The Pineapple Republic

by Jack Treby

  The ritual was not entirely free of modern influences. In times of old, the shaman would have been bare–chested, with a straw headdress and reed skirt. Jorgé simply wore jeans and a faded t–shirt. But his body moved to a rhythm that was hundreds of years old and even I found myself carried away by the haunting whistle of the simple village shaman.

  The dancing slowed. Gradually, the villagers fell back and resumed the circle. They sat cross-legged now, with their heads bowed. The shaman, still in a trance, visited each of them in turn. This was the moment the villagers had waited for. One by one, they proffered up their treasures and the young shaman took hold of each item in turn. Then he lifted his staff and spoke aloud to the heavens. What language he spoke nobody knew but the words he intoned were the words of each ancestor in turn. That at least was what the villagers believed.

  The mind boggled at how any of this would look in the glossy full colour pages of Bienvenida magazine, Central America’s disturbingly glamorous answer to Hello. To a western eye, the ritual would seem primitive and parochial. But sitting there watching the ceremony in person, I had to admit, I was powerless to stop the hairs rising on the back of my neck. Perhaps it was the effects of the drug, but at one point I could have sworn I had seen my own mother reaching out to me from the flames.

  But that, of course, was impossible.

  She was in the hands of the Toronja Metropolitan Police.

  The Central Police Headquarters was a large, rounded building that dominated the northern ridge of the Plaza de los Mártires. It was a three-story affair – or five if you counted the two subterranean levels – and was as wide as a department store. Huge concrete steps led up to the main entrance and armed guards were permanently stationed at the top of them. A glass doorway led on to the badly lit interior. It was a building that struck fear into the heart of San Dolorosons everywhere. Many people entered it and never came out again. I was becoming a regular visitor.

  Walking up the narrow steps, the day following my embarrassing photo–op in Antiguo, I fumbled to retrieve my identity card from a plastic wallet. Two plain–clothes men, who had been following me from a respectful distance, gave a quick wave to the policemen on the door. One of the guards already knew me by sight and he nodded me through.

  The entrance lobby was wide but functional. Opposite the glass doorway, some five metres back, was an uninspiring metal desk. Behind the desk sat the familiar and equally uninspiring figure of the desk sergeant. As always, he managed to contain his enthusiasm at my arrival. I greeted him courteously and the shabbily dressed sergeant pressed a buzzer underneath his desk. Two constables arrived and subjected me to a full body search. The sergeant meantime made a close examination of the contents of my bag. Only when this unnecessary harassment was complete was I allowed access to the inner sanctum.

  The two policemen escorted me to the lower levels. They hovered for a moment outside the cell door. I had the curious feeling that they were expecting a tip. I ignored them both and entered the gloomy dungeon.

  Lolita Corazón greeted me with typical exuberance. I was only grateful she wasn’t wearing any lipstick. It took me several minutes to calm the girl down. She was obviously feeling starved of company. A prison cell was not a natural environment for such a gregarious young woman.

  Antonio Fracaso had suggested I pop my head around the door occasionally – to maintain the fiction of my improbable obsession with the bubbly nineteen year old – and in the circumstances, it was the least I could do. It was my fault she was in prison at all.

  We sat next to each other on a faded mattress. Her cell was more comfortable than mine had been. It was reasonably clean and there was a grill at the top of one wall that let in a small amount of light. But it was still a prison cell and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, locked up in here with me as her only visitor.

  I would have to do my best to cheer her up.

  ‘Madam Fulana sends her love,’ I said, leaning forward and opening my bag. ‘She’s sent you some clothes.’

  The doña had insisted I bring Lolita a small bundle from the Casa. The police hadn’t provided her with any clothing at all. She was still wearing the black dress she had worn at her father’s funeral. I could see the tear in the hem. Lolita beamed at me as she rifled through the clothes. It was mostly practical things; underwear and such like. The desk sergeant had taken rather too long inspecting it all before allowing the bag through; but it was worth it just to see the light in Lolita’s eyes. She lifted up a pink camisole and held it to her. ‘You like this?’

