The Longer the Thread

by Emma Lathen

  Eric Marten was trying to find an answer when David Lippert broke in.

  “It doesn’t matter what they do,” he said angrily. “What matters now is what we do. I’ve listened to you two because you both know a lot more about Puerto Rico than I do. But I’m through listening.”

  Both Eric Marten and Cesar Romero were expressionless.

  Lippert looked at them. “Things are worse than we thought,” he said dully. “A lot worse.”

  No one contradicted him.

  Chapter 4.

  Sewing the Wind

  At the Sloan Guaranty Trust the situation was deteriorating as well. John Thatcher, unfortunately, found himself living proof of this.

  Thatcher was ensconced in a large, air-conditioned office in a towering structure that evidenced modern architecture’s obsession with plate glass. In the outer office, currently typing, sat a sensible secretary working with dispatch and competence.

  But Thatcher was not in his sixth-floor office on Wall Street. He was on a twelfth floor overlooking Avenida Ponce de Leon. In Puerto Rico. The distant typewriter was being addressed not by his own Miss Corsa but by a borrowed Mrs. Schroeder.

  Mrs. Schroeder herself appeared in the doorway. A solidly contoured middle-aged woman with a jaunty gray coiffure, she bore no outward resemblance to Miss Corsa. Fundamentally, however, they were sisters under the skin, as Thatcher had discovered within hours of his arrival the day before.

  “Mr. Thatcher,” she said kindly, “Mr. Humble is on his way up. And Mr. Olmsted will pick you up first thing tomorrow morning. Now, this afternoon you are seeing the Governor at La Fortaleza. Then you won’t forget dinner this evening with the deputy director of Fomento . . .”

  “No,” said Thatcher, “I won’t.”

  “Of course,” she said reflectively, “you do have a rather full schedule. I could tell Mr. Olmsted that you are busy.”

  Thatcher appreciated this identification with his interests. “Thank you, Mrs. Schroeder, but I think perhaps I’d better face the music.”

  The firmness with which Mrs. Schroeder withdrew told Thatcher that once again he had gone too far.

  It was, in short, all very homelike. Only a confirmed opponent of business trips, overseas jaunts and similar dislocations—like John Putnam Thatcher—could complain.

  Except that his time was fully occupied with other concerns.

  “Ah, Thatcher!” said Dudley Humble, striding in athletically.

  In Manhattan, Thatcher recalled, Humble had been pallid and sedentary. Two years in San Juan had wrought a transformation which was a tribute to Puerto Rico’s many and varied recreational facilities. There was no doubt which island suited him better.

  Now his heavily tanned face was fixed in a broad smile. He was half the proud host entertaining an honored guest, and half the deferential subordinate.

  “Here’s that study of Fomento,” he said. “You know, that’s the Economic Development Agency here. It has statistics on how many mainland companies Fomento has attracted to the island. There are lists of all the Fomento plants, classified by industry. As for tourism, you may be interested to read about the seven million dollars Fomento put up for the Caribe Hilton . . .”

  It was small comfort to Thatcher that none of this was his fault. His presence in Puerto Rico had become inevitable when the sleuths from International discovered that Pete Olmsted was not the only trespasser from Commercial Credit. No fewer than five other ventures on the island had been bankrolled by the Sloan without Dudley Humble’s blessing—or knowledge. To a man, International had claimed that intercession by a higher authority was necessary. Thatcher’s unregenerate hope that the peak of the winter season would make it impossible to find flight space had died aborning. It was Miss Corsa’s duty and pleasure to circumvent just such difficulties.

  Triumphantly she had reported her victory over Pan American.

  “Yes, yes,” Thatcher had said impatiently. “I gather that many people wish to go to San Juan. Please bear in mind that I do not.”

  Dudley Humble was not only proud of the Sloan Guaranty Trust (Puerto Rico), he was proud of the whole island. Thatcher’s descent had spurred him into providing a crash course on its economics. Since a large measure of the current prosperity was intertwined with Sloan programs, there was no decent way for Thatcher to escape.

