Lunch with the Generals Page 4

  Now, as his father came forward to embrace him with the same impersonal elegance with which he would greet his business partners, Jorge once again felt the thrill of his presence. His father stepped back and took a long appraising look at his son. He was not displeased with what he saw.

  ‘Come, sit down,’ he instructed, leading the way to what he referred to as his informal area, as if anyone could relax in his presence. He pointed to a leather armchair which he wished Jorge to occupy. Jorge sat. His father took possession of the sofa, his arms spread expansively along the backrest in a gesture calculated to encourage conversation.

  ‘So,’ he began, ‘you have decided.’

  Jorge smiled to himself. No ‘how are you?’ because his father could see quite clearly how he was. Besides, he knew his father received regular reports on his progress and how he conducted his life. His father was a careful man.

  ‘Wealth no longer guarantees power,’ Jorge began. His father had wasted no time on pleasantries, neither would he. ‘And without power there is no guarantee of retaining wealth. There are three pathways to power as I see it. The military, politics and the press. Of the three the press is the most stable.’

  ‘What section of the press do you have in mind? Our interests, as you know, are varied.’

  ‘Newspapers, of course. Argentina has over one hundred and fifty daily newspapers. To my knowledge, you have a controlling interest in at least twenty-five of the majors, four of these in the top ten by circulation. You are under-represented in the provinces and in the popular papers. There are opportunities for acquisition and consolidation of resources. Perhaps “opportunities” is the wrong word. These are not so much opportunities as necessities.’

  Jorge could feel his father’s eyes upon him, boring into his brain, trying to read his words even before he had spoken them.

  ‘There are two reasons; one fact, one speculation. Firstly, the newspaper industry is on the verge of a technological revolution that will change it forever. Computers will take over from compositors and linotype—’

  ‘I have read the reports. What is your second reason?’

  Jorge had made a mistake, but it didn’t slow him down or make him more cautious. His father’s impatience was only the impatience of a listener anxious to know what happens next. Besides, the full flood of his ideas was upon him, and in this mode he was unstoppable. His brain raced ahead, fleshing out what moments before had been only skeletal.

  ‘Speculation,’ Jorge continued. ‘The leftists are becoming too strong. Too militant. They will be crushed. It is only a question of time before the military seize power once more. I believe the press will face the most stringent censorship Argentina has ever known. Alliances will be tested.’

  Jorge could sense his father’s impatience and adjusted.

  ‘This is what I propose. Your papers are all right-wing. This will stand you in good stead, come the coup. But when the Generals fall, as ultimately they must, you will be vulnerable. Your papers will be seen as opposed to democratic government. They will be fortunate if they survive the boycotts and purges. What’s needed is balance, an equal number of moderate publications with liberal editors-in-chief. You may lose two or three who overstep editorial policy in their criticisms of the Generals. They will be dragged from their homes at night and become martyrs to the freedom of the press. Your press. And, of course, with your influence and a change of leadership, they can be rescued from imprisonment and reinstated as heroes.

  ‘The point is, both right and moderate publications will be seen to issue from the same publishing house. Who, then, could argue that our reporting has not been balanced? That we have not done all we could to uphold the integrity of the press under a repressive regime?’

  ‘Our? We? You see a role for yourself in my operations?’ A smile spread across his father’s face. ‘You will have dinner with me tonight. There are some people I want you to meet. They will be interested in your views. They will be interested to meet our newest employee.’

  He stood up. The interview was over.

  Jorge was given the title of Deputy General Manager, New Business, and a one-third share in a secretary who would, of course, report back to his other mother, Esther Teresa. He was given a salary but that was incidental to his real income, his allowance.

  Jorge knew that before he could change anything he had to know exactly what it was he was changing. His father gave him access to the files of each of their major newspapers, and files maintained by their intelligence gatherers on each of their major competitors. He soon realised that he had not outlined any new strategies to his father. It chastened him to recall how he’d left his father’s office, flying high on the belief that he had given his father a whole new direction. Evidence to the contrary piled up in boxes all around him.

  He uncovered a list of prime targets and a timetable for their acquisition. He found budgets and lists of key personnel, marked with asterisks to indicate who would be dispensed with and who would be retained. Yet he had reached the same conclusion on his own, unaided by an army of advisors. That is what had impressed his father.

  Jorge visited each of the newspapers in turn. He took note of the type of presses they used, their capacity and any peculiarities in their production methods. He developed a map pinpointing the location of all their presses, the distribution areas and the roads and railways that linked them.

  He read everything he could find on the new computer technology, but found it difficult to grasp. There were vast gaps in his knowledge and he was uncertain as to how to fill them. Others reported his weakness and his father had no tolerance for it.

  Jorge was surprised one morning to find Esther Teresa waiting for him in his office.

  ‘You are going to America,’ she said. ‘To New York. There is a job for you in the production department of the New York Times. You will get ink under your nails, you will get your hands dirty. In your free time you will go to night classes and learn about the application of computers. It has been arranged. Learn well, for when you return you will be responsible for installing this new technology, and restructuring our print facilities. We will be relying on you. Your tickets and everything you need are in this file.’

