Doctor Frigo (29 page)

‘I refuse,’ said Don Manuel promptly, ‘to go to the Nuevo Mundo. I am surprised, Don Tomás, that you should have even considered the possibility. I am not here as a foreign businessman seeking a contract.’

‘The second floor has a balcony, Don Manuel. You must show yourself to the people.’

‘Then I will show myself from the balcony of the Palace of Justice. That, at least, can be given a symbolic significance.’

‘For the Castillo devotees, Don Manuel, the balcony overlooking the steps of the Nuevo Mundo would not be without significance.’

He looked at me. Don Manuel pointedly ignored the look.

‘We have no interest in factions,’ he declared, ‘nor in their devotions. We are here to make a new start for
all
our countrymen, not to evoke ghoulish memories of the past. I will be proclaimed at the Palace of Justice.’

At Les Muettes, Santos had been treated with the utmost deference and respect. Now he was being addressed as an underling. He seemed neither surprised nor offended.

He said patiently: ‘Accommodation there is limited, Don
Manuel. Apart from the building staff quarters there is only the Procurator-General’s apartment.’

‘Then he must be requested to accept, until the Presidential Palace is habitable again, our hospitality at the Nuevo Mundo. Where are the foreign press staying?’

‘At the Hotel Alianza as arranged. There have already been numerous complaints and several attempts to bribe the manager of the Nuevo Mundo. He has his instructions, of course. The Yanqui news agencies, plus the
New York Times
and
Washington Post
, to be allowed rooms, but only on the upper floors.’

‘Good. Then that is settled. Ourselves at the Palace of Justice, our suite on the second floor of the Nuevo Mundo. Now let us get out of here.’

His manner, his whole disposition, seemed quite suddenly to have changed. Is this a form of reaction? Years of deference to alien authority can leave their marks on the exile. Or is this how the immediate prospect of autocratic presidential power normally affects a politician?

As he walked down the steps from the plane you would have thought he had been enjoying that power for years.

The colonel had paraded a substantial guard of honour, and when Don Manuel appeared the members of it, led by officers and NCOs who had obviously been well-primed, cheered wildly and waved their rifles in the air. Militarily speaking, I suppose, this was deplorable, but Don Manuel seemed to like it. Halfway down the steps he paused to raise both hands in acknowledgement of the welcome. There was a ripple of flashes as the still photographers recorded the moment. Then he continued the descent, courteously turning to assist Doña Julia down the final step and so providing another pictorial opportunity for the cameramen.

Santos and Paco tried then to steer him towards the podium, but he strode on past it to the lined-up reception committee. Santos quickly overtook him and began the
presentations. I followed Doña Julia and Paco and so heard few of the names.

We went from left to right. Those on the left were mostly civil functionaries and provincial mayors who had long been secret Democratic Socialist supporters, or who now said they had, and senior police officers who had had disagreements with the militia. I shook hands with any of them who offered to shake hands with me. Most didn’t, because as Don Manuel moved along the line there was a general breaking of ranks and a flocking after him. Discipline was restored somewhat when the cameramen began complaining loudly that it was the new President they were there to photograph, not the backsides of a herd of cattle. The senior policemen reacted instantly and, having pushed forward themselves, now faced about and pushed back, ordering everyone in stern tones to ‘show respect’.

The foreign dignitaries were on the right of the line, and it was as the crowd thinned that I saw Delvert standing there and heard him being introduced as Counsellor of the French embassy representing His Excellency the French Ambassador temporarily absent through illness. Quite a lot of the other foreign ambassadors were also represented by deputies. A striking exception was His Eminence the Papal Nuncio, a resplendent figure with what at a distance looked like an acolyte in attendance on him.

By then I had become used to shaking hands without having been introduced and had for some time ceased attempting to give my name. So many people were chattering at once that, back where I was, one would have had to bawl in order to be heard. I was disconcerted, then, when as I bowed over the Nuncio’s hand I heard him say quite distinctly in my ear: ‘I am delighted to meet you, Dr Castillo. May I introduce you to Monsignor Montanaro?’

