drink, an American car rental company and an American airline. The news bulletin came immediately afterwards. The police searches at the airport got first priority. ‘Anti-Drugs Squad crack-down at airport’ said the commentary. There followed shots of the police questioning the agricultural workers, and their families, the people Lucas had noticed at the airport. The news item ended with pictures of police vans taking away people wanted for further questioning.
The next news item dealt with the previous night’s bomb explosion at the Ministry of Pensions. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances made pretty pictures with a fashionable amount of lens flare. Then came a flick-zoom to the Ministry’s spokesman. He was a carefully coiffured man in the elaborate uniform of a police colonel. He said, ‘Six MAMista terrorists murdered two night-watchmen in order to place explosives in the central safe. Four passers-by were seriously injured by broken glass and were taken to the hospital of Santa Teresa de Avila.’
‘With what purpose were the bombs set off?’ asked the interviewer.
The police colonel looked directly into the lens and said, ‘To destroy the microfilm records. To interrupt and delay payments to government workers and pension payments to retirees.’
‘Do the police have any leads?’
‘The police laboratory believe they have identified the explosives and the probable source of them. The Union of Government Servants has asked their members to cooperate fully against this new campaign of murder. Even the PEKINista high command has protested. In a statement this afternoon, they say they are opposed to the bombing campaign of the MAMistas.’
‘Can we expect arrests?’
Chori switched off the TV. The police colonel wobbled and expired. ‘You can see what they are trying to do,’ Chori told the world at large. ‘Trying to lever the Pekinista guerrillas apart from us. If you went to the hospital you’d find a couple of people with scratches.’
Paz nodded, but the chances that his explosion had blown the windows out, and injured someone in the street below, were not to be dismissed.
Chori picked up Lucas’ can of beer, shook it to be sure it was empty, then raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Yes, if you can spare it,’ said Lucas. He was being stuffy and British. He felt he should make an effort to be cordial.
Chori said, ‘The airport shakedown was just a stunt to push the bomb into second place on the news.’
‘I was there,’ said Lucas. ‘The police seemed to be concentrating upon the Indian families.’
‘That’s the joke,’ said Chori, handing Lucas his beer. ‘You saw them, did you? They are the cocaleros. Those Indian farmers are the people who are growing that shit. They take their crops to the jungle laboratories that are owned by Benz and his government cronies. What a joke.’
‘Are they rich?’ Lucas asked.
‘The cocaleros? No. You saw them. Poor bastards scrape together a few pesetas to have a cheap plane trip here to buy shoes twice a year. But they are making more than they’d make from growing coffee.’
Lucas got up and walked back to the window, as if a view across the rooftops would help him understand what was going on here. At the intersection he saw curious curved marks on the road. They were familiar and yet he couldn’t place them. It was only when he noticed that the cop on traffic duty had a machine gun over his shoulder that he recognized the marks as the damage done when a tank turns a corner. Tanks. Despite so many outward appearances of normalcy, this was a damned dangerous town.
‘It’s hot,’ said Angel Paz.
‘It will be hotter in the south,’ Chori said.
So the young man was going south too. ‘And cold nights until the rains begin,’ Lucas added.
The foreigners looked at each other as they realized that both of them would be going to the MAMista permanent base. No newspaper people were ever allowed there and those who’d gone without permission had not returned to tell the story. Angel Paz said, ‘How long will you be there?’
‘I am not political,’ Lucas said. He wanted to get that straight before they shared any of their wretched secrets with him. ‘Strictly business. I am doing a health check. In and out: a week or ten days.’
Paz said, ‘Uncommitted. In this part of the world the uncommitted get caught in the cross-fire.’
‘You should get your hair cut before we leave,’ Lucas said. ‘Right, Chori?’
‘You’ll be running with lice otherwise,’ said Chori.
‘We’ll see,’ said Angel Paz, running a hand back through his wavy locks. His hair had taken a long time to grow this long, and it looked good this way.
Lucas was getting hungry and there was no sign that food would be coming. ‘Can I buy you a meal?’ he said.
Chori said, ‘There is a party at The Daily American. There will be plenty to eat and drink.’
‘What is it?’ asked Lucas.
Chori said, ‘A Yankee newspaper. In English. They invite liberals and left-wingers for hamburgers and wine. You know the kind of thing. There will be plenty of everything. If you are still hungry, the San Giorgio across the street does a decent plate of spaghetti.’
‘That will do,’ said Lucas.
Chori said, ‘You are both sleeping here tonight. Make sure you know the address. I’ll have to be back before curfew but your foreign passports will get you past the patrols. And for God’s sake don’t run away from them.’
The office of The Daily American had that comforting sign of over-capitalization that is the hallmark of all American enterprises from fast-food counters to orthodontists. It was on the fifth floor of one of the few buildings in Tepilo built to withstand earthquake tremors and incorporating such safety equipment as sprinklers. When he got out of the elevator Lucas was greeted by the distant sounds of recorded music and noisy chatter.
