With her change of mood, Javier thought it might be the right time to ask the "Why me?" question. "I confess, I'm surprised the president chose someone with no formal experience in diplomacy."
"I hope you'll pardon me, Father, if I admit the appointment took all of His Excellency's advisers by surprise." Juana doled out yet another disarming smile.
"Did he give any explanation?"
"Yes, and as usual, it made perfect sense. He said, 'Who can I trust more than the son of the late Col. Ernesto de Córdova?' Despite your admitted and obvious lack of experience, the president has confidence in your ability to carry out this delicate, though not per se ecclesiastical, assignment on behalf of your country."
Javier reddened but absorbed the put-down to satisfy a more urgent need for explanations. "I'm honored by the president's confidence, but I must warn him that, in my case, it might be misplaced." He didn't subscribe to the theory that his father's enthusiasm for the military profession and, ultimately, though reluctantly, for politics had been indelibly inscribed in his son's genes. In a final attempt to change the president's mind, Javier asked, "Can't you convince His Excellency that I don't know anything about international diplomacy?"
"Hah!" Juana scoffed. "I'd hardly call this 'international diplomacy.'"
Javier flushed again. He felt like a pompous ass caught with his pants down, buttocks exposed to public ridicule.
"Would it make you feel any better," she asked, "if we labeled this--how does Ronald Reagan like to say it? 'Quiet diplomacy'? Isn't that what priests specialize in?"
On Juana's lips, "priests" sounded more like a slur than a job title. "I'm sure you've settled many a family squabble in your parish without anyone outside the family knowing about it."
"That's different." Javier didn't like being on the defensive. He had come to the capital intending to take the initiative in finding out why he was suddenly in such demand at the highest level of his government. He had found in Juana Santiago a formidable debating opponent. In every conversation with her, she had sent him scurrying for cover, regardless of the face she presented: serious, biting, friendly, or seductive.
"It's not so very different," she assured him. "This is a delicate matter. The president feels that how we deal with criminals is an internal Santo Sangrían matter. It's none of POCI's business. Besides, he needs someone who will not arouse the attention of the press, while engaged in these delicate discussions. Finally, he needs someone who won't get a big head over this, someone content to return to his former life when it's all over. Who better than a priest who lives under obedience to his archbishop? Who better than you, Father?"
Javier had stopped listening two sentences back. "Obscure, dull life, you mean?"
"Those are your words."
"Your tone implied it." Javier's voice lowered to almost a whisper.
"Now that you bring it up, is that how you would describe your existence in Santa Teresita?"
The president's secretary had found a fresh scab and seemed to take pleasure in picking at it. Evidently, the worldly Juana Santiago considered his vocation and ministry among the poor a waste of a healthy young man's life. She might be partly correct in Javier's case, but he wasn't prepared to confide his future intentions to this woman.
"Not at all. It's been the most rewarding thing I could ever have done." Javier hoped the lie in his superlative wasn't too transparent. In self-defense, he changed the subject. "What if I decline the assignment?"
Santiago eyed him with an iron gaze. Clearly, she or the president, or she and the president, didn't expect a rejection. "You are free, of course, to do what you think is best. Let me remind you, however, that your archbishop has given his complete blessing to this project."
Javier relented. Further self-deprecation seemed pointless. Besides, he didn't yet have enough information about the proposed mission to make a reasoned judgment.
"Then, tell me more about what his Excellency expects of me."
"Besides sending you to the world headquarters of POCI in Amsterdam, Father, the president wants you to go also to Rome and San Francisco . . . ."
Suddenly, a new burst of enthusiasm for his first foray into the arena of "quiet diplomacy" exploded within Javier. The last-named destination set his mind and heart racing. Leah Sinclair--now Barton--lived somewhere in or near San Francisco. Could he find her? Would she see him? What would it be like meeting her husband? Did she have children? What did they look like? The tidal wave of questions blotted out whatever else the president's secretary told him.
Not until Juana Santiago left him alone in the small alcove provided for him in the administrative wing of the palace, did Javier have an opportunity to study the documents she had given him. One was a list of addresses and phone numbers of POCI offices and the names of the three directors he would visit: Willie Vander Hoorst, Amsterdam; Carlo Pontieri, Rome; and Leah Sinclair Barton, San Francisco. Javier searched through desk drawers, until he found a few pieces of blank stationery on which he composed a letter to Leah. He would send it off by the fastest possible mail to the business address printed next to her name on the POCI list.
Most of the cases Javier studied that morning were similar in nature to that of a now-incarcerated professor from the University of Santa Catalina, Arturo Valdez, age 47. "Arrested in April, 1988," he read, "charged with defaming the head of state, membership in a proscribed organization (Academicians for a Free and Democratic Santo Sangre), and advocating violence to achieve AFDSS goals." They had tried and sentenced Professor Valdez in a court of law, with a defense attorney "of his own choosing" representing him.
The charge of advocating violence puzzled Javier. He was quite sure POCI and other human rights organizations never took up the cause of one who promoted violent solutions to political injustice. Obviously, someone is mistaken, he thought and read on without judging who was in error. According to the dossier, the professor suffered from stomach ulcers. His attorney had requested medical attention, which the prison superintendent had seen to. A doctor's notations were scribbled in Spanish and Latin on an official-looking medical form. The portions Javier could make out mentioned a diagnosis and medications administered.
