Their Manners Noted: Introduction
The office door burst open and slammed against the wall. Startled, I looked up from my desk, to see Paloma, my diminutive secretary, being thrust aside by a burly forearm as Don Pablo stormed in, purple with rage. He was waving a large revolver, which he clutched in his right hand.
In 1970, Honduras, in Central America, was as close to being the Wild West as was possible in that century. I was General Manager of the Shell Company there, and had adapted, mostly, to the very different culture and customs, coming, as I did, from two years in the Sudan.
One of the main characteristics of my latest home was that everyone had at least one gun and usually more than one. I had three: one at home, one in the car and one in the office. These were not unnecessary toys; they were there for protection.
Don Pablo advanced towards my desk, with Paloma, vainly clinging to his left arm, fluttering behind him like an agitated flag. He pointed the revolver at me.
“I am going to kill you,” he announced in a hoarse voice. “I am going to kill you right now!”
Don Pablo was well known to me. He owned a large petrol station in the rugged, extreme north-east of Honduras, near the border with Nicaragua. It was a difficult place to get to, given the inadequacy of the so-called roads, but I had sometimes flown there in a small airplane, to visit and make sure all was in order. His station was supplied from our depot in San Pedro Sula, the industrial capital of the country near the north west coast of the Atlantic, where I lived.
I was now standing up and trying to calm him. “Sit down, sit down, Don Pablo,” I said soothingly. ”Sit down and have a cup of coffee; you will feel better.”
“I feel fine,” he growled, “but I will feel better when you are dead.”
I racked my brains. Why this sudden irruption and fury? What had happened? I could think of nothing.
“You have dishonored my name and made me look a fool,” he growled again. “You have made me a laughing stock! You have ruined my business!” He took another step as I motioned for Paloma to let him go. She did so and I indicated with my head that she should leave us.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, as calmly as I could. “How have I done all these things?”
He glared at me with eyes that were now bloodshot and glittering with rage. “You have stopped my supplies and everyone in Lempira is laughing at me.”
Now I understood. One of Don Pablo’s well known characteristics was his disinclination to pay his bills. The trip by road tanker to replenish his station was a long one, taking several days over rugged and hazardous terrain. He had recently had three loads of mixed products and had not paid for any. I was somewhat irritated by this and, in spite of my Sales Manager’s attempts to dissuade me, had instructed the Operations Department not to deliver any more until payment was made.
Don Pablo had, presumably, run dry and this was the cause of his wrath. He must have been assailed by his customers, not least the fishing boats he supplied.
My visitor continued to wave his revolver and make threatening noises. I sat down and looked at him then, very slowly and deliberately, opened the top drawer of my desk. I paused, and took out my own pistol, a 9mm Beretta automatic. This I deliberately and gently laid on the desk in front of me.
Don Pablo stopped growling and looked at it. He then leaned forward and examined it more closely, then looked at his revolver. His eyebrows rose.
“What is that?” he enquired, in a belligerent tone. “What is the caliber?”
“It is a 9 mm,” I replied. “A Beretta.”
“Mine is a .32,” he said, looking at it. “Yours is bigger.” I nodded.
He sighed and also nodded his head. He then sat down opposite me and laid his own revolver on the table. “What did you say about coffee?” he asked, in a mollified tone.
I got up and went to the door. “Doña Paloma,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to bring us two cups of coffee, please?” She looked at me in astonishment. “You don’t want me to call the police?” she asked. “He looked mad.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “It was all a big misunderstanding. Everything is just fine.”
I went back and sat down again. Don Pablo had picked up my pistol and was examining it closely. “Is it any good?” he asked.
We then had a longish conversation about the relative merits of revolvers and automatic pistols, calibers and so forth. We drank our coffee in friendly camaraderie and he relaxed completely.
“Now then, Don Pablo,” I finally said. “What about it?”
He sighed deeply. “No more credit?” he asked piteously. He was a very wealthy man. “No,” I said firmly. “No cash, no product.”
He sighed again and tilted his sombrero back on his head. “Ah well,” he said. “You are a hard man, Don Miguel.” He paused and looked at the weapons again. He scratched his chin, bristly with a two day stubble. “Mmmmm,” he mused, ”9 mm against .32.” He paused again, then reached into the back pocket of his dirty jeans, stretched tight over his burly frame, and produced a rather grubby cheque book. He filled in the required amount for the full sum owing and gave me the cheque. I thanked him, and quietly put my pistol back in the drawer, while he tucked his revolver into his straining waistband.
We parted amicably, as the friends we were, and I never again had any trouble in getting him to pay his bills promptly. I decided that guns had their uses, not necessarily lethal.
But that was how business was done, in those days, in Honduras.