The Pineapple Republic

by Jack Treby

  ‘But isn’t it your duty to support a government that’s setting up democratic elections?’ I asked. ‘The ballot has the backing of Europe and the United States.’ Daniel Parr’s notes were still proving useful. ‘And, as I understand it, there’s an international commission overseeing the entire process.’

  Father José shook his head. ‘These elections are merely a distraction. They will not be democratic, even if the commission is satisfied there’s been no unfair interference.’

  ‘But Antonio Fracaso seems quite confident of getting a fair hearing,’ I said. ‘And Radio Libertad is broadcasting anti–government stories every day...’

  ‘Fracaso is a good man,’ the priest admitted. ‘And I have a high opinion of Radio Libertad. But I am afraid all that makes no difference. The problem we face is a fundamental lack of education. The majority of people here are illiterate. They don’t receive proper schooling. What does a ballot paper mean to them? They can’t even read the names of the different candidates. Assuming they even know who the candidates are.’

  ‘But aren’t there meant to be photographs printed on the ballot slips?’ I asked. ‘And logos from all the major political parties?’

  Father José inclined his head. ‘That is true. The new constitution is very specific. But the photographs mean nothing if the people don’t recognise the faces. Most people here don’t have television sets. Certainly not outside the cities. They can only follow events from listening to the radio or by word of mouth. And the television stations, anyway, are state controlled, so the opposition will have limited access.’

  ‘But there’ll still be plenty of posters about,’ I said. ‘And people will be able recognise the different party logos.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that people will be allowed to put up posters without being molested. But I don’t think the Azulitos will take too kindly to anyone putting up propaganda for the opposition.’ Father José, like Antonio Fracaso, was convinced that the Azulitos were working hand in glove with the provisional administration.

  ‘But there’s a poster just outside for the PRD,’ I pointed out. I had seen it on the way in.

  The priest smiled sadly. ‘You have not been in San Doloroso long. You do not understand our politics. The Partido Revolucionario Democrático is not a real political party. It is funded by the provisional government.’

  I shook my head. ‘The government are backing Emilio Títere. The PRD is an opposition party. I visited their headquarters yesterday afternoon. They’re fighting against the government, just like the Freedom Party or the SFA.’

  Father José was adamant. ‘The PRD and the SFA are not true opposition parties, despite what you may have been told. Both organisations are financed directly by the state. Only Antonio Fracaso’s Freedom Party is truly independent. The government cuts back on health and education programmes, but it still finds money with which to undermine democracy.’

  This didn’t make any sense. ‘Why would the government set up two phoney opposition parties, if they’ve already got a legitimate candidate?’

  Father José sighed. ‘It’s really quite simple. The intention is to split the opposition vote. If you look at all these parties, aside from the government party, you will notice that their official emblems are almost identical. That is quite deliberate. There is a tricolour for the PRD. A tricolour for the SFA. And a tricolour for Antonio Fracaso’s Freedom Party. Different colours, of course, but easily mixed up. Think of the confusion this will cause. You cannot read. You are not sure what your candidate looks like. But you know the party symbol. And there are three of them on the ballot paper. Do you tick one, and if so, is it the right one? Do you tick all three? Perhaps that might seem sensible. But then your ballot paper is spoiled and your vote is disregarded. The new constitution tries to ensure fairness, but when you have an ill educated populous and an unscrupulous government, democracy becomes impossible.’

  ‘So what do you suggest people do?’

  ‘I am not a politician. I cannot, in all conscience, instruct people to take up arms against their own government. But to accept a corrupt administration is to be complicit in that corruption. We must resist it, passionately but without violence, until the government’s position becomes untenable.’

  These were strong words, and ones that – though we didn’t know it then – would soon be heard publicly for the first time.

  ‘Do you ever worry that you might become a target for assassination?’ I asked.

  Father José smiled warmly. ‘I trust in God to protect me.’ He glanced down at my empty cup. ‘Can I get you some more tea?’

