“Apologize, damn it,” ordered Miