Happy Ant-Heap (21 page)

Rompich’s end had been defined in vague Guatemalan law as an ‘extra-judicial execution’, of which there had been a multitude in the country’s recent history, but perhaps his essentially gentle profession, in contrast with the extreme violence of his ending, touched a nerve of sympathy in the nation’s breast. Suddenly he was referred to not by name, but with a kind of affection as
El Lecherito—
the little milkman. Writing in
La Prensa Libre,
the distinguished journalist Fernando Molino said, ‘It is important that this episode should provide the government with the opportunity to defend what we see as right. If not, and what has happened is to be settled in the way things have so often been in the past, we shall be forced to abandon all hope of change, and put aside faith in a just future.’

It was a viewpoint exactly reflecting the feelings of most Guatemalans in the street.

1997

T
HE
OBSERVER
SENT ME
to Honduras, which, barring Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, and where I talked to a young man on a banana plantation who told me he hadn’t eaten meat since fed with it by his mother as a sickly child. Although poor, I found the Hondurans extremely devout, Tegucigalpa being the only capital city I have ever seen where traffic snarl-ups were caused not by normal traffic but by head-on encounters by competing religious processions in the narrow streets. Most foreigners preferred to stay by the sea down at La Ceiba in the picturesque tropics, where there were humming birds pinned by the beak into every flower, soft light romanticised the hulks of decayed planes at the edge of the airfield, and the Picaroon Hotel recommended six-ounce steaks and Black and White whisky mixed with Coca-Cola.

All journalists in Tegucigalpa were expected to present themselves to the President, General Paz, and in due course I called at the palace, a modest building by Latin American standards flanked by shops selling handbags and scuba-diving equipment in the main street of the town. International interest had been aroused by a covert war conducted by ‘Contras’ under Honduras’s protection against the country’s recently-turned-socialist neighbour, Nicaragua. The hope was that a way could be found to persuade the General to come out into the open about his intentions, and I had been given advice as to the best way of tackling him by one of our diplomats who had been posted here for a short while. Despite the rough-and-ready methods attributed to most Latin American dictators, he said, Paz was milder than most and, passing on what was evidently a valuable tip, he told me that the General collected stamps, in particular commemorative issues. Bearing this in mind I put in a few hours’ study of the subject before setting out on this trip.

I was seen at the palace by an exceptionally pleasant young aide, who spoke English well and lost no time in telling me that he expected to visit our country in the near future. The President, he said, was out of town but was expected back any day. There would be no difficulty in arranging an interview, he thought, but as the General’s movements were unpredictable he suggested that I call early next morning, and should there be no news of His Excellency, perhaps again on the morning after that. The photographer Alain Le Gazemeur had been with me throughout this Central American journey and now there was an urgent
sotto voce
interruption from him, asking if a photograph would be permissible. ‘Absolutely,’ the aide said. ‘The General is very well disposed towards the British people. He will be happy to be photographed.’

Alain had already mentioned an ambition to photograph a real live dictator turned out in the full-scale, ridiculously pompous style they often assumed. Would the General consent to don dress uniform for the occasion? he wanted to know, and the aide, smiling as encouragingly as ever, said he was sure he would.

‘All medals and eyeshades?’ Le Gazemeur asked.

‘Whatever you wish,’ the aide said. ‘His Excellency is accustomed to co-operate with the press.’

It was arranged that we be at the palace at 8 a.m. next day. This we did, to be told by our friend that the General’s return had been delayed. We presented ourselves on the morrow at the same time and for two days in succession after that, but of the General there was no further news.

The President’s aide’s name was Arturo; about now our friendship had reached a point when he asked to be called Arthur, and he placed a forefinger to his lips and took me aside.

‘You can keep a secret—that I am sure?’ he said.

‘Well, I certainly hope so.’

‘I think I must tell you now. The General has not been away from Tegucigalpa. He is here, but he has been in a drunken condition for one week.’