  ~ ~ ~

  The provisional government were not the only ones to dislike José Luis Sentido. The US Government had always disapproved of the man. ‘That asshole should stick to preaching,’ Beverley Chang muttered, taking a sip of whiskey.

  Chang was a well-placed functionary at the US Embassy. Dick Carter had known her for years. The two were sharing a drink in Luigi’s, a popular bar and grill on Avenida 42 Sur. Dick had a notepad to hand, though the meeting was strictly off the record.

  Chang was a tall, youthful-looking woman, with a streak of grey hair and the beginnings of an oversized belly. She had an enormous fondness for whiskey and none at all for Father José Luis Sentido. ‘He always gets in the way,’ she growled.

  Dick couldn’t hide his amusement. ‘He’s just speaking his mind. You lot are all in favour of free speech, aren’t you?’

  ‘Up to a point. But Jesus, we’re trying to help these people. We’re busting a gut to set up proper democratic elections and this asshole shoots off, saying it’s a waste of time.’

  ‘You’re not telling me you condone the raid?’

  ‘On Radio Libertad? Hell, no. Those guys are doing a great job. We had to lean real hard to get permission for them to start up again after Ladrón died. But the last thing this country needs is José frigging Sentido. And I’m not going to get upset if one lousy tape goes walkabouts.’

  Dick changed the subject. ‘Do your lot keep much of an eye on the Azulitos?’

  ‘Sure. We keep watch. Why?’

  ‘Had a tip–off something was going on. All sorts of meetings.’

  ‘First I’ve heard.’

  ‘Probably nothing. But the kid never usually gets it wrong.’

  Bev Chang shrugged. ‘I guess you’ll find out soon enough. You want another drink?’

  Dick glanced at his watch. It was ten to eight. ‘Not for me, mate. I want to find the nearest radio.’ He was curious to see what Radio Libertad would put out in place of the Sentido interview.

  ~ ~ ~

  The battered radiogram crackled into life.

  A somewhat inebriated Dick had joined me back at the Casa to listen to the broadcast. I had been intending to pick up my luggage that afternoon, to move across to the Intercontinental Hotel, but dusk had fallen and Madam Fulana had persuaded me to stay another night. Dick was probably too drunk to drive us to the hotel in any case.

  After the pips on the hour – a strange echo of the BBC World Service which seemed out of place in Toronja – the clear, confident voice of Isabella Valentía could be heard, booming out of the tiny speaker.

  ‘Good evening San Doloroso. Last night, as you may be aware, Edificio Libertad was raided by the police and the master tape of an interview with Father José Luis Sentido was seized. The provisional government claims that Father José’s words are inflammatory and constitute nothing less than incitement to violence. We utterly refute that assertion.’

  Dick grinned. ‘Too bloody right!’

  ‘This raid represents a gross infringement of our freedom of expression. Radio Libertad is an independent station. It is up to us, not the government, to decide whether an interview is suitable for broadcast. Luckily, despite the best efforts of the Toronja Metropolitan Police, we have managed to retain a copy of the interview.’

  Dick raised an eyebrow. ‘Blimey! She kept that quiet.’

  ‘And we now intend t
o broadcast it in its entirety. We will leave it to you, our loyal listeners, to judge whether or not we have overstepped the mark.’

  There was a slight pause as the live sound faded out and the recorded interview began. The priest’s voice could soon be heard, not just in the Casa, but crackling out of radio sets across the entire country.

  ‘The provisional government are not going to like that,’ I said.

  Chapter Six

  Lolita Corazón leapt forward enthusiastically. A good Catholic girl, she was already dressed for church as I descended the stairs late on Sunday morning. I greeted her warily. Lolita’s dress was long and modest; it complimented her olive skin but belied the animation in her face. ‘You come with us?’ she exclaimed.