  “Now, some of the other things you will want to see today are written up here,” continued Humble, brandishing an agenda.

  Thatcher looked at it and raised no protest. He was here to learn, among other things, and learn he would. He only regretted that it required so many field trips. He had already inspected a new Levittown in Arecibo, grain elevators in Cataño and a furniture plant in Vega Baja. He had conferred with officials from the government and the business community. Now more of the same lay in store.

  “Everybody is certainly interested in economic growth,” he commented in a notable understatement.

  “Yes indeed,” said Humble enthusiastically. “Why, since Operation Bootstrap—”

  Thatcher interrupted. “Including the Governor and everybody else we have met.”

  Humble began to look uneasy.

  “Now I see that there is a plebiscite coming up,” Thatcher continued. “Perhaps it would be helpful if I could discuss the political situation.”

  Humble was torn. “We are careful,” he said in a stately voice, “not to become involved in local politics. As you know, Puerto Rico is completely self-governed, internally. We try to avoid any hint of involvement.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Thatcher skeptically. Let the bank broadcast these fictions to the public, not to him. “Now I have noticed a good deal of publicity about independence.”

  Humble admitted that he had seen it, too. He did not sound as if he approved.

  “I would be interested in talking to some responsible supporter of independence for Puerto Rico,” said Thatcher thoughtfully. “God knows I’ve met a lot of supporters of the status quo. I’d like to talk to someone who is willing to give up that big tax advantage.”

  Dudley Humble might disapprove, but the dark shadow of Commercial Credit put him on his mettle.

  Lunch at the Bankers’ Club that day, according to the invitation, featured a talk on the construction boom in the metropolitan area. More immediately germane, it also featured a small table for four.

  “John Thatcher is our senior vice-president in New York, Dr. Ramírez. John, this is Dr. Francisco Ramírez Rivera, a distinguished representative in the Legislature.”

  This was the public introduction. Earlier briefing had informed Thatcher that Ramírez, after operating for years as a successful real-estate entrepreneur, was now shouldering his way to the top of the Independence Party. In appearance he was a commanding figure, with massive shoulders topped by a hawk-like Indian profile and a thick mane of white hair.

  “My secretary,” he said, indicating the gangling young man at his side. “Ernesto Mendez Diego.”

  Murmurs of acknowledgment accompanied the scraping of three chairs.

  “You’ll excuse me a moment, won’t you,” Humble said artlessly. “I see someone I should have a word with.”

  Dr. Ramírez had also been briefed.

  “I understand you are interested in our political situation, Mr. Thatcher,” he said suavely. “To meet a mainlander who admits there is such a situation is a pleasant surprise.”

  “I have been here for only two days,” Thatcher replied, “but it is difficult to find anyone talking about anything but the economy.”

  Ramírez shook his head. “Exactly. You have put your finger on the problem.”

  As this seemed to be the extent of his contribution, Thatcher proceeded. “I am of course grateful for the opportunity to see so much of Puerto Rico’s industrial growth.”

  “Yes,” said Ramírez with a sad, lofty smile. “All of our petty officials are very proud of each new factory and each new hotel. There is no denying it—the prosperity built up during the long admini
stration of Luis Muñoz Marin has come to be identified with our commonwealth status.”

  In the last plebiscite, Thatcher quoted Dudley Humble, an overwhelming majority of the electorate had voted to continue commonwealth status.

  “We are changing all that,” said Ramírez with magnificent assurance. He was too wily to introduce any facts. “Economic prosperity is important—but it is not everything.”

  “Naturally.”

  Ramírez suddenly smiled brilliantly. “No, I am not speaking like a foolish child. You bankers make the mistake of thinking money is everything. We independistas know Puerto Rico can maintain prosperity when it becomes independent. Why not? What is required, after all, but certain tariff concessions by the United States?”

  Thatcher was always willing to admire a political stance that rested on having one’s cake and eating it, too.

  “Tariff questions,” he pointed out, “can become intricate.”

  “Tariffs are being renegotiated the world over,” Ramírez said sternly.

