The Pineapple Republic Read online

  The Pineapple Republic

  by

  Jack Treby

  Copyright © Jack Treby 2016

  Published by Carter & Allan

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  www.jacktreby.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty–One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  A metal stairway rattled across the tarmac in front of me towards a small propeller–driven aeroplane.

  A portly man with a prominent moustache was leaning casually against the left propeller. His heavily stained uniform marked him out as one of the pilots, which did not bode well for the flight ahead. The word Esperando was stencilled on the side of the plane in bright green letters. This could mean either “hoping” or “waiting” depending on your dictionary. The woman in front of me muttered several expletives in guttural Spanish. It was clear what her interpretation would be. I watched the pilot drop the butt of his cigar and stub it out on the hot tarmac. He turned and made his way casually up the stairwell.

  The other passengers were nervously crossing themselves. San Doloroso is a devoutly Catholic country and most of the people here were natives returning home.

  At a gesture from a bored security guard, the passengers surged forward, scuttling up the battered stairs and into the cramped toothpaste tube of Flight ES002 to Toronja. Reluctantly, I followed suit. The aeroplane was one of six bought as a job lot from Aeroflot in the mid eighties. There were no allocated seats. A mad scrum was already in progress as I entered the aircraft. I had to fight my way forward, jabbing and prodding – as I was myself being jabbed and prodded – before finally laying claim to a vacant aisle seat.

  A short, skinny fellow sitting by the window grinned at me cheerily as I collapsed into the chair next to him. ‘¡Buenas tardes! Soy Alejandro.’

  I introduced myself in halting Spanish. ‘Soy...Patrick Malone.’

  ‘Ah! You English!’ he exclaimed happily.

  We chatted amiably for some minutes as the plane chugged across the runway. I was anxious to avoid looking out of the window as the antiquated vehicle groaned painfully up into the sky.

  Alejandro was an easy going young man. His family had originated in the northwest of San Doloroso. His uncle had recently died and he was returning home to inherit a small amount of land. ‘There is no work in San Doloroso,’ he explained sadly. ‘You need land to farm. If you have land, then you can live.’

  Alejandro was an Escoria, a native Indian whose ancestors had lived in Central America long before the arrival of the Spanish. His compact physique and flattened face marked out a unique, if undervalued, ethnicity.

  ‘Farming is a way of life in San Doloroso,’ he said, ‘but the big companies, they take over everything. Grow pineapples. Make big money. And the local people, they are left with nothing.’ Smallholders had suffered particular difficulties.

  ‘How much land did your uncle own?’ I asked.

  ‘About two hundred and thirty acres. My uncle, he was very poor. Then El Hombrito, he say: “You help me, you do things for me, I give you money, I give you land.” ’

  “El Hombrito” was the bizarrely affectionate nickname given to the now–deceased President Miguel Vicente Ladrón. Alejandro spoke his name with a quiet reverence.

  El Hombrito had been a father figure to the Escoria. The native Indians are invariably the poorest and least–regarded members of society. It was a masterstroke on the part of Miguel Vicente to make use of them as an instrument of oppression. The Escoria could be ruthless and brutal, but they were fiercely loyal. With their blue–ish complexion and diminutive stature, the Azulitos – the little blues, as they became known – were feared and revered in equal measure. In return for money and land, El Hombrito had set up a credible counter–balance to the armed forces that had elevated him to the presidency in the first place. The Azulitos were his insurance policy and, unlike many lesser dictators, Miguel Vicente Ladrón always took care of his own.

  It wasn’t clear whether Alejandro’s uncle had belonged to the Azulito organisation and it would have been impertinent to ask. But Alejandro was certainly apprehensive about his return to San Doloroso. ‘El Hombrito, he looked after us. Now he is gone, what future is there?’

  That question was one the whole world was asking.

  A stewardess came by, a stocky woman in a woollen sweater and mohair skirt, dragging a large metal trolley behind her. It occurred to me, somewhat uncharitably, that she might have been acquired from Aeroflot as well. ‘Would you like a drink, señor?’ she asked.

  I ordered a glass of beer. It was my first taste of the local brew, and I must admit I was rather impressed.

  The bottle was labelled “Sonrisa”.

  It means simply: ‘smile’.

  My father was in his early twenties when he was posted to Toronja, the capital of San Doloroso. He was a junior Foreign Office clerk and the assignment was intended to toughen him up. This was in preparation for a thirty–year career in internal administration back at the Ministry in London.