  Dick Carter was clomping down the stairs behind me. He had been too drunk to drive home and had joined me for the night at Madam Fulana’s. ‘Just don’t tell the wife,’ he begged at three o’clock in the morning. It was not as if he’d done anything other than sleep. We were both dressed smartly for the morning service. I had lent Dick a clean shirt and some trousers, both of which were a trifle short on him. He shook his head, in answer to Lolita. ‘We’re off to get some brekkie,’ he explained. ‘Then we’re heading for Ardiente.’ It was going to be a busy day.

  After the service, which Father José had kindly invited us to attend, I would be heading off to interview Emilio Títere, the government’s official candidate. I had spoken to him briefly on the telephone the previous day to confirm the time. Dick was more interested in Father José’s sermon. After the broadcast the night before, he was certain there were going to be fireworks.

  Lolita stared at us with wide eyes. ‘You go see Father José?’ she asked. The girl had obviously assumed we would be visiting a local church. When Dick nodded, she grabbed me by the arm. ‘I come. I see. I want to see him.’ Lolita, it transpired, had a special reason for showing an interest in Father José. Her family had been one of the last to be relocated under El Hombrito. His words spoke to her and others like her in a way I could barely begin to understand.

  ‘I don’t mind the girl tagging along,’ Dick said, with a glint in his eye. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘I be very good,’ she assured me.

  That did not seem likely.

  An unofficial roadblock was being erected just outside Ardiente. We were driving towards the centre of town, on the main Toronja road. A group of four Indians in blue baseball caps were chopping down tree trunks and laying them at the side of the road. This was my first real sight of the Azulitos in action. The men were short but thickset and as I had learnt were dressed completely in blue. Each had a baton attached to his waist and a machete in his hand. A small pick up truck rested at the side of the road. There were perhaps four or five men working, in all.

  ‘Reminds me of old times,’ Dick laughed nervously.

  In the back seat of the car, Lolita shuddered.

  The Azulitos no longer had the authority to erect roadblocks, but Dick and I were not about to stop and tell them. Their presence so close to Ardiente did not bode well for the morning service.

  The Church of Santa Maria la Virgen was packed to capacity. The radio broadcast had reaffirmed Father José’s popularity and his supporters were out in force.

  The police were also there, on the outskirts. Dick found a senior officer and demanded to know why there was a police presence at all, given that it was a Sunday and people were just going to church as usual. ‘We do what we’re told,’ the man replied curtly. ‘After that rubbish they broadcast last night, anything might happen. And when it does, we’ll be ready for it.’ He fingered the barrel of his rifle with unnerving assurance.

  Lolita and I settled in front of the altar as Father José began the day’s sermon. The priest spoke quietly and at great length, addressing his flock in Escoria rather than Spanish or Latin. I didn’t speak the language but the meaning of his words shone through in every gesture; and the congregation listened in reverent silence. Despite his age, Father José had a peculiar animation when preaching to his flock.

  Dick was outside, patrolling the front of the church. He was convinced, after the tip off from Nacho, that something unpleasant was going to happen here. Events had been set in motion even before the interview with Father José had been broadcast. He eyed the green and white police car, parked on the opposite side of the street. Further down the road, a trio of Azulitos were chain-smoking tobacco.

  After Mass, Father José stood at the entrance to the church and chatted amiably with the departing congregation. His regulars were effusive in their praise and it took some time for the stream of people to pass out of the church. I was towards the back of the queue, with Lolita Corazón, who was clutching my arm with barely suppressed enthusiasm. The sermon had touched her deeply.

  Dick caught my eye as I shuffled out into the sunlight. ‘All right so far,’ he murmured. ‘How was the service?’

  ‘It was beautiful,’ Lolita said, in her heavily accented English. She leant forward to embrace Father José. Just then, a rifle fired and a bullet struck the church wall a couple of inches behind the priest’s head. Lolita screamed. Dick grabbed Father José and bundled him back into the church.