  She stood and moved close to him. Then she kissed him in a way no mother ever kissed her son, pressing herself tightly against his body.

  ‘Do well. Work hard. Your father has high hopes for you.’

  This praise was not given lightly, Jorge knew, and the implications brought a surge of pride and satisfaction. Esther Teresa smiled once more and left his office without a trace of embarrassment.

  ‘She is not mistress to my father,’ Jorge thought with sudden understanding. ‘She is mistress to his power.’

  Jorge was away for five years. When he returned to Argentina in March 1977, the military regime of Rafael Videla was firmly in control. As Jorge had predicted, the left-wing Peronista had become too strong and were purged from office.

  They were driven underground by the sheer weight and ferocity of anti-leftist violence. Political, union and student leaders became regular victims of the undercover Alianza Anticomunista Argentina, an outlawed organisation which most people believed was secretly funded by the military. Some secret.

  For a while, the right-wing Peronista had held ascendancy. But when Juan Peron died, turning the presidency over to his wife Martinez de Peron, the worm turned. Rampant inflation and devaluation turned the populace against the rightists, and the left rose once more. As a new wave of violence broke out, the military stepped in, as it had in the past, and seized power.

  Still this did not bring peace to the troubled country. If anything, the divisions deepened, with the junta determined to crush the left once and for all. Again the left went underground, but the Generals were relentless in their pursuit. Thousands of Argentinians were snatched from their homes to be tortured, imprisoned or executed. The police morgue became a charnel house.

  The ‘dirty war’ had begun. Old alliances were
tested and nobody dared criticise the regime in public. Humorists of the day claimed it was impossible for football teams to find players who were prepared to play on the left side of the field. Rugby teams no longer had left wingers, they had two right wings, one of whom was lost.

  There was one voice, however, which did speak out. La Voz del Pueblo—the voice of the people. His diatribes against the policies of the regime and his cataloguing of their crimes and violations of human rights appeared in an underground newspaper, Argentina Libre. It was published, or at least suspected of being published, by a pro-democracy group of leftist radicals.

  Possession of Argentina Libre was enough to brand anyone a sympathiser and land them in gaol. Yet it circulated widely, passed surreptitiously from hand to hand until a new issue superseded it. Those who had lost husbands, sons and daughters searched its pages for clues to their whereabouts, for sometimes Argentina Libre carried such information, gathered at God only knows what cost.

  Sometimes the moderate legitimate newspapers carried entire extracts from the ‘Voice’, ostensibly reviling him but, in reality, carrying his message to those who had no opportunity to read it firsthand.

  Occasionally, editors would be arrested for this indiscretion, and among them were editors from papers recently acquired by Jorge’s father. The scenario Jorge had outlined five years earlier was becoming a reality.

  Jorge himself was also under pressure. The peso, then the currency of Argentina, was hardening. Jorge’s father was anxious for a decision on their new equipment so he could take advantage of favourable exchange rates. Jorge wanted to hold off until after Drupa 78, the largest trade exposition in the world, where the latest in print technology would be exhibited.

  He had taken leave from the New York Times in 1974 to join his father’s delegation and had been astonished by what he’d seen. He’d kept in touch with the companies he was most interested in, and received updates from them all. The investment was enormous, as was the responsibility. Naturally, Jorge wanted to be sure.

  But his father was unrelenting in his demands. Jorge’s days and nights were consumed by the enormity of his task. The playboy cruiser became a workaholic, driven by the awesome scrutiny of his father, and his desire to please him and win his approval.

  Esther Teresa was often the conduit for his father’s messages. She kept a watchful eye on his soul and tended to his body. Sometimes, when he was working late, she would lock his office door behind her, disrobe and leave him in no doubt as to what was expected of him. She demanded nothing in return except his discretion and, in truth, Jorge was grateful for the diversion.

  Apart from Esther Teresa, his pleasures were few. He allowed himself a daily workout in the gym. And each night he would dine late but leisurely, enjoying whatever company there was, and the occasional one night stand that came of it.

  His interest in politics was purely commercial, and limited to the bearing it had on papers within the group. He was unprepared when the phone rang and his past rose up to greet him.

  It was Carlos, and Carlos suggested that they meet.

  Chapter Six

  Carlos nominated Los Locos, a small but expensive restaurant in the Port of Olivos. Jorge realised from the choice of venue that Carlos had risen in rank. He had no desire to meet him again but how could he refuse? In those dangerous times, a friend in the military, however dubious, was infinitely preferable to an enemy.

  Jorge agreed to see Carlos. However, he was determined to leave him in no doubt that further meetings would not be welcomed. He would use his charm, his tact, and his debating skills, weaponry the crude provincial not only lacked, but would be powerless against. This is what Jorge believed when he set out for the meeting.