  Thatcher did not think this was the time to observe that much of the renegotiation centered on raising, not lowering, trade barriers.

  Ramírez swept on to higher considerations. “By tradition, by culture, by language, Puerto Rico is part of the Latin-American community. No doubt there is much to admire in the Anglo-Saxon tradition, but it is not ours.”

  The secretary spoke for the first time. “The young people of Puerto Rico are proud of their heritage and are prepared to defend it,” he said ringingly, if not very relevantly.

  Ramírez closed his eyes briefly, then roused himself to hiss a command. “Ernesto! Mr. Thatcher requires another drink. Attend to it!”

  After Ernesto had shambled off, Dr. Ramírez expanded just enough to say, in bitter resignation, “My wife’s nephew.”

  Thatcher required no further explanation. He had been in too many offices from Washington to Istanbul not to recognize nepotism when he saw it. The only question had been whether the boy was a wife’s nephew or a mother’s cousin. He had, however, done Thatcher’s dirty work for him.

  “Speaking of Puerto Rico’s young people,” he said, seizing the opening, “we have, of course, been following the stories about student radicals and their conflicts with the police.”

  Ramírez became sardonic. “So it bothers the American bankers in New York, the growing awareness of our students to the exploitation of Puerto Rico? But their tactics should not come as a surprise to you.”

  Thatcher agreed amiably that student riots were no novelty to Americans.

  “But they are new to Puerto Rico,” Ramírez said instantly. “They are not compatible with our culture. We are not a violent people. While I sympathize with the dissatisfaction of our students, I deplore their methods.”

  “Splendid,” said Thatcher cordially. He had yet to hear any politician in the world approve of violence. He was more interested in another question. Was Ramírez numbered among those who expected to reap its benefits?

  Dr. Ramírez was beginning to hit his stride. “Nevertheless, I look to these young people as the hope of Puerto Rico. They see the injustice and the errors of American influence on the island. They are awakening the people to the real needs of our country. It is true that they are young and heedless, but they are headed in the right direction.”

  Thatcher eyed his companion. “There would seem to be several fundamental differences between your program and theirs,” he ventured.

  “Certainly not.” Ramírez was not defensive. If anything, he was condescending. “Our students have no real program. They merely wish to end the dominance of the Puerto Rican economy by outsiders.”

  As Thatcher had feared, Dr. Ramírez, like many a standard-bearer before him, was too busy deceiving himself to have time to mislead others. Thatcher decided to steer the conversation into more specific channels.

  “I have been reading some of their literature, and it has certain features in common with the pronouncements of our own protesters. There are references, for instance, to a social revolution which would eliminate the power of private industry, no matter who owned it. Not to mention basic changes in the class system—as they see it.”

  Ramírez waved away the tenets of the New Left. “Those are mere effusions produced by the exacerbations of the U.S. presence. They are parroting your students, I regret to say. With the removal of North American materialism, our young people will rediscover Hispanic values.”

  Thatcher murmured that Cuba’s rediscovery of Hispanic values had entailed a trifle more than the ejection of Americans.

  “We have the inestimable advantage of Cuba’s example,” Ramírez said coldly. “Their sugar crop alone should be a lesson to all hotheads. No, I am afraid that you cannot be expected to weigh these considerations accurately. When Puerto Rican industry is controlled by Puerto Ricans, there will no longer be any need for reform. There will be a natural understanding on both sides that can never be achieved under present circumstances. You cannot appreciate the emotions roused by alien domination. It is more than a question of economic interests. It is a matter of social morality. The Latin American instinctively feels for the self-respect of others, he . . .”

  As the lecture flowed on, Thatcher wondered why every politician in the world thought he could instruct American businessmen on the subject of anti-Americanism. After all, the people with real experience in this area were sitting in front offices in New York. They had been expropriated in Brazil, confiscated in Venezuela and squeezed out in Chile. They had negotiated in Japan, lobbied in India and made deals in the Common Market. They knew, better than most, the difference between home-grown capitalists wanting the gravy for themselves and dedicated revolutionaries marching to a different drummer.