  ‘Er...very nice.’

  I turned my back politely and she peeled off her dress.

  ‘How have they been treating you?’ I asked, my eyes firmly fixed on the far wall.

  ‘They are pigs!’ She spat. I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around. She looked rather fetching now in a pink top and a ruffled white skirt. ‘The inspector...’ She spat again, for emphasis. ‘He comes occasionally.’

  I shuddered. Lolita was used to sleeping with disagreeable men but Lopez was particularly vile. It was the inspector, needless to say, who had given orders to keep her at the police station. By rights, she should have been in Aislado, on remand. Apparently, they had struck a deal. Lolita had been worried about her family and Lopez had promised to protect them from Azulito reprisals. In return, she would continue to grant him her favours. It was not a pleasant arrangement, but family was everything to Lolita and if anyone was in a position to influence the Azulitos it was Chief Inspector Lopez.

  ‘You think I will be out soon?’ she asked me.

  ‘I...I’m not sure.’

  Lolita looked down.

  ‘Everyone’s doing their best to get you out,’ I assured her, somewhat dishonestly. ‘The authorities have promised to review your case as soon as the elections are over.’ I couldn’t tell the girl anything more; not with so many people listening in to our conversation. After my talk with Antonio Fracaso, I had become very aware of the possibility of eavesdropping.

  Lolita put a hand on my leg and squeezed it gently. ‘You are a good man,’ she said.

  It certainly didn’t feel like it. But for me, Lolita’s father would still have been alive. And now I was concealing the truth.

  ~ ~ ~

  A bulky figure appeared from nowhere and blocked out the sun. Dick Carter looked up. Chief Inspector Lopez was standing opposite him, a huge bear of a man with an unpleasant expression on his face. Lopez always had an unpleasant expression on his face. Strangely, he was not in uniform and he looked uncomfortable in jeans and a casual shirt. Dick was just finishing off a pint of Sonrisa at his usual table on the Plaza Mayor. He stubbed out a cigarette and gestured for Lopez to sit. He hadn’t been expecting the man – the two had only met in passing before – but the journalist was nothing if not hospitable. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Lopez seemed ill at ease. ‘I don’t drink,’ he replied, in an unfriendly tone of voice.

  ‘So...to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  The inspector leaned forward. ‘Listen, Sunny. I don’t like you. I don’t like your kind. You’re a professional liar, that’s what you are. No better than scum.’

  Dick stifled a laugh. ‘Am I missing something here?’ He was well used to being insulted, but not usually by strangers and especially not when he had just offered to buy them a drink.

  ‘You’ll be missing an arm if you don’t shut up and listen!’ Lopez barked.

  ‘Hey now look,’ Dick protested. ‘I’m just sitting here having a smoke and a quiet drink. I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you, but if all you’re going to do is sit there and insult me...’ He rose to his feet.

  ‘You stay where you are!’ Lopez snarled.

  Dick lifted up his hands. ‘Look, mate, if you’ve got something to say, why not just say it?’

  The inspector glanced around nervously. Dick got the impression that he didn’t want to be seen. Presumably, that was why he was out of uniform. ‘I’ve got a mess
age for you,’ he said.

  The penny finally dropped. Dick had been sending out feelers for several days. That was why Lopez didn’t want to be seen. It wouldn’t look good for a police inspector to be running errands on behalf of the Azulitos, even if one of them was the man’s own brother.

  ‘What message?’ Dick asked.

  ‘Certain friends of mine tell me you want to speak to them.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Now that the US government had forced the Junta to break off all relations with the Azulitos, a proper meeting with a senior figure would be a considerable coup.