He went down a corridor to a large reception hall that had comfortable sofas and a glass-topped desk with an elaborate telephone system. It was this area, and the room where the morning conference was held, that was made available for the party. The doors to the offices with the desks, word processors and other equipment, were locked. A hi-fi played Latin American music: cumbia, salsa and the occasional samba.
The fluorescent lights had been replaced by paper lanterns and the rooms were decorated with palm fronds and artfully folded pieces of aluminium kitchen foil. The air-conditioning was fully on. The guests were noisy and jovial, and in that slightly hysterical state that free food and drink brings.
Upon the conference table were paper plates and plastic knives and forks. Platters of sliced sausage, square slices of processed cheese and slices of rectangular ham were decorated with olives and sprigs of herb. Also upon the long table were electric hotplates with frankfurters and chilli. There was American coffee too and, on a bench under the window, Chilean white wine stood in buckets of ice.
>
In keeping with the liberal persuasion of the newspaper proprietor, there were no servants. Lucas accepted a glass of cold wine and briefly conversed with a man who wanted to display his familiarity with London. He talked with a couple of other guests before catching sight of Inez. He picked up a bottle of wine and took a clean glass. He’d poured two glasses of wine as he felt a tap on his shoulder. ‘Inez,’ he said. He had been about to use the wine in order to interrupt the conversation he’d seen her having with a handsome man in unmistakably American clothes.
‘You have been here for ages, and did not come across to speak,’ she said. It was such a coy opening that she could hardly believe that she was using it.
He gave her a glass of wine and looked at her. She was wearing a simple black dress with a gold brooch. A patent-leather purse hung on a chain over her shoulder.
She sipped and, for a moment, they stood in silence. Then she said, ‘You were deep in conversation?’
‘Yes,’ Lucas said. ‘An American from the embassy. He used to live in London.’
‘O’Brien. Mike O’Brien.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lucas said.
‘CIA station head for Spanish Guiana, and maybe all the Guianas.’
‘You don’t mean it?’
She smiled.
He turned so that they could both see the mêlée. ‘Well, he seemed a decent enough chap. You think he was sounding me out?’ When she didn’t answer he said, ‘Well, yes, you’re right. We should assume that he heard someone like me was coming.’
As if aware that they were talking about him, Mike O’Brien smiled at Inez from across the room.
‘He knows you,’ said Lucas.
‘My name is Cassidy. It goes back many generations here in Guiana. My great-grandfather Cassidy was the first judge. But O’Brien likes to joke that we are both Irish.’
‘Does he know …?’
She turned to him. ‘It’s difficult for a foreigner to understand but many of the people in this room know that I am one of the people who handle statements for the MAMista command.’
‘The MAMista is an illegal organization.’
‘Yes, it is. But the Benz government officials tolerate me and others like me.’
‘And you get invited to drink with the Americans and the CIA chief smiles at you. I don’t get it.’
‘It is expedient. Channels of communication remain open between all parties. Sometimes we give warnings about … things we do.’ She didn’t want to say ‘bombs we plant’. Neither did she want to tell him of the hostages that were sometimes taken: government officials that they held for ransom. Inez Cassidy had handled such matters. It was not a way to make yourself popular. She finished her wine, drinking it too quickly. She put the glass down.
‘How do you know the secret police are not biding their time and collecting evidence against you?’
‘Our secret police don’t bide their time. They send a murder squad to gun you down without witnesses.’
‘But the Americans? Do they know what you do?’
‘The American government is not wedded to the Benz regime,’ she said simply.
‘That sort of expedience,’ said Lucas. He could see she did not want to say more.
The music was switched off as five chairs were placed in position at the end of the room. Five musicians climbed up on to the chairs. They produced a chord or two on the electric guitar and a rattle of maracas. A sigh of disappointment went up from those guests who had been hoping that the Americans would produce a pop group or some American-style music.
‘Mother of God,’ said Inez, regretfully noting it and adding it to her total of blasphemies that would have to be confessed. ‘I really can’t endure another evening of that.’
‘Are you here with anyone?’ Lucas asked.
‘Spare me a sip of wine,’ she said, taking his glass from him and drinking some. The gesture was enough to answer his question. She was not here with anyone she could not say goodbye to.
‘Shall we have dinner?’
‘Yes, I’m starved.’ It was the sort of archness she despised in other women. It ill suited a politically committed woman of thirty. She looked at the people dancing. The man who had brought her was dancing close with the editor’s daughter who’d just left college in California. It was a modern lambada: danced to the rhythm of the samba. She was a good dancer but she was pressing close and smiling too much. The man would be a good catch: a young and handsome coffee broker. He’d inherit plantations too when his father died.
‘Italian food?’ He’d noted the neon sign for the San Giorgio restaurant as he was arriving here, so he knew exactly where it was.