  “Our students are performing an important service,” Ramírez continued in tones of measured approval. “By dramatizing our national plight, our younger generation has become a model for all concerned Puerto Ricans.”

  It was unfortunate that Ernesto should have chosen this moment to reappear. Placing a daiquiri in front of Thatcher, who was drinking Scotch, he slouched into his seat and peered around the table with innocent pride.

  “Some of our younger generation,” Ramírez corrected himself.

  “Then you feel that the activities of this group at the university may result in swelling the ranks of your own party?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Ramírez with supreme confidence.

  “But, Uncle,” Ernesto protested, “the students are demanding a boycott of the plebiscite. They claim all political parties are reactionary.”

  “Ernesto!”

  It took a moment for Ernesto’s uncle to recover. Then, turning to Thatcher with regal courtliness, he launched on his peroration.

  “I do not have to explain to you at least”—here he glared at Ernesto—“that I do not expect the immediate support of the students. But the great mass of the electorate, made aware of the ground swell for independence, will obviously look to those with mature judgment for the implementation of that goal. We are not hotheads, you need have no fear of that. I personally foresee a considerable period of adjustment. My party looks forward to an orderly transition that preserves all economic gains. Naturally we expect the United States to recognize its moral obligation to ease that transition. Generous financial aid, a preferential tariff policy—that is the least we have the right to expect.”

  Ernesto thought he saw his cue. Fixing Thatcher with a basilisk stare, he intoned severely, “Love Puerto Rico—or leave it!”

  Given the current emigration statistics for Puerto Rico, this struck Thatcher as a singularly ill-advised sentiment. He noted, with interest, that it was the first contribution by Ernesto which did not rouse his uncle’s wrath.

  Francisco Ramírez Rivera, apparently, was above statistics in more senses than one. He did, however, modify his nephew’s stirring battle cry in one particular.

  “Ernesto has, of course, phrased the matter too simply. But in essence he
is correct. Puerto Rico must obtain sovereignty in its own right. But I assure you there will be no violence. We independistas shall achieve our goals through a mandate from the people.”

  After all this, Pete Olmsted’s more modest goals came as a distinct relief to Thatcher the following morning.

  “Hell, John, I just want to know what’s going on out there—at Slax.”

  He had been in Puerto Rico one day longer than Thatcher. But while Thatcher had been meeting luminaries, Olmsted had been wined and dined by Slax’s management in downtown San Juan. He was more suspicious than ever.

  “I get the feeling they’re giving me the runaround. Lippert swears everything’s okay. They all swear everything’s okay. But that’s not the way it smells to me.”

  They were speeding out to Bayamón in the bank’s vast Cadillac.

  “So,” Olmsted continued, “I thought I’d look the plant over myself. And I knew you’d want to come, too.”

  Who was Thatcher to disabuse him? In forty-eight hours he had inspected almost everything else in Puerto Rico. Why not Slax?

  “Here we are,” said the driver.

  They had driven through the older section of Bayamón, circled around a new housing development, and come to rest before a long, low building directly opposite a shopping mall. In appearance, at least, Slax was a showplace. White concrete walls, gleaming beneath the tropical sun, were dappled with shadow cast by breeze-stirred palm trees. A neatly edged path led to the main entrance.

  “It’s a far cry from Seventh Avenue,” said Olmsted leading the way.

  He and Thatcher had barely entered the modest reception area when Eric Marten emerged from an inner office. After greetings and introductions, he suggested a slight delay.

  “How about a cup of coffee? We have to wait a few minutes. Everybody wants to be in on this conference, and Cesar has to get the day’s run started. He won’t be ready for another ten minutes. Dolores, page Mr. Lippert and tell him we’ll be in the cafeteria.”

  The decision to have the entire management on hand for this meeting sounded promising, Thatcher thought. Maybe the runaround was over. Maybe Slax was ready to talk turkey. Whatever the decision, clearly nothing would happen until the full roster assembled.