Doctor Frigo (30 page)

I managed to walk past the spot, seen so often in the photographs, without appearing to pay it any attention.

After we had all been installed in our rooms, and the policemen still searching for spies and saboteurs in the wardrobes had been withdrawn, breakfast was served in a private salon.

It was well served and did everyone good. Even the Procurator’s temper had improved – he had learned that he was to move from his apartment into the Presidential Suite. Don Manuel was looking tired but cheerful. He had also for the moment dropped the presidential We.

‘I needed that,’ he said as he finished his second cup of coffee. ‘And what do you intend to do with your day, Ernesto?’

‘That depends on you, Don Manuel. Sleep, perhaps. I couldn’t prevail upon you to rest, I suppose.’

‘There is too much to be done. The Proclamation will be at the Palace of Justice at seven-thirty tonight. I would like you to be present for that.’

‘Then I had better come at six, Don Manuel. I hope to bring a masseur with me. It will also be time for your injections.’

Santos looked startled. ‘Injections?’

‘Vitamins, Don Tomás.’

‘Ah.’

I thought for a moment of mentioning my date with Monsignor Montanaro but had no opportunity of doing so. By then they were discussing protocol and the arrangements for film and television coverage of the Proclamation ceremony.

As soon as they had left for the Palace of Justice, I came here to my room, undressed, had a shower and set about telephoning the General Hospital.

The Procurator’s suspicion that Dr Torres had fled the country with his parents proved unfounded, but I still had difficulty in reaching him. Everyone here is security mad. The usual switchboard operator has been replaced by an army man with orders to log all calls in and out. He is also unfamiliar with the board. When, eventually, I did get the hospital the operator there was also obstructive. Dr Torres was too busy to receive calls. I could leave a message. Tempers everywhere very edgy. I now lost mine and commanded operator in the name of President Villegas to put me through. Ridiculous, but she did as I asked.

Dr Torres in a temper too.

‘Torres. What do you want?’

I began to explain who I was but he cut me short. ‘I’ve heard all that, otherwise I would not be speaking to you. What do you want?’

I told him.

‘What is the condition to be treated?’

‘Fibromyositis involving neck and shoulders. Daily massage and rest have been giving relief. But I need a good man and preferably a discreet one. I don’t want stupid rumours being started about this patient’s health.’

‘No rumours will be started from here, Doctor. I will send you the best therapist we have. Daily, you say?’

‘Yes. I can’t determine a regular time yet, you understand, Doctor.’

‘I understand. This man’s a black, by the way. Will that be acceptable to the patient?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘The man’s name is Paz Pineda. Where is he to go?’

‘The Palace of Justice this evening. But as security precautions are strict, I think I had better take him along myself. A pass can be arranged for subsequent visits. If you agree I will pick him up by car at the hospital.’

‘At what time?’

‘Five-thirty, if that is convenient, Doctor.’

‘He will be waiting for you at the main entrance.’

End of conversation. I got into bed and slept for three hours.

After lunch made effort to buy flowers for visit to cemetery, but failed. None available as growers of everything including vegetables have been forbidden to bring goods to market during ‘emergency’. Went back to bed until roused by telephone. Monsignor Montanaro waiting below.

Had half-expected that he would be unable to get through security ring. Reason for his success soon apparent. He had borrowed the Papal Nuncio’s personal car which has CD plates. Driver a young priest.

As we drove off I explained why I had no flowers. He smiled graciously. Having anticipated that difficulty he had had a wreath made for me by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. It would be awaiting us at the cemetery.

It was, along with a crowd of about a hundred persons, mostly women in black, and a posse of cameramen.

My father’s tomb is not the most ornate in the cemetery; where tombs are concerned my countrymen’s tastes tend to the extravagant. Still, it is far from modest. I remember the design for it being discussed in Florida, and my mother’s fury when the junta censored the inscription she had composed ‘Martyred for his people’s sake by evil men’, had been among the phrases disallowed. In the end she had had
to settle for his name, plus hers, and the dates of his birth and death.

As soon as I saw the crowd I wished I hadn’t come, but it was too late to back out. The wreath turned out to be an enormous confection of red and white flowers. The tomb had been decorated, too, with many photographs of my father, all in elaborate frames with quotations from his speeches on them. Presumably these were products of the back-room Castillo-cult industry about which Delvert told me in St Paul.

The diminutive Monsignor managed the affair with remarkable dignity and some ventriloquial skill. Throughout the ceremony I received from him sotto voce stage directions. His slightly parted lips scarcely moved at all.

As the crowd parted respectfully to make way for us there was some genuflecting. He ignored it. ‘We approach and stand with bowed heads, Doctor,’ he was murmuring, ‘you beside me on my left. When the wreath is brought to you, you acknowledge it gravely but in silence. Then, turning slowly, you step forward and place it so as not to obscure the inscription. Pause, bow again and step back beside me. We kneel then together in silent prayer. When I stand for the blessing remain kneeling. I will tell you when to rise. We will turn away together and return slowly to the car. Some of the people will attempt to touch you. Take no notice. This is for you a private communion with the departed.’

I did as he told me. There was nothing else I could do. It was about as private as a football match. The photographers scurried about crouching and bobbing busily. Although it was broad daylight the sky was overcast and most of them were using flash. The young priest who had driven us seemed to be the only person there inclined to restrain them. One who tried to climb on top of the tomb for a high angle shot was quite sharply reprimanded and then hissed by members of the crowd, but the Monsignor took no notice of this at all. A light tap on my shoulder told me
when he had completed the blessing. I got up then and we began our solemn progress back to the car.

It was as well that he had warned me about the touching. I found it horrible and it was hard to take no notice. One old woman threw herself on the ground in front of me and I had to step over her. By the time we reached the car again my feelings towards Monsignor Montanaro were murderous.