‘Wonderful,’ said Inez. She looked again at the dancers. Inez had been in her twenties before the plumpness and spots of youth had disappeared. The sudden transformation had been intoxicating but she’d never completely adjusted to the idea of being a beautiful woman. It must be much easier for pretty young girls like that one; they grow up learning how to deal with men. For Inez the prospect of another relación was not only daunting but funny.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said. ‘You leave now. Don’t say goodbye to anyone. Drift out slowly. I will be downstairs in ten minutes’ time.’
He nodded. It was better that they were not seen leaving together. The music changed to a habanera, a very old Cuban rhythm in which gringos often detected the very essence of Lat in American amor. Over the fast tempo, words were sung very slowly.
Lucas knew that listening carefully to trite lyrics was one of the symptoms of falling in love, but the words – a tryst under a star-studded sky – seemed curiously apt. He avoided Angel Paz and Chori, who were drinking, eating and talking and seemed oblivious to the music. He edged out into the corridor.
As he got there he saw Mike O’Brien leaving, preceded by a short dark man who was frowning and looking at his watch. Lucas did not want to see O’Brien. He stopped and pretended to study the notice board. There were small ‘For Sale’ notices: microwave ovens, cars and TV sets being disposed of by Americans on their way home. In one corner of the cork board the front page of tomorrow’s edition of The Daily American had been posted.
‘Benz Representative at White House Meeting’ shouted the headline over a story about the Benz government’s young Finance Minister who was in Washington asking for money, tanks, planes and military aid and anything he could get. The reporter thought the US President would demand a crack-down on Spanish Guiana’s drug barons as a condition for aid.
Lower down on the page under the headline ‘State of Emergency Laws to be Renewed’, an editorial said that the ‘Orders in Council’ by means of which the Benz government ruled were expected to be renewed when the current term expired in two weeks’ time. Meanwhile the Prime Minister controlled the Council of Ministers, Council of State, Religious Affairs, Public Service Commission, Audit and Privy Council. The Minister of Finance controlled the Customs, Tax Department, Investment Agency, Economic Development and Planning and the Department of Computers and Statistics. And ‘Papa’ Cisneros, the Minister of Home Affairs, from the fifteen-storey building that dominated the skyline, controlled the National Police, Municipal Police, the Federalistas, the Prisons and Places of Detention, Immigration, Labour, Municipal and Central Security, Weights and Measures and the Fire Service.
In effect, said the editor, the country was in the hands of three men, all of them close to the President, Admiral Benz. The Constitution forbids legislation without the approval of democratically elected representatives, the editor reminded his readers. He added that the elected council had not met for almost ten years. It was as near to open rebellion as anyone could get away with in Spanish Guiana, tolerated only because it was printed in English for a small number of foreigners who would tut-tut and do nothing.
Having given O’Brien time enough, Lucas followed him down the corridor, opened the door and went out on to the dark landing. He could see the ill
uminated red buttons of the elevator and he sniffed tobacco smoke. There was too much smoke for it to be from one man waiting there. Lucas looked round. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement. As he turned he saw a figure rushing at him with hands upraised to strike. Had the man known Lucas he would not have raised both arms while approaching him with hostile intentions.
Lucas kicked. He hit the exact spot he wanted on his assailant’s knee, aiming his blow to knock the man in the direction of the staircase. Now Lucas brought his hand down sharply. The pain that burned the attacker’s leg was equalled by that of the sudden blow that Lucas delivered to his kidneys. Bent over and off-balance, the man toppled and went crashing down a long flight of concrete steps emitting a shrill scream of agony. More shouting came as he hit four men who were standing at the bottom step. They all fell down.
From the dark staircase above Lucas, voices shouted, ‘Federalista! Stay where you are! Federalista!’ and men came rushing down and swept him back into the newspaper offices. Lucas ran with them, pushing back through the crowded room as if he was one of the policemen. The music stopped in a discordant sequence of notes and all the lights went on to flood the room in the glare of blue office lighting. A woman screamed and everyone was talking and shouting at once.
A police captain with gold leaves on his hat climbed up on to one of the chairs that the musicians had vacated. He shouted for silence and then he made a short announcement in Spanish. Then a bearded interpreter got up and repeated the same announcement in English. While all this was going on, Lucas edged his way further into the room to get as many innocent people as he could between himself and the man he had injured. Soon they would start trying to find out who had kicked one of their officers down the staircase.
Lucas stood on tiptoe and saw Inez across the room looking for him. She made a face of resignation. He nodded. The police captain – through the interpreter – said that everyone would be taken to Police Headquarters and questioned. Those who wished it would be permitted to make a phone call from there. No calls could be made from this office. The reactions were mixed. Local residents had seen it all before and stood sullen and resigned. A young woman began to sob in that dedicated way that goes on for a long time. The man with her began to argue with a policeman in German-accented Spanish.