Doctor Frigo (31 page)

I left him to dress. Shortly afterwards he returned to the
drawing-room. At seven there was a hush as his television appearance was announced.

It went off reasonably well. The crew at Les Muettes had done their work well. The fact that he spoke as if from the Presidential Palace passed unnoticed. Either he had not actually used the word ‘presidential’ or some technician had managed to cut it out. There was applause at the end. By this time the floodlights outside had been switched on and the television screens began to show pictures of the outside of the Palace of Justice and the assembling crowd. This, El Lobo informed me with a knowing leer, was almost entirely composed of university and high-school students brought in by buses from a special assembly area. ‘Santo power, you see Doctor? It is exactly as he promised you. Youth comes running when Don Tomás calls.’ He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. ‘Some of it anyway. I shall soon be introducing you to a few of
my
friends. Much more interesting, I promise you.’

He moved away before I could answer. I went in search of Doñna Julia to tell her I was leaving. Paco intercepted me. It was only then that I learned that I was expected to stay for the ceremony and stand on the balcony where I could be seen by the cameras.

I tried to object but he wouldn’t listen.

‘It is a sacrifice your natural modesty must make for the cause,’ he said fatuously. ‘Public relations, Ernesto. We must all have an air of respectability tonight and your solemn countenance is indispensable. Between Father Bartolomé and the representative of the Port Authority would be a good place for you I think.’

I didn’t agree, but there was no sense in arguing. For an unhealthy man of his age, Paco had done well to stay on his feet after the strains of the past twenty-four hours. He had probably rested during the afternoon, but now he was having to resort to the brandy bottle in order to keep going. When the move out on to the balcony began I kept well away from him and Father Bartolomé. From trying to
photograph Molinet’s lumps of stone for Elizabeth I know something about the importance of key lights. I thought that if I could mingle with the provincial mayors there was a very good chance of my not being seen at all by the cameras except as one vague grey blob among others.

It was El Lobo who put paid to that idea. His hand gripped my elbow and his voice said, ‘No hiding please, Doctor. This is your place.’ The next moment I found myself standing beside him right up against the balustrade.

I couldn’t see anything beyond because the lights were blinding, but there was sudden cheering from a section below. Evidently he knew it was for him because he acknowledged it by raising his left hand in a clenched fist salute. His right still gripped my arm, but the pressure relaxed.

‘You see, Doctor?’ he murmured. ‘Nothing like a majority, of course, nor even a substantial minority, but the ones who matter. Santos has the sheep. I have the military goats. What did you give our revered new President back there? A pep pill?’

I tried to move away but the grip tightened again. ‘No, you’d better stay. They’re all watching now. It wouldn’t do to look as if you were afraid to let the people see you.’

By then I probably couldn’t have moved anyway. Those at the back were elbowing their way forward, some almost fighting to get into the lights.

Then Santos called loudly for silence and announced Don Manuel. A great cheer went up as he came forward to the microphones. On the balcony some cheered, some clapped and some did both. El Lobo was among the latter.

The Presidential oath, I seem to remember, has in the past been administered by the reigning Minister of Justice. As he was among those who had gone – abdicated is the word perhaps – the Procurator-General was given the job. He looked less than delighted by the honour and the elderly woman just behind him – his wife presumably – looked quite sour. She was probably brooding over the mess of
spilled drinks and smouldering cigar butts behind her in their apartment.

Don Manuel – or should I call him El Presidente now? – took the oath in a loud clear voice. I couldn’t help wondering though
which
Constitution he swore to uphold, the existing one or number forty-seven, the one he was browsing through at Les Muettes? Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

He made a short acceptance speech. This was only the beginning of a new era in the country’s long history. There was much work to be done, but for a truly united people it would be an era of unprecedented peace and prosperity. Not peace for a few, not prosperity for a few, but, through firm policies of social justice, peace and prosperity for all. He asked for their trust, hoped to earn their affection.

Modest.

After the rest of us had cleared off the balcony he made three appearances with only Santos beside him, and one with Doñna Julia.