  ‘Go to a house on Avenida 54 Norte. Number 73. There’ll be a van parked outside. You’ll be taken to a meeting place. Bring some clothes. You’ll be gone for thirty–six hours.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Monday morning. Ten o’clock.’ Lopez rose to his feet. ‘Make sure you’re there.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  A black limousine was parked out in the driveway and two soldiers were standing to attention by the front door. I had not visited the ranch before and it wasn’t at all what I had expected. The house itself was a good half a mile from the main road and the estate was completely fenced off. There was grassland within, alive with insects, and a huge lake that was too perfectly formed to be entirely natural. Fields of pineapple stretched off into the distance.

  Three weeks earlier, the ranch had belonged to Juan Federico Pelele. Now it was the luxury residence of Señorita McBride, citizen of San Doloroso. Charlotte had certainly landed on her feet.

  After paying off a belligerent taxi driver – the transport strike was now a distant memory – I made my way across to the main entrance. The doorway was framed by huge mock–Roman pillars. Two soldiers stood in front of it. One of them stepped forward, rifle in hand, and demanded to see my identity card. Only after a thorough examination was I permitted to ring the doorbell.

  I waited nervously for a response.

  After a few seconds, a manservant arrived and opened the door. He was a tall fellow of African ancestry. He wore black trousers and a pristine white shirt, unbuttoned at the top. Hardly anybody seems to wear a tie in San Doloroso. Politely, he bade me enter.

  The hallway was enormous. A sparkling spiral staircase stretched upwards from the back of the entrance hall.

  A man was descending the stairs. He was dressed in white trousers and a casual shirt. For a moment, I didn’t recognise him; then a television image flashed across my mind and I was able to put a name to the face. It was General Federico Hernandez Malvado. That explained the guards on the door. Malvado was short and stocky, but of Spanish rather than Indian extraction. He had a thick bushy moustache and large, rounded eyes. Even in casual dress, he had a commanding presence. Everything Charlotte had told me about the man was true. But she hadn’t told me he’d be here. ‘General Malvado,’ I mumbled.

  The great man glanced at me without interest. ‘You’re the journalist,’ he said. His voice was unnervingly quiet. ‘Viscoso needs to discuss some matters with you.’

  ‘Er...is he here?’ I asked.

  The general looked at his watch. ‘He will be shortly. I have things to attend to.’ Malvado moved past me but he stopped at the door. ‘Listen carefully to Viscoso. Nobody is indispensable.’

  With these words, Federico Hernandez Malvado departed. It was the first time he had deigned to speak to me and it would probably be the last.

  The manservant closed the door behind the departing general and showed me through to the drawing room. It was a long, elegant space, lined with books and tasteful works of modern art. Two large leather armchairs sat facing a redundant bronze fireplace. The room created a powerful impression of intelligence and old–world sophistication.

  ‘The señorita will be down shortly,’ the servant informed me blandly.

  I walked across to the bookcase. Many of the works had Latin titles. From what I knew of the late Juan Federico, I doubted any of the books would ever have been read; but perhaps I did the man an injustice.

  A few minutes later, the door from the hallway opened. Charlotte McBride greeted me with a broad smile. She had a bath towel wrapped around her body and her hair was slicked back against her scalp. ‘Sorry to keep you, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I always like to cool off with a quick shower.’ She came forward and greeted me like an old friend. I had only met Charlotte three times before. I tried to avoid the water dripping from her scalp as she kissed me on both cheeks. Her hand rested lightly on my chest and she looked down at my torso in friendly amusement. ‘Do you ever go anywhere without a tie?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I...it’s force of habit, I suppose.’ Hastily, I changed the subject. ‘I just saw the general leaving.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘He never stays long. Shall we sit down?’ She gestured to the two leather armchairs. ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’

  I nodded, seating myself in front of the fireplace. ‘Something cold, if you’ve got it. Was the general here on business?’

  Charlotte grinned. ‘Absolutely.’ There was an odd look in her eye. ‘Just going over the details of the transfer of ownership.’ The manservant departed and Charlotte gazed out of a nearby window with a satisfied air. The ranch stretched out beyond as far as the eye could see. ‘It’s all mine now. Poor old Freddie. I don’t think he ever really appreciated the place.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I...er...I gather Viscoso asked you to get in touch with me,’ I ventured, tentatively. I was glad it was the civil servant rather than Charlotte herself. I had been rather worried that the woman might have an ulterior motive. She had been rather cryptic on the telephone.