  His taxi dropped him at Los Locos at ten that evening. His eyes noted, as they were intended to, the shiny black saloon parked thirty metres up the narrow street, two wheels on the pavement in defiance of the No Parking signs. The car’s driver watched him arrive. He was uniformed, but Jorge had no idea what the uniform signified. He leaned, arms folded, against the passenger door. He looked like a bouncer from a seedy club, and if the military had not found a use for him, that is probably what he would have been.

  Jorge shuddered. There was no denying that the situation was intimidating, even threatening. It was intended to be. Yet Jorge also found grim humour in it. He knew then that he would find Carlos at the last table in the restaurant, his back to the wall, with an uninterrupted view of the entrance. He wasn’t disappointed. He thought these machinations theatrical and pathetic, and that they revealed a lot about the man Carlos.

  Carlos didn’t bother to stand when Jorge approached, nor did he offer to shake his hand.

  ‘You have done well, Jorge Luis Masot. There again, you are hardly a provincial buffoon like myself, without means or influence.’

  Jorge had no ready response. He was good with words, but the situation was foreign to him. He had never been insulted so directly before. He did not have the vocabulary or the turn of phrase to respond in kind.

  He would have had difficulty recognising Carlos if he had not been looking for him. Carlos had aged and hardened with age. His face bore the scars of his profession. Jorge shuddered. He would not like this face to appear on his doorstep at the dead of night.

  ‘You have also done well.’ Jorge willed his face to remain passive and his voice firm. ‘Your family, or whatever it is you call it, have obviously looked after you as well. Who are they, by the way? Who are your masters now? The Alianza Anticomunista? I can see how a man of your talents would do well in that organisation. Or do you report directly to the Generals?’

  ‘We are all servants of the Generals, Jorge Luis. All wise men are.’

  Again, the implied threat. Why did Carlos think he could insult him with such impunity? After all, Jorge was hardly unconnected and could certainly call on favours to bring him back into line. Yet Carlos seemed to totally disregard that possibility. What could he want from him? Jorge was unaware that he had anything to give.

  Silence fell as they measured each other with their eyes, neither anxious to fill the void. When Carlos was ready, when they’d taken a longer look at each other, assessed each other’s strengths and weaknesses and the value of their mutual dislike, Carlos would speak. Then Jorge would find out what all this was about.

  ‘I have ordered parrillada,’ Carlos said unexpectedly. ‘I know you won’t have eaten. It is not your custom to eat earlier. Unfortunately I cannot also supply you with a woman this time.’

  So. Carlos had assigned someone to watch him. But why?

  The waiter interrupted Jorge’s thoughts by bringing a steaming platter of charcoal-grilled beef chunks, kidney and liver, sausages and chicken giblets. He brought a bottle of strong red wine, which they cut to taste with soda water, as was the custom.

  Carlos attacked the food in front of him as if he was frightened someone would take his plate away before he was finished. He ate noisily, and frequently used the nail of his thumb as a toothpick. He held his knife and fork the way a carpenter holds a hammer, and he operated them with the same subtlety.

  Jorge had little appetite, and the sight of Carlos shovelling food into his mouth did nothing to encourage it. He thought Carlos should feed from a trough along with all the other pigs. Jorge wore these thoughts on his face with undisguised distaste.

  Carlos looked up.

  ‘Do my table manners upset you, Jorge Luis Masot? You must forgive me. We children of the provinces have little opportunity to acquire nice manners. We considered ourselves lucky to have a meal at all. I had three brothers and five sisters. Most were older than me. Meal times were a battle for survival.’

  ‘It seems you survived.’

  ‘Yes. And my table manners with me. I see no reason to change now. It is not easy to rise above humble beginnings, Jorge Luis. Tell me, how many of the men who work on your father’s estancia have you taken to a restaurant like this? Five? Ten? None, maybe?’

  Jorge
said nothing. The answer was obvious.

  ‘Sometimes I ask myself who is right and who is wrong. I look at you with your fine manners and I think, “How many men are there in Argentina like Jorge Luis Masot, who are born with everything including fine manners?” Not many, I think. But how many are there like me, born with nothing, not even nice manners? I think there are a lot more of us than there are of you, Jorge Luis Masot. So you tell me. Who is right? This is a democracy. Surely the majority is right?’

  ‘You lose me when you speak of a democracy. The word has no place on your lips. Just as your manners have no place in this restaurant.’

  Carlos stopped eating, the fork frozen in space en route to his mouth. Then he smiled.

  ‘So the mouse has a bite after all.’

  He finished the meal in silence, eating methodically until every scrap was accounted for.

  ‘One more thing, Jorge Luis,’ he said as he lay down his knife and fork. ‘Where I came from it was considered bad manners to leave good food on the table. Not only that, it was suicidal.’ Carlos laughed at his own joke.

  He called the waiter over and ordered yerba maté, the Paraguayan tea made from a species of holly, in place of coffee. Jorge thought it was another theatrical gesture, calculated to underscore Carlos’ peasant roots. To his surprise, the restaurant complied. Obviously, Carlos was a regular.