Montanaro, the ‘acolyte’, who now moved forward to shake my hand, was a very small old man with rimless glasses, smiling eyes and an air of great distinction.

‘A pleasure, Dr Castillo.’ He held on to my hand with
surprising firmness. ‘I have been so looking forward to meeting you that I prevailed upon His Eminence to allow me to accompany him. Your first visit for many years. A memorable occasion. I must not detain you, but I am most anxious to know when you intend visiting your father’s grave.’

I was about to say that I hadn’t even thought of visiting it, but didn’t. My hesitation elicited a helpful word from the Nuncio.

‘We are aware, of course, that you are here as Don Manuel’s physician, but he is unlikely to be needing your services until this evening. The Monsignor, I know, is most anxious to join you in prayer at a memorial that you have never yet been permitted to see.’

‘Would this afternoon be too late, Doctor?’ asked Montanaro anxiously. ‘At four could we say?’

‘Well …’

‘A car will pick you up at the Nuevo Mundo. You can be back there by five.’

Before I could think of an adequate way of refusing, they had passed me on with infinite courtesy to the Dutch Consul-General.

A minute or so later I was shaking hands with Delvert as if I had never seen him before in my life and hearing Rosier described as the Central American representative of the Latin-American Chamber of Commerce.

The sun had just risen. When I looked again at Rosier he was already wearing dark glasses.

The airport is twelve kilometres from the capital. It seemed longer. I was hungry and thirsty – the lemonade had left behind it a taste of metal. Between St Paul and here there is a one-hour time difference. No one had thought of providing even coffee at the airport because it was only six-thirty. Breakfast was awaiting us at the Nuevo Mundo.

Don Manuel had had to agree to a stop there anyway. The Procurator-General was an important official who
administered the day-to-day workings of the courts. His eviction, even though temporary, could not be unceremonious; and his agreement to it had to be obtained. The task had been delegated to Uncle Paco.

It was not an easy one; I was in the same car with them and the officer in charge of security when the cavalcade set out, so I know. The old man was a lawyer and a tough one. Appeals to his sense of patriotic duty he disposed of with the retort that he had a duty to the administration of justice. Was it believed that, under the new régime, the judicial business at present conducted by him from his apartment would no longer need to be done?

‘I am aware,’ he went on nastily, ‘that the most effective way of destroying a government by coup is from within, but my understanding has always been that sensible interlopers did not destroy those useful parts of it which worked for the public good. Unless, of course, the intention is anarchy. That may be the intention of Father Bartolomé. I had assumed that it was not Don Manuel’s. Perhaps I was wrong.’

Paco extricated himself from that by pretending, with a stertorous chuckle, to treat the proposition as a joke and then uttering a vague threat. Energy and flexibility of outlook would be the criteria by which public servants in future would be judged. Then he returned to cajolery. Surely the Procurator’s wife would not object to enjoying the hospitality of the Nuevo Mundo for a few days? It would be a little holiday for her. And there was the problem of security.

The security officer picked up his cue briskly. How true that was! All the arrangements would now have to be revised for a second time. Since all government installations, and the Nuevo Mundo, were now under heavy guard, additional official cars would be needed to operate the shuttle service.

My murmured reminder, intended to be helpful, that the
Palace of Justice was within easy walking distance of the Hotel was immediately slapped down.
No one
, even if he carried one of the official passes to be issued immediately, would be permitted to enter the Presidential residence on foot – no, not even the new President’s doctor.

After that I shut up and looked out of the window.

The road from the airport has not improved since I last saw it: canefields on one side, jungle on the other, pot-holes galore and, at every point along it where there has been a fatal accident, at every bend that is, a concrete block on the verge with the rusting wreck of an overturned car perched there as a warning. I had forgotten those skeletal cars. They must have been replaced many times over the years. In this climate rust eats quickly; and besides, the door-panels of a smashed car can be used to patch the leaking roof of a house.