  My mother was born in Hermosa, a small town on the country’s Caribbean coast. When El Hombrito took control of the region, things had changed for the worse. The Azulitos began their reign of terror; and one of them took a shine to my mother. When she refused his advances, her position in the community became untenable. It was around this time that she first met my father. Her cousin Marco had recently been convicted of subversion and with this and other complications she had had no choice but to flee the country. She had fallen in love with my father too, of course, and that happy chance had enabled her to acquire a United Kingdom passport and full British citizenship (in those days, immigration officers knew the meaning of true love).

  My mother did not adjust well to her new country and she spent much of her life travelling, away from my father. Two brief spells in England resulted in the birth of my sister and of myself.

  It was only later, when she was dying, that I really got to know my mother. She had never forgiven herself for deserting San Doloroso and it was her deepest desire to return there some day, when Miguel Vicente Ladrón was no longer in power. Sadly, she died six months before El Hombrito and her dream was never to be realised.

  The dilapidated rental car spluttered to a halt within fifteen minutes of th
e terminal. I would rather have taken a cab, but stepping out of the airport building – staggering against a wall of heat as I moved out of the air–conditioned interior – there had not been a single taxi in sight. A transport strike had gripped the city centre and nobody was going anywhere. It had taken me an hour and a half just to arrange the hire car.

  The rental man assured me the petrol tank was full, but there was no gauge on the dashboard and I’d not been able to double check. Then, leaving the airport, I had got myself caught up in Toronja’s notorious one–way system. The city isn’t large, but it is difficult to navigate. Long narrow streets criss–cross the capital and the right of way changes at every junction. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before I ran out of petrol. Even driving to my hotel was proving a bigger challenge than I had first anticipated.

  This was my first visit to Central America and I was perhaps not as well prepared as I would have liked. I had been flown out at the last minute – at the insistence of my editor – to interview the various political leaders involved in the forthcoming presidential elections.

  Now that Ladrón was dead, the field was wide open. Anyone could stand for president and for the first time in a generation there was a real possibility of change.

  The Daily Herald’s regional correspondent, Daniel Parr, was not available to cover these events as had been injured in a freak accident. Parr had taken a few days off to go surfing at El Paraíso, a popular resort town overlooking the Pacific. He had forgotten to check the weather forecast and was lying asleep on the beach when Hurricane Lucy struck. Most of the country got by unscathed – the hurricane was small by local standards – but Parr had not been so lucky.

  And now I was here in his place.

  It was a strange feeling, finding myself on the other side of the world. I had never really travelled before and the possibility of visiting my mother’s homeland, so far away, had always seemed remote. When my editor, in desperation, had asked me to go in Daniel’s place, I had jumped at the chance.

  It was only intended to be a brief visit. The Herald had set up a number of interviews over the course of the next few days. The main opposition leader Antonio Fracaso was first on the list. He would be expecting me at his office at nine o’clock the following morning. Always assuming I could find the place.

  The Ford Fiesta had come to a halt in a lonely back street. The road was cobbled and the buildings either side were a mixture of faded pastels, bland and unremarkable.

  There was a public telephone a little way back along the pavement. I got out of the car and walked across. The phone was free standing. Belatedly, I realised I didn’t have any change. The lady at the exchange bureau had refused to give me anything lower than a hundred Cambur note.

  I dialled the operator and asked to be put forward to the Intercontinental Hotel. The woman pretended not to understand. I had some difficulty making sense of what she was saying. My Spanish is competent – part of the reason I’d been chosen to cover for Daniel – but even seven years of evening classes at Holland Park Adult Education Centre hadn’t prepared me for the guttural dialect of the native Indians. It was not, strictly speaking, Spanish, but a mixture of Spanish and the native Escoria. Most real Spaniards would have difficulty understanding it.

  My attention wavered from the telephone. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a pair of legs protruding from the front left hand window of the Fiesta. The hire car was parked awkwardly some fifty metres up the road. Car theft is endemic to Toronja and I had stupidly left the window open and the keys in the ignition. I dropped the telephone and raced back to the vehicle. At least there wasn’t any petrol in the car. The thief could not drive it away.

  The legs had disappeared through the window and when I arrived I found a young boy seated calmly inside. He could not have been more than ten years old. He was wearing a pristine white t–shirt and expensive jeans. The boy’s face was grubby, though, and he was clearly under–nourished.

  ‘You American?’ he asked, in English.

  I had expected the boy to run as soon as I approached, but he showed no signs of moving. Perhaps he just wanted to play in the driver’s seat.

  ‘I’m British,’ I told him, peering into the vehicle.

  The boy had already found the key. He twisted it in the ignition but the car wouldn’t start.

  ‘No petrol,’ I explained.

  ‘¿Como?’

  I repeated myself, in Spanish. The boy nodded. He at least seemed able to understand me.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Nacho.’ He glanced up. ‘You rich?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Give me money,’ he screeched.