‘I see, but that’s a pity. So we’ve been wasting our time.’

‘Tomorrow it is certain you may see him. He is to be present at a dinner given by Christian Businessmen for Colonel James Irwin. You have heard of him?’

‘Didn’t he walk on the moon?’

‘He was the eighth man. Now he is touring the world as a Christian missionary, and the General has announced he will choose this day to accept Christ by becoming a Southern Baptist. He will be at the dinner, and you and Mr Le Gazemeur are invited.’

The morrow came, and 6 p.m. on the dot saw the arrival of the Christian Businessmen, who discharged from the buses that had brought them from the airport, swept like a tidal wave of humanity into the vast, bare banqueting hall, and after a moment of genial confusion over place names began to settle themselves at the long tables. The Businessmen were very large and affable, discharging smiles as if under compulsion in all directions, and giving the impression of being unaware of the presence of the comparatively tiny and insignificant members of the hotel staff scampering to proffer their services.

Seated and settled eventually in a wide, hollow square, the guests were confronted by a long platform. Upon this at one end two empty chairs had been placed side by side, and at the other end General Paz occupied something that was not quite a throne. I heard, or imagined I heard, Le Gazemeur’s sigh, for far from the promised dress uniform with its rows of medals, the General wore a blue suit with a white shirt and striped tie and was of markedly Indian appearance, with a neatly trimmed moustache and an unimpressive chin. His eyes were closed and my guess was that he was asleep. Beneath the platform two small soldiers, both possessing an extraordinary resemblance to the President, stood facing the diners, tommy-guns held in the present-arms position.

The midget Hondurans now reappeared with trolleys of food. Steak is rarely banished from Central American menus, and here it was once again, overlooked on each tray by four leading varieties of soft drinks. Until this moment there had been no sign of the astronaut and, as plates emptied, conversation based largely on religious and financial topics swelled almost to an uproar. Several more small tommy-gunners had drifted into sight and distributed themselves strategically round the room and I realised with a touch of alarm that Le Gazemeur had slipped away and was moving in a stealthy fashion in the direction of the General, a camera with its enormous lens at the ready. No attempt was made by the General’s bodyguards to intercept him and, reaching the edge of the platform, he squatted down and raised the camera to his eye. General Paz’s posture remained unchanged, his head bowed and motionless over a tray placed before him and held in some way on his knees. Alain later assured me that the General had been asleep, obliging him to shout almost in the presidential ear before he opened his eyes.

The General’s return to consciousness coincided with the appearance of Colonel Irwin, bounding suddenly from behind a screen at the back of the stage to reach the first of the awaiting chairs. An outburst of clapping was abruptly cut off, to be followed by something like a mass murmuring produced by many throats, invented, as we were later told, by this religious association as an expression of approval and encouragement. Colonel Irwin raised an arm, the murmurs died away and, speaking in a powerful, high-pitched voice, he told his audience how honoured and glad he was to be with them. He had come to Tegucigalpa as leader of the High Flyer Foundation Christian Ministry, whose aims for worldwide conversion were fully described in a personally signed document that each one of those present would receive.

The Christian Businessmen were accompanied on this trip by an American acting as required both as interpreter and steward, and now as the Colonel took his seat this man stood, to explain that it was time for those wishing to solicit both the Colonel’s blessing and advice to rise to their feet and do so. The steward had a prepared list of names, and he signalled to the man at its head, who stood and began a description of his problem.

It was a financial one, but there was an obligatory flavouring of religion not to be avoided in this context. A vocabulary based on market reports had been infiltrated with pious themes and the occasional mention of God’s name. The Colonel, it seemed, was no financial illiterate and showed no disapproval of wealth gained, for example, by insider-dealing. A Christian Businessman had run into trouble with his income tax and the Colonel chastened him not unsympathetically with the biblical ruling ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ Another questioner clearly in search of market tips was told that oils were strong and likely to get stronger. Then, raising a declamatory hand to his audience in general, the Colonel asked them: what did a man require to become a successful investor? ‘I’m a beginner in the market, so what do I do? Read all the financial columns, then stick my neck out? No, sir. I turn in prayer to the Lord for the vision that only he can give. Only then do I know I am ready to face the market.’