  A second shot rang out and the congregation started to panic. I took hold of Lolita and pulled her into the building after Dick. ‘Quickly,’ I said. I had not had time to see where the bullets were coming from. An upstairs window, perhaps, on the other side of the street.

  Dick called out to us from the far end of the church. We followed him into the chapel and through a side entrance out into the open air. Because of the traffic, I’d had to park the hire car on a side street. Two Azulitos were standing at the back of the building. They saw us and called out to alert their friends.

  Father José was too weak to run for it. He was an old man; it was too much to expect. Dick grabbed hold of him and carried the priest over his shoulder.

  The Azulitos caught us in seconds. One swung a baseball bat through the air and it smacked me across the stomach. I reeled under the impact. The other man grabbed Lolita around the waist. This was something of a mistake. Lolita was no stranger to aggressive men. She bit his hand savagely and kicked him in the groin. The man staggered backwards. Meantime, the first Azulito had drawn out his machete. He swung the knife straight at me. It would have struck home, but Lolita yanked me away with millimetres to spare.

  The hire car was locked. In the three seconds it took me to find the key, the Azulito with the machete had reached us. Dick managed to grapple with the man while I opened the doors. Lolita had sprinted around the other side and was already helping the bewildered Father José into the back seat.

  People were running down the road beside us, escaping from the front of the church. They were being pursued by yet more thugs. The police were doing nothing to intervene.

  Dick finally managed to punch the Azulito and get free. He slid into the passenger seat and I drove off. The Azulito recovered and launched himself at the car, his hands trying to grab at Lolita through the open window. ‘Pig!’ she spat and punched him in the face. The Azulito fell away.

  Our troubles were not over. The front of the church was jammed with people. We had no option but to arc left, onto the main Toronja road. This was where the Azulitos had been setting up their roadblock.

  ‘Just ram them,’ Dick said, ‘run straight through.’

  This was not an option. Half a mile from the church, a massive tree trunk had been lowered across the road. I slammed on the brakes. There was forest either side of us. We had no way around or through the blockade. Quickly, I put the Fiesta into reverse, but a small truck was hurtling towards us from behind. In the back, out in the open air, were five stocky Azulitos. The truck careered sideways across the centre of the road, blocking our retreat. I hit the brakes a second time and the car screeched to a halt.

  ‘Run for it!’ Dick screamed. The car doors flew open. Dick grabbed Father José and pulled him into the undergrowth.
<
br />   The men at the roadblock were armed with more than just machetes. They opened fire and I saw Father José slump abruptly. Dick snatched hold of him and carried him off.

  I flew away in the opposite direction. This was an error on my part. The men from the truck darted after me. One launched himself at my legs and brought me crashing to the ground. He raised a knife and tried to plunge it into my stomach. I caught his hand and for a moment there was deadlock; then Lolita smacked into his back. The knife shifted upwards and slammed into the Azulito’s chest. I will never forget the look of surprise on his face.

  As he fell backwards, other hands grabbed Lolita. She spat and kicked as I scrabbled to my feet. Then a baseball bat impacted on the back of my head and that was the last I knew of anything.

  Chapter Seven

  A dinner party was being held that same afternoon, at a private ranch on the outskirts of Toronja.

  Charlotte McBride was proving a rather reluctant hostess. Freddie’s political nonsense was, in her opinion, beginning to take up far too much of her time. It was all very well taking money from the government but her boyfriend was beginning to let the whole thing go to his head. It wasn’t as if he was a real politician. It was all just a set–up. And the new people he was associating with were, in her opinion, ‘a bunch of complete wankers.’

  Juan Federico had organised the dinner some time in advance. The leader of the Partido Revolucionario Democrático was anxious to ensure that his new political friends were well looked after; but he had promised Charlotte this would be the last call upon her time until well after the deadline for registration of presidential candidates. That would give her at least a few days shopping time before the election campaign began in earnest.