  ‘Yes. He wants to talk to you “man to man”. Lots of tedious political stuff, I shouldn’t wonder. Freddie thought it would be better for you to meet out here, where there aren’t any listening devices.’

  I frowned. ‘Freddie?’

  ‘The general. Federico.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘It confuses me too. But I can’t bring myself to call him “Hernandez”.’ Her eyes misted over for a moment. ‘You know, he’s nowhere near the ogre everyone thinks he is. He can be really sweet when he puts his mind to it.’

  ‘That was the first time I’ve met him,’ I admitted. ‘He was shorter than I expected.’

  ‘They all are over here, aren’t they? But there’s being short and there’s being short. The general’s not exactly lacking in stature.’

  ‘Er...no.’

  Charlotte grinned mischievously. ‘They stand him on a box whenever he has to appear on TV.’

  The manservant returned with two pineapple batidos. The drinks were ice cold and very smooth. I downed mine in a matter of seconds.

  Outside, a car could be heard pulling up in the driveway. A few minutes later, Alberto Viscoso was shown into the drawing room. The civil servant, like everyone else, was dressed very casually. I was beginning to feel a little out of place.

  ‘Señor Patrick Malone, my dear friend.’ Viscoso beamed, coming forward. ‘How are you?’ He extended a hand and I greeted him clumsily.

  Charlotte rose up beside me and nodded her head in my direction. ‘Well, here he is, as promised.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t too much trouble getting out here,’ Viscoso fawned. ‘Such a pleasant retreat. A perfect place for a quiet little tête à tête, don’t you think?

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Charlotte agreed.

  It was as good a place as any. I had been trying to arrange a meeting with the civil servant ever since my back street encounter with Antonio Fracaso. Up until now, I had been unsuccessful.

  ‘Why don’t you take a walk in the grounds?’ Charlotte suggested. ‘I should go and put some clothes on. Then I’ll see about some tea for later.’

  Viscoso watched admiringly as Charlotte McBride took her leave. ‘A delightful woman, the señorita, don’t you think?’

  ‘Er...yes, very nice.’

  ‘And I think she is right. It might be better to move away from the house. We wouldn’t wa
nt our conversation to be overheard, would we?’ The civil servant gestured to an adjoining door. ‘Would you care to join me in a little walk?’ I followed him through towards the back of the house.

  The grounds stretched for half a mile in every direction. I covered my eyes and fumbled for my sunglasses. The sun was almost directly above us. A path ran straight ahead through the fields. Pineapples were ripening by the hundreds on either side. The late Juan Federico had certainly done his bit for San Doloroso’s export drive.

  Viscoso’s mind was on other matters. ‘I’ve just seen a copy of one of your newspaper interviews,’ he confided.

  At Dick’s insistence, I had reluctantly granted a few words to some of my fellow hacks. It had been a painful experience. The first question they had asked me was about sleeping in a brothel. It was my own fault for agreeing to an interview with the News Of The World.

  ‘I must confess, my understanding of colloquial English is a little limited. But a fascinating piece nonetheless.’

  How Viscoso had got hold of a copy of a British Sunday newspaper on its day of publication was beyond me.

  ‘I’ve also seen an advance copy of La Voz,’ he said. That was the second interview I had given.

  La Voz was one of San Doloroso’s longest running and least respected newspapers. It had rarely ever been more than a mouthpiece for the government. My interview with them wasn’t due to be published until Tuesday. No doubt the authorities had been sent an advance copy for approval. The finished piece was unlikely to be complementary. The newspaper would be at pains to maintain the fiction of me being an “opposition leader”.

  Viscoso seemed impressed, anyway. ‘I must congratulate you. You have a remarkable ability to speak at great length without saying anything of any significance whatsoever.’