Colonel Irwin took his seat to a strong rumble of applause.

The questioning was now at an end. Alain was still manoeuvring for a better shot of the General, who had momentarily opened his eyes but only to settle in a more comfortable position. Colonel Irwin had taken his seat again and the chair vacant until this moment was now occupied by a Christian Businessman, who along with several other applicants had been able to book a brief counselling session with him. Moments later I was surprised at the approach of the steward with Arthur at his heels to inform me that, as a guest of the General, I was among those to be favoured in this way. ‘You’re next,’ he said. ‘You have five minutes, and remember no reference is to be made to the postal covers.’ This was an illusion to the scandal about the 400 envelopes, imprinted 2 August 1971, taken without permission aboard
Apollo 15
and, as the Colonel had admitted in his autobiography, cancelled ‘with our own cancellation device which worked in a vacuum’ and sold to a German dealer. The proceeds, Irwin had stated in mitigation, were to be devoted to ‘our children’s education’. It was a mistake that overshadowed his subsequent career and it may have been this crisis that convinced him to devote the rest of his life to his mission.

At close quarters the Colonel seemed to possess the good looks of a mature film actor, with a muscular physique and small eyes narrowed as if in scrutiny of some not necessarily acceptable object. His manner, however, was genial. I received a hard handshake accompanied by what might have passed in mission circles as no more than a routine politeness—the question, ‘Are you saved?’ Just out of earshot the steward stood, his eye on his watch. So I was really to be allowed no more than five minutes to know anything more than the newspapers had said of this man’s huge adventure. His book,
To Rule the Night,
does little more than sketch this in against a background of the commonplaces of an average life and the humdrum religiosity with which the author attempts to advance his beliefs. From this there are rare escapes, as in that tremendous moment when on its re-entry the spacecraft is 42,587 miles from the earth, appearing as a thin illuminated sliver in the black sky.

Irwin denied in our talk that he had experienced loneliness at any time during the flight. ‘I entered into consciousness of the Lord’s presence.’ Smilingly he went on to describe God as his Mission Director. It was a designation he had used in the book he had written when he was grounded after a heart attack. ‘It was God taking charge again,’ he wrote. ‘My Mission Director was changing my flight plan.’

Time, I realised, was almost up. Just below us more steak was being rushed to the Christian Businessmen. The President’s head had fallen on his chest and, arm thrust up, the steward tapped urgently on his watch. We rose to our feet, and Irwin took my hand in a crushing grip. His wide smile was pleasant and reassuring. ‘The Lord can be your Mission Director, too,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just call on him?’

1997

Norman Lewis (1908–2003) was one of the greatest English-language travel writers. He was the author of thirteen novels and fourteen works of nonfiction, including
Naples ’44
,
The Tomb in Seville
, and
Voices of the Old Sea
. Lewis served in the Allied occupation of Italy during World War II, and reported from Mafia-ruled Sicily and Vietnam under French-colonial rule, among other locations. Born in England, he traveled extensively, living in places including London, Wales, Nicaragua, a Spanish fishing village, and the countryside near Rome.

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‘God Bless the Squire’ and ‘Love at all Costs’ were first published in
Granta
; ‘Boris Giuliano’, ‘The Snakes of Cocullo’, ‘The Happy Ant-Heap’, ‘Where the Mafia Brings Peace’ and ‘Back to the Stone Age’ in the
Independent
Magazine; ‘A Goddess Round Every Corner’ in
Departures
; ‘Looking Down the Wells’ in
Condé Nast Traveller
; ‘Namek’s Smoked Ancestor’ in
GQ
Magazine; and ‘Guatemala Revisited’ in
Punch
.