There were other things that I had forgotten: the stink of the barrios on the outskirts of the city, the squalor of the shacks in which their people lived, the stray pig rooting in the mud around them. I had forgotten the women breast-feeding infants with a fifty-fifty chance of surviving long enough to be weaned, and those who had survived staring at you large-eyed from the filth with their fingers in their mouths. I had forgotten the open drains. Men not much in evidence. Those who had work to do had already gone to it when we passed by.

And then the city itself, oddly picturesque in places with bright flowering trees and allamanda bushes, but mostly ugly and decrepit. Even the few modern buildings like the Hotel Alianza (named for The Alliance of Progress) look decayed, and the concrete streaked with rust from window frames and balconies. Jungle weeds sprout through the asphalt of the car parks and run riot over the uncleared building rubbish in the adjoining wastelands. Only the much older stone buildings seem to have retained any dignity. If, though, they seem less imposing now than when I knew them as an adolescent, that is to be expected; I have
become unused to them. The palm trees
do
look the same though – like tired, untidy women.

Few people on the streets, but, at every crossroad, troops. More near to the centre of the city – how seedy it is! – with tanks and troop carriers in the side street. Two whole blocks in the central shopping district almost completely gutted by fire, with ancient fire trucks still there and their crews poking about in the ruins.

The Procurator snorted derisively at the sight. ‘Not many pickings left for them,’ he remarked; ‘Father Bartolomé’s army of the faithful will have seen to that. Still, Don Manuel mustn’t complain. His audience will have been much increased.’

I looked at him. He smiled slyly.

‘You surely don’t think that they burned the shops until they’d looted them, do you Doctor? They brought trucks with them. Television sets had first priority, of course, before refrigerators and air-conditioners. But furniture and clothing, even such trifles as radios and jewellery, were not neglected.’ He glanced at Paco. ‘Democratic Socialism in action, eh my friend?’

Paco pursed his lips. The Procurator-General’s annoyance is understandable, but it occurs to me that if he goes on expressing it in those terms he may lose his apartment permanently, and his job with it.

On the arrival at Nuevo Mundo we found chaos; possibly due to Don Manuel’s change of plan, but I doubt it. There would have been chaos anyway, with army and police trucks blocking the driveway so that not even our escort could get in. A lot of shouting, gesturing and running to and fro ensued, in which our security officer immediately joined.

While we were waiting I told the Procurator that I would be wanting to get in touch with the medical director in charge of the General Hospital. Did he happen to know the man’s name?

‘Dr Torres,’ he said; ‘a very good man, I am told. He
qualified in the United States. But you may have difficulty in reaching him at present.’

‘Have there been large numbers of casualties?’

‘Over a hundred, officially, though that may be a low estimate. Many more are certainly being treated privately and will remain unreported. However’ – again the sly look – ‘an excessive work load was not what I had in mind when I spoke of difficulty where Torres is concerned.’

‘What then?’

‘His family is quite wealthy you know. His parents were among those who left yesterday on the first plane out. Torres senior is one of the so-called oligarchs. It is possible that Torres junior later thought it prudent to follow his parents’ example.’

‘In that case who would be left in charge?’

‘There are other doctors there. I presume that the most senior would take over.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Paco.

‘I want to borrow a physiotherapist for Don Manuel.’

‘Wouldn’t a private one do?’

‘If I knew of a properly qualified one, yes. But there will be a security problem with anyone having direct access to the Palace.’

The security officer was climbing into the car again as the cavalcade once more began to move.

‘What security problem is this, Doctor?’

I explained.

‘Well, you had better go with this person from the hospital to vouch for him at first. It looks as if I shall have to work from the Palace of Justice now. You had better see me there about …’ He broke off. ‘Look at those fools. You would think they had had no orders.’

We had arrived.

The Nuevo Mundo is an old hotel built in the grand manner. It was modelled originally, I have been told, on the Ritz in Madrid. However, the need in this city to build so as to avoid both the termites and flood waters from the
inadequate storm drains led to modifications. One of these was the raising of the ground floor. This, in turn, led to the construction of a broad flight of stone steps up to the entrance – the steps on which my father died.