The names of two visitors and the dates on which they had come to the prison were listed on a separate sheet: Alma Valdez, Wife; Jorge Valdez, Brother. The documentation seemed thorough and in order.
"It's all here," Javier muttered, "but can I trust what I read?" He scratched a note on his lined yellow pad: REQUEST--he quickly drew thick black lines through the word--DEMAND IN-PERSON INTERVIEW WITH VALDEZ!! Just in case someone had tampered with the dossier.
Javier met Juana Santiago again at lunch. "I want to visit Professor Valdez," he demanded, expecting opposition.
"Of course, Father." There was no hesitation in her reply, no hint that his request was improper or unwelcome. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
Santiago's cooperative stance disarmed Javier. This was an unpredictable woman. "When can I see him?"
"This afternoon. Let's see, it's lunch time now. Everything's shut down until about three o'clock. Where can I reach you later?"
Javier bristled at the executive secretary's dutiful your-wish-is-my-command response. "At the archbishop's residence. I won't budge until I hear from you."
At five o'clock that afternoon, Javier was pacing the floor in his room, when Juana called.
"Father de Córdova, I have bad news." Her voice was steady, but appeasing. "Apparently, there was a prisoner strike, or uprising, of some kind at the Cárcel Central this morning. The warden has ordered a lock-down. They're not allowing any visitors today."
The news disappointed Javier, but he had to try again.
"When can I see Prof. Valdez?"
"I will call the warden again first thing in the morning. It's the best I can do."
The next morning Juana reported that Valdez had suffered an intestinal attack of some kind and was vomiting and running a high feve
r. "They've rushed him to the prison hospital, Father--"
"And, the doctors are allowing no one to visit him," Javier said, finishing her sentence in a flat monotone.
"That's right."
Had he detected just the slightest hint of triumph in her voice? Up to that moment, he believed the president's secretary had been sincere in her efforts to help him. "The man may need a priest. I'll go to him."
"The prison chaplain is with him now."
"If I can't see Prof. Valdez, I would like to see one or more of the others who have been brought up on similar charges," Javier insisted.
"Yesterday's lock-down is still in effect." Juana's voice mellowed. Javier got the picture. She'd have a reasonable objection to whatever strategy he suggested to get inside the prison. By fate or by design, he had no access to Valdez or any prisoner. "Unfortunate timing, Father. His Excellency will not be pleased that I wasn't able to help you. I look forward to seeing you at dinner tomorrow evening."
"I'll be there." When Javier put down the receiver, a leaden depression deadened his spirit. How could he carry out his mission to POCI without personally interviewing the prisoners on whose behalf the human rights people were campaigning? Could he trust the dossiers? What if I simply refuse to go until they make Valdez available to me, healthy or not? Would Montenegro replace him with another priest-emissary? Probably. And, if that happened? Javier wondered if he would ever have the nerve to go to San Francisco on his own? Probably not.
He had an idea. He would interview Sra. Valdez. He found the professor's number in the phone book and dialed it.
"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
He found no listing for the prisoner's brother, Jorge Valdez. In the end, he accepted Montenegro's personal statement, contained in a letter Juana Santiago delivered to him, along with the dossiers. The letter attested that the supplied information was indeed current, accurate, and complete. The crisp page bore the presidential seal.
Hardly an independent, unbiased source, he realized. He hoped POCI would accept his second-hand testimony.
* * *
Javier thought it odd that the private, departure-eve dinner to which the president had invited him was being held at the presidential palace, rather than the Montenegro residence.
After all, at one time the Montenegros and de Córdovas had been equals and friends. It struck him as doubly odd that Juana Santiago, not Anastasia Montenegro, was the president's only companion for the evening. Juana's chic, but working-woman, daytime attire had given way to a stunning, sleeveless evening dress. Javier found it difficult not to wonder at the pleasures hinted at by its revealing neckline. Serious doubts about her relationship to the president and her possible role in preventing access to the prisoners cooled his curiosity.
Montenegro had aged in the three years since Javier had last seen him. The tall, slender army veteran's eyes were duller and more agitated; the aquiline nose more dominant due to the deeper curve of his concave cheeks. It seemed to require more of an effort for the head of state to hold his upper torso erect, an effort that was nonetheless successful.
Montenegro was up-beat as the dinner began and in a mood to reminisce about old times, especially as the effects of the magnificent dinner and expensive French wines set in.
"Do you remember the time you came to me with doubts about your vocation, Father?" It had been during Christmas vacation of Javier's first year at the Pontifical Theologate in Florida. It was his first time away from Santo Sangre, and a severe bout of homesickness had taken hold of him.
"You were ready to leave the seminary and come home to become a . . . a teacher, or something."
"I remember, Your Excellency. I--"
A wave of the president's hand stopped him in mid-sentence. "Please, Father, enough of this 'Excellency' business. Call me Raúl. An old family friend should be called by his first name."