Arranged with Paco that massage tomorrow will be at six unless contrary instructions are received. Saw Doñna Julia for a moment. She will get patient to go to bed as soon as she can. She didn’t deny that she, too, was exhausted. Nothing more I could do. Security had arranged that a few shuttle cars to Nuevo Mundo would operate from rear entrance of Palace through streets closed to crowd.

Back soon after nine. Security men in foyer watching television. Crowd not moving from Palace. Still much excitement. Expected that El Presidente will make another balcony appearance. Rumour, originating in Bogota, that United States has already pledged recognition of new régime. Most unlikely. Probable distortion of US Ambassador’s semi-official statement at OAS meeting.

Still, if Delvert is watching, and he almost certainly is, he will be pleased.

I am in political disgrace.

I had been hoping to sleep late this morning – God knows I was tired enough – but those two naps I had yesterday plus the hour time difference defeated me. I was wide awake at seven, so ordered breakfast.

I had eaten the fruit and was just pouring coffee when someone started hammering on the door. This didn’t surprise me. With the breakfast I had also ordered the newspapers. The waiter had said that he would have them sent up from downstairs. Naturally I assumed that the person hammering was a bell-boy with the papers but no pass key, so I called him to push them under the door. There was more hammering and then I heard Paco’s voice shouting for the floor waiter.

A moment later a pass key turned in the lock, the door flew open and Paco charged in like a maniac. He was followed by Rosier. Both were in pyjamas and both were clutching newspapers.

Paco stood over me brandishing papers in my face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he screamed and then began to splutter incoherently.

Beyond him I caught a glimpse of a terrified waiter, key in hand, before Rosier slammed the door in his face.

I put the coffee pot down and said good morning. There didn’t seem anything else to be done until Paco calmed down. He was shaking with anger and purple in the face.

Rosier was more coherent. ‘You haven’t seen them?’ he asked.

‘Seen what?’

‘The newspapers.’

‘I’ve just sent for them.’

‘Take mine and prepare yourself for a shock.’ He dropped them on my tray. ‘At least I hope it’ll be a shock.’

There are only three daily newspapers published in the capital –
El Dia
and
La Hora
, which constitute the popular press, and
El Nacional
which is read mainly for its business news and legal notices.
El Nacional
rarely prints news pictures on its front page.

This morning it had four. Two were of Don Manuel: one of him on the steps of the arriving plane, the other of him taking the presidential oath. A third showed the line-up on the Palace balcony, with me standing woodenly beside El Lobo as he gave his clenched-fist salute. The fourth was of me kneeling before my father’s tomb with Monsignor Montanaro standing over me.

El Nacional
’s pictures were comparatively small. Those in the other two papers covered whole spreads.
La Hora
, always mildly anticlerical, favoured Don Manuel.
El Dia
gave the monsignor and me a whole page to ourselves under a single word – REUNITED! There was I, looking like a penitent crow, being blessed by a wizened cherub. There was I, in fact trying to ward off one of the touchers, but being made by the Monsignor’s delicate gesture of remonstrance, to look as if I were appealing to her for aid and comfort. They also had a blow-up of El Lobo and me looking as if we had been the only ones on the balcony – the caption was COMRADES OF THE FUTURE? The news that the newly sworn-in President had entrusted the task of forming an all-party cabinet to Don Tomás Santos was enclosed in a small box.

I screwed the papers up, threw them on the floor and rang the bell.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Rosier.

‘My coffee’s cold. I want a fresh pot.’

Uncle Paco had begun to recover. ‘You must be insane,’ he snarled.

‘I think so too. I should have stayed in St Paul.’

‘May we save the jokes for later, Doctor?’ Rosier was
getting flushed now. ‘Obviously you didn’t stage this production yourself. Who did?’

‘His Eminence the Papal Nuncio.’

‘I said no jokes, Doctor.’

I was now beginning to get angry myself. ‘And who the hell are you to say anything, Mister Rosier?’

‘Señnor Rosier has diplomatic status,’ snapped Paco.

