for embarking on mammoth drinking bouts that often put him in hospital, had been hitting the bottle again; so when he turned up sober with Sergio Ramírez, there was a general sense of relief. Martínez Rivas was thought by many to be the most innovative, fresh poet in Nicaragua. ‘He hates being translated,’ Cardenal told me. ‘He thinks translation is a form of assassination.’ Martínez Rivas’ booming good humour, faintly jowly face and bush-shirt that was a little tight at the buttons reminded me of a favourite (and now dead) uncle.
‘There’s wine in this soup,’ he scolded Rosario Murillo sternly. ‘What are you trying to do? Make an alcoholic of me?’
Also present was José Coronel Urtecho, a tall Tatiesque man of gentle bearing, who murmured to me as Martínez Rivas and Cardenal began the verbal sparring that would continue all evening: ‘They are the two greatest poets of Latin America.’ Coronel’s modesty was also great; his own reputation equalled theirs.
Rosario Murillo was telling me about her last trip to New York with Daniel. They had decided to try and make a direct appeal to the American people, who were, as the opinion polls showed, mostly opposed to the Reagan policy in Central America. So she had gone on the Phil Donahue show, and Daniel had been filmed by TV cameras as he jogged in Central Park. ‘From that point of view things had gone so well,’ she said. ‘After Donahue people would wave to me in the street and shout Viva Nicaragua.’ She had even managed to button-hole Nancy Reagan at a public function and suggest that maybe the two of them might get together and try and mend some fences. Nancy, mumbling awkwardly, had been steered away by her minders at high speed.
‘Then Daniel said he needed new glasses.’ Rosario askedsome American friends to arrange for a discreet appointment with an optician, and these (very wealthy) friends had insisted that the new glasses would be their gift to President Ortega. When Daniel and Rosario emerged from the opticians they found, to their dismay, that the press were there after all. The next day, the New York papers splashed the story of how the President of impoverished Nicaragua had spent $3,200 on new spectacles. ‘That much money,’ Rosario said. ‘I never dreamed glasses could cost so much. It’s true we bought a few pairs, including sunglasses for the children, because we cannot get such things here, but still! And we hadn’t paid a cent, anyway, but they didn’t print that.’ The scandal of the President’s spectacles had left its mark. ‘You don’t know how careful we have to be when we’re there. We have meetings scheduled from before breakfast until late at night, and we never eat out anywhere. Endless Chinese takeaways in the hotel room. And then that business with the glasses, really, it was too bad.’
Daniel Ortega entered, with that odd mixture of confidence and shyness. He sat down next to me – we were arranged in our wooden rocking chairs around a long, low table set out in one of the verandahs – and, without any preamble, began to talk politics. He was going to the Security Council in a couple of days’ time, to ask America to abide by the Hague judgment. But an interesting thing had happened. He had been approached by a group of US Catholic prelates who wanted a meeting with him while he was in the States. ‘This will be one of our most important meetings. It may be they want to mediate.’
‘In the matter of the expulsion of Bishop Vega?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Ortega said dismissively. ‘Vega, he’s Cia . He is completely with the counter-revolution. He has been saying appalling things, that are simply treason by any standards: openly supporting the Contra aggression.’
‘And what about Carballo?’ I asked, Carballo being the other expelled priest. Ortega was equally dismissive. ‘Carballo was Obando y Bravo’s other voice. Only he spoke much less carefully. Obando is, still, more
‘There’s wine in this soup,’ he scolded Rosario Murillo sternly. ‘What are you trying to do? Make an alcoholic of me?’
Also present was José Coronel Urtecho, a tall Tatiesque man of gentle bearing, who murmured to me as Martínez Rivas and Cardenal began the verbal sparring that would continue all evening: ‘They are the two greatest poets of Latin America.’ Coronel’s modesty was also great; his own reputation equalled theirs.
Rosario Murillo was telling me about her last trip to New York with Daniel. They had decided to try and make a direct appeal to the American people, who were, as the opinion polls showed, mostly opposed to the Reagan policy in Central America. So she had gone on the Phil Donahue show, and Daniel had been filmed by TV cameras as he jogged in Central Park. ‘From that point of view things had gone so well,’ she said. ‘After Donahue people would wave to me in the street and shout Viva Nicaragua.’ She had even managed to button-hole Nancy Reagan at a public function and suggest that maybe the two of them might get together and try and mend some fences. Nancy, mumbling awkwardly, had been steered away by her minders at high speed.
‘Then Daniel said he needed new glasses.’ Rosario askedsome American friends to arrange for a discreet appointment with an optician, and these (very wealthy) friends had insisted that the new glasses would be their gift to President Ortega. When Daniel and Rosario emerged from the opticians they found, to their dismay, that the press were there after all. The next day, the New York papers splashed the story of how the President of impoverished Nicaragua had spent $3,200 on new spectacles. ‘That much money,’ Rosario said. ‘I never dreamed glasses could cost so much. It’s true we bought a few pairs, including sunglasses for the children, because we cannot get such things here, but still! And we hadn’t paid a cent, anyway, but they didn’t print that.’ The scandal of the President’s spectacles had left its mark. ‘You don’t know how careful we have to be when we’re there. We have meetings scheduled from before breakfast until late at night, and we never eat out anywhere. Endless Chinese takeaways in the hotel room. And then that business with the glasses, really, it was too bad.’
Daniel Ortega entered, with that odd mixture of confidence and shyness. He sat down next to me – we were arranged in our wooden rocking chairs around a long, low table set out in one of the verandahs – and, without any preamble, began to talk politics. He was going to the Security Council in a couple of days’ time, to ask America to abide by the Hague judgment. But an interesting thing had happened. He had been approached by a group of US Catholic prelates who wanted a meeting with him while he was in the States. ‘This will be one of our most important meetings. It may be they want to mediate.’
‘In the matter of the expulsion of Bishop Vega?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Ortega said dismissively. ‘Vega, he’s Cia . He is completely with the counter-revolution. He has been saying appalling things, that are simply treason by any standards: openly supporting the Contra aggression.’
‘And what about Carballo?’ I asked, Carballo being the other expelled priest. Ortega was equally dismissive. ‘Carballo was Obando y Bravo’s other voice. Only he spoke much less carefully. Obando is, still, more
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