  This, as it turned out, was a perennial demand from street children in Toronja. I shook my head a second time. I had no money to give, except the hundred Cambur notes and those were worth about twenty–seven American Dollars apiece.

  ‘Where you go?’ he demanded.

  ‘I was trying to get to the Intercontinental Hotel.’

  ‘You want hotel. I take you to hotel.’

  I regarded the child suspiciously. By now, it was eight o’clock in the evening and the Intercontinental was at least ten kilometres away, on the other side of town. There were certainly no taxis to be had. Perhaps the boy might know somewhere suitable. ‘Is it close?’ I asked.

  Nacho nodded. ‘Very close. I show you.’ He jumped out of the Fiesta. ‘Just a quick walk. You give me money?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ It rather depended on whether his hotel could change a hundred Cambur note.

  My luggage was stowed in the boot of the car. Nacho offered to help me with it but I wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t just run off. I had a suitcase and a shoulder bag and I held onto both of them tightly as I locked up the car.

  Nacho raced off down the street, beckoning me to follow him. The boy was full of energy. I had to run to keep up.

  The pavements were pockmarked and uneven. There were several deep holes that might have caused serious injury to the unwary. Nacho skipped across them with ease.

  We passed an old man squatting in a doorway. He nodded at me as I padded by. The man’s face was dark and wrinkled. He didn’t seem surprised to see a tall white foreigner trailing in the footsteps of some grubby local boy.

  Ahead of me, Nacho had turned a corner. I followed him across the pebbled street and saw him stop outside a faceless metal doorway. The door was shut and there was no indication that it might be the entrance to a hotel. I couldn’t see any kind of sign at all, apart from the red light hanging above the door.

  ‘You give me money now?’ Nacho asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

  He nodded vigorously. There was a small intercom system to the right of the door. Nacho jumped up and pressed the little black buzzer. Seconds later, a garble of incomprehensible Spanish rattled out from the speaker; a woman’s voice. Nacho replied in a rapid, high–pitched tone. I had no idea what either of them said. The boy translated for me. ‘She come. You give me money.’

  I nodded. ‘In a minute.’

  We waited.

  A small window flipped open in the top of the door and a pair of dark brown eyes stared out at us. Bolts were drawn back on the inside and, after a couple of seconds, the metal door creaked open. Standing behind it was a tall local woman. She was blonde – though perhaps not naturally so – and had obviously just got out of bed as she was dressed in nothing but her underwear. The girl stepped forward and grabbed hold of my tie. Before I had time to react, she had put her arms around me and started to kiss me.

  I was too surprised to put up any resistance.

  Her breasts pressed hard against my chest. I dropped the suitcase. A hand slid down and grabbed hold of my buttocks.

  It was only when the girl pulled back that I heard the footsteps slipping off down the cobbled street. I glanced around.

  Nacho had disappeared and my luggage had disappeared with him.

  Chap
ter Two

  The office on Avenida 22 Norte was in a state of considerable disarray. Tables had been overturned and paperwork strewn across the floor. The front windows were smashed and the doorway was hanging from its hinges.

  Antonio Fracaso leaned back in his chair. The first of my hastily scheduled interviewees, he was a large, muscular man with a rounded face and heavy eyelids. ‘I must apologise to you for the mess,’ he said, in flawless English.

  I had sat down opposite him, perching myself on an upturned waste–paper basket which appeared to be the only undamaged item of office furniture available. My cheeks were a little flushed, as it had taken me an hour and a half to walk to the Freedom Party headquarters from the “hotel” were I had been forced to spend the night. ‘I can come back later,’ I said, ‘if this is inconvenient.’

  Fracaso waved his hands dismissively. ‘No. I prefer you to be here. We need as much publicity as we can get.’ He gestured to the room. ‘It is not the first time this has happened.’

  Fracaso was a veteran campaigner. He was one of the few politicians to have spoken out against Miguel Vicente Ladrón when the dictator was still in power. While many others had fled into exile, Fracaso had stood firm and on two occasions had very nearly paid for it with his life.

  ‘Assassination is a way of life here,’ he explained. ‘That is how far Ladrón has managed to corrupt us. I am lucky to be alive and each day is precious to me.’

  A campaign poster on the office wall showed a determined Fracaso raising a clenched fist. In the background was a tricolour of red, white and black. Underneath in bold type was the somewhat premature slogan: ‘Antonio Fracaso. Presidente’.

  Three days earlier, I had not even heard of the man. My knowledge of San Doloroson politics was rather limited. Of the four candidates I was due to interview over the next three days, only one had been known to me beforehand; and I had only heard of him because he’d been an actor before he became a politician. Thankfully, my predecessor Daniel Parr had faxed me copious notes from his hospital bed in San José and I was now – so I thought – fully apprised of the political situation.