‘And you’re the new Foreign Minister,’ I retorted. ‘So if you want to reprimand somebody summon the Papal Nuncio.’ The waiter came in answer to the bell. ‘More coffee please.’

‘For three, señnor?’

‘For one.’

As soon as the door closed Paco exploded again.

‘You’re lying!’

‘Don’t say that, Uncle Paco, or I shall have to throw you out instead of asking you to leave, and you’re too old for violence. At the airport yesterday morning the Papal Nuncio suggested that I visited my father’s grave in company with Monsignor Montanaro.’

‘You should have refused!’

‘To put flowers on my father’s grave? I would have performed that duty anyway I hope.’

‘With Montanaro? Do you realize who he is?’

‘A high dignitary of the Church here, I assumed. Who else would be with the Nuncio?’

‘He is the man who has been demanding the excommunication of Father Bartolomé.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’

‘Ah, you are beginning to see sense.’

‘I’m beginning to wish that I had been politer to the Monsignor. Excommunicating Father Bartolomé is an excellent idea. I hope the Vatican agrees.’

‘He
is
insane,’ said Rosier and added what sounded to me like the English equivalent of
merde.

I glowered at him. ‘Then you will have something to
report to the Latin-American Chamber of Commerce at their next meeting.’

‘But why did you not consult?’ Paco demanded. ‘Don Manuel asked you at breakfast what you were going to do. I heard him myself. Why were you so secretive?’

‘I wasn’t being secretive. It wasn’t unnatural that I should visit my father’s grave, was it? If you think I enjoyed the display that was made of the occasion – and I had nothing at all to do with that – or that I like my face being plastered all over these stupid newspapers you are very much mistaken.’

He sighed heavily. ‘Well you can save your explanations and apologies for Don Manuel. He will receive you at eleven this morning.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He is extremely angry.’

‘Possibly, but I asked whether there was anything the matter with him. Has he been vomiting, has he a temperature? Because unless there is some medical reason why I, as his doctor, should go to see him this morning, I don’t propose to do so.’

‘You forget yourself, Ernesto. He is now your President.’

‘And I am his doctor. My next appointment with him is tomorrow at six. If he wants me at the Palace in any other capacity he’ll have to order my arrest and have me taken there by force.’

The waiter bringing my fresh coffee prevented him from answering immediately.

‘Is that the reply you wish me to give him?’ he said at last.

‘Not if you think it will anger him still further. That would be bad for his blood pressure. Give him any reply you think suitable. Last night you were telling me about the importance of public relations and of the value of my solemn countenance. Perhaps something along those lines will do. If he doesn’t like the way this public relations job was handled and wants apologies, let him get them from
the Nuncio or Monsignor Montanaro. He won’t get them from me.’

‘An act of flagrant insubordination!’

‘With respect, you’re a silly old fool.’

‘You’ll regret this, Ernesto.’

‘I already deeply regret it, but for personal reasons, not because it has upset Father Bartolomé or Don Manuel.’

There was a polite tap at the door. It was the boy from downstairs with my copies of the newspapers.

Paco and Rosier left without another word. I drank my coffee. It tasted horrible. In countries where they grow the stuff it frequently does.

For something to do I sat down and wrote letters to my sisters apologizing in advance for the newspaper photographs that they will undoubtedly see before very long. I also told them that I was the new President’s doctor. That I knew would please them.

Showered and shaved. At ten o’clock there was a telephone call from Santos’s office at the Ministry of Education. Don Tomás wished to speak with me if it would be convenient. If not, perhaps I would return his call.

I braced myself for another dressing-down from higher authority and said that it would be convenient to speak now.

To my surprise Don Tomás did not even refer to the newspapers except to say that, as I had doubtless read in the press, he had been entrusted by the President with the task of forming a new cabinet. Naturally, this was a heavy responsibility and would take time as there were many posts to be filled. He would value my advice in certain areas. Could he prevail upon me to call on him at the Ministry tomorrow? At ten-thirty in the morning say? That would be convenient? It would not interfere with any commitment I had to Don Manuel? Good. Until tomorrow then.