"Only if you'll drop the 'Father' and call me Javier."
"Fair enough, Javier," the president agreed, with an animated smile. "Do you recall my advice to you then?"
"I do." The incident occurred at a time when Raúl Montenegro was an idol to the idealistic youth, who saw the world only in shades of black and white, good and evil. The elder de Córdova and his military sidekick were the good guys, crusading for truth and justice, ready to lay down their lives to keep the Red Menace from invading Santo Sangre's virgin shores.
Javier's vivid recollection didn't prevent the president from retelling the story for Juana's benefit. "I told this boy--at least, he was a boy then, Juana--'There are a lot of smart young men and women in the university who want to be teachers. But, God only picks a few men, the best, to be his priests.'" Montenegro placed a large, paternal hand on Javier's forearm. "I must have said the right thing, because here you are."
"Inspired words, Excellency," Juana said, gazing at her boss with an awed expression. "Thank you for sharing that intimate moment with me."
Although Javier's host had revealed no great secret about him, the priest felt uncomfortable. He had other things on his mind than old times. He was willing to wait for an opportunity to bring up the subject of Valdez and the mission to POCI, but not much longer. Montenegro opened the door between the post-entrée salad and dessert courses.
"You've had an opportunity to examine all the cases you wanted to, I presume?"
"I've seen the dossiers, but I--"
"My secretary has been of service to you, I hope?" Montenegro interrupted.
"She's been most thorough. I'm impressed with Señorita Santiago's . . . efficiency." He kept to himself his other impressions of the president's secretary. An experienced inner eye for reading souls had warned him that Juana Santiago had great influence over the president, that this beautiful and shrewd woman was the proverbial power behind the throne, or perhaps more apropos, between the sheets. By cultivating a friendship with this woman, he might exert a positive influence on the decisions of the government. Why not use our acquaintance to practice a bit of 'pillow diplomacy,' he reasoned, to advance the cause of justice and social progress?
"Fine. Then, let's get down to the specifics of your mission. The crux of the problem is this, Javier--and I'm taking you into my confidence with the full expectation that you will treat the contents of our conversation as you would matter for the seal of confession."
Javier's primitive life style in the high country had almost eradicated his aristocratic upbringing. He had grown up in an atmosphere of state secrets and confidences to be kept within the walls of the de Córdova home. He reached into that past and sensed the presence of his soldier-statesman-father in the ornate dining room.
"Of course, Raúl." Javier looked in vain for an opening to express his regret--what he actually felt was much stronger--that he hadn't been allowed to enter the prison, after they had promised him an interview with Arturo Valdez.
"Due to the pressure on certain western governments by Prisoners of Conscience International--" The president leaned toward his guest. "You've heard of it, I suppose?"
"Yes." He was about to add, "fine organization," but got a clear message his host wouldn't welcome his endorsement.
Montenegro recounted his disappointing sessions with the German and American bankers and their refusal to provide Santo Sangre with badly needed loans. Finally, the president arrived at the heart of the message he wanted Javier to carry to POCI's leadership. "You will be happy to hear--and you are the first person outside my Cabinet to know these things--that I am about to announce the appointment of a national human rights commissioner, who will report directly to me.
"That is not all. By Christmas, I will initiate a sweeping program of domestic improvements designed to better the lives of our people--your parishioners, Javier--over the next five years. A modern highway will circle our whole island, making it easier for farmers to get their goods to market in the capital. Land reform, too. The people who work the fields should get a larger share of the profit from
their labor, so they can purchase farms of their own, if they wish.
"Finally, I intend to schedule elections within the next eighteen months to bring a civilian government to power. The time has come for me to give up the hectic life of a head of state and raise horses on my ranch, which is all I ever wanted to do, but the burdens of office were thrust upon me, as you, better than most others, know. Am I making myself clear?"
The bullshit rhetoric sounded familiar. With the exception of the appointment of a human rights commissioner, Javier had heard the president play these popular themes before on radio and television. Still, it was possible that this time he meant it. Perhaps, international pressure was having an influence after all. At any rate, the newly commissioned good-will ambassador had no choice but to applaud Montenegro's aspirations. "These are welcome measures. I know the people of my parish will support them."
"Your approval means a great deal to me. I miss your father's friendship and counsel. Unfortunately, these goals are contingent upon one thing."
Javier filled in the blank. "Money."
The president nodded. "A great deal of money, I'm afraid. Money we cannot generate from the sweat of our people's brows. It has to come from those damn Jew money lenders in the Western capitals."
"Excellency!" Juana admonished. "Such a thing to say --and in front of a priest!"
"Who better to forgive a seasoned and sometimes bitter veteran of the international financial wars than my dear friend, Javier?"
Javier resented the racial slur but decided not to steer the conversation off on a tangent. He needed information and instructions. Tonight was his last chance to get them. "Tell me more about what you expect of me."
"Juana gave you a list of the POCI leaders' names. Go see these people. Reason with them. Tell them what you've learned in the documents you've studied on the criminals they falsely accuse us of abusing. Getting them to stop is more urgent than I am at liberty to tell you. All I can say is that your country is counting on you, and I personally will be most grateful."