He evidently sensed the fact. As we drove off he said: ‘Thank you for your patience, Doctor. I think you may be feeling tricked and humiliated. I beg you to delay judgement. You do not yet realize, my son, how much good you have done today.’

‘Good for whom, Monsignor?’

He smiled sadly as if it had been a foolish question, but I noticed that he made no attempt to answer it.

‘Have you heard Don Manuel’s radio speech?’ he asked after a bit.

‘No.’

‘It has been broadcast at intervals all day. After so much martial music it is refreshingly sensible. Tonight we are promised television of both the speech and the official proclamation. That will be live. There will be little time for the commercials. What a pity the Bishop is absent abroad at such a time.’

I turned to look at him. He was smiling coyly as if inviting me to share a joke. I had no difficulty in refusing the invitation.

At the hotel he seemed disposed to come inside with me. I was glad to be able to tell him that I was due at the Palace of Justice. I was given another smile as he left.

Obviously a shuttle car that would take me to the hospital before going to the Palace involved an argument with Security; but I am getting used (too rapidly?) to issuing ultimata in the name of President Villegas in order to browbeat the unwilling. Still, I was ten minutes late at the hospital.

Paz Pineda received my apologies with surprise. He had expected me to be an hour late. Doctors always were, he said.

He is a young man, thirtyish, with a slow smile and a big mop of hair. Brown rather than black, with a beaky nose and prominent cheekbones. A lot of Arawak blood there, I would say.

He had two bags with him, one quite large. I asked him about it.

‘Fibromyositis I was told, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Nothing was said about heat but I brought a portable just in case it was needed.’

‘That was thoughtful, Señnor Pineda, but for this patient gentle massage is all that is required.’

‘I see. By the way, Doctor, most people call me Paz. It’s shorter.’

The Palace of Justice is an imposing affair – not florid like the Presidential Palace, a baroque monster with churrigueresco embellishments – but nineteenth-century Graeco-Roman with a massive portico. The balcony above was still being draped with flags when we arrived and two television vans with a generator truck beside them were parked in the forecourt. Batteries of floodlights had been installed on the high railings and on the roof parapets of the office buildings opposite. There were electric cables everywhere.

Luckily the security officer was there discussing crowd-control with a subordinate, so I didn’t have to search for him. Paz’s identity papers were produced. When I had explained what his medical duties entailed he was issued with a pass. All this took time though, and it was nearly six before we got to Don Manuel.

The Procurator-General’s apartment is spacious and comfortable with tall windows giving on to the balcony – no wonder he had been reluctant to move. I found it jammed with people, mostly men but a great many had brought their wives for the great occasion, even though,
according to Doñna Julia, they had not been invited. The atmosphere was that of an overcrowded cocktail party. Santos, Paco and the provincial mayors were there, of course, as well as El Lobo in a paramilitary bush shirt and Father Bartolomé. El Lobo gave me a grin – he is growing his beard again I noticed – but I was not surprised that Father B, clean and sober for once, failed to recognize me. Don Manuel, I saw immediately, was both excited and very tired. I took Doñna Julia aside, introduced her to Paz and insisted that we took charge of her husband immediately.

She protested at first. ‘All these people are here to pay their respects, Ernesto, and there is his television interview being broadcast at seven. The proclamation ceremony follows. You cannot expect …’

‘Yes I can, Doñna Julia. It is an hour before he needs to see his own face on television, if he feels he has to, and a further half-hour before he needs to go before the cameras outside. Unless you wish him to make news by collapsing during the ceremony he must rest immediately on a bed. I shall give him something to maintain his strength and the massage will ease the tensions. You promised to help me. I must insist that you do as I ask and at once.’

She hesitated, then showed us to a bedroom. After a few minutes Don Manuel came in looking irritable. I introduced Paz who then tactfully withdrew. As the door closed my patient rounded on me.

‘You are being absurdly high-handed.’

‘Not absurdly. Take off your top clothes, lie down on the bed and don’t talk. If you want to get through this ceremony without running out of steam you had better do as I say.’

We stared at one another for a moment, then he began to undress.

‘You are behaving irresponsibly,’ I went on. ‘No, don’t answer. You know it’s true. This proclamation is a mere formality. Tomorrow would have done as well. Now lie still please.’

I gave him injections and then, orally, a large combination dose of dextroamphetamine and amobarbital.

‘The masseur will take twenty minutes, but don’t get up when he leaves. I’ll come and tell you when it’s nearly seven o’clock. Then you may get up. You should be feeling better by then, but don’t imagine you are. Keep as quiet as you can and drink water.’

I left him and told Paz to go ahead.

In the drawing-room Santos tried to draw me into conversation with Rosier and the group around him. But I excused myself and had a drink instead. There were television sets in each corner of the room, all showing scenes of our arrival this morning. As nobody else was watching I assumed that the station was just repeating what had been shown earlier. I caught sight of myself being greeted by the Nuncio. My smile was strained. In my dark suit and carrying my medical bag I looked, I thought, like a travelling salesman – one with some commodity to sell which he knows from bitter experience nobody wants.

I had kept my eyes on the time and the door. When I saw Paz reappear I went with him downstairs again. He had the two bags to carry and I wanted to make sure he got a shuttle car.

He seemed strangely silent. Then, while we were waiting for the car, he suddenly spoke.

‘What did you say was the diagnosis, Doctor?’

‘Fibromyositis. Why?’

‘I just wanted to be certain that I had it right.’

‘I’ll telephone you at the hospital, Paz, to confirm tomorrow’s appointment.’

‘Very well, Doctor. Good night.’

It was ten to seven when I got back upstairs. I went in and told Don Manuel that he could get up.

‘How was the massage?’ I asked.

‘Excellent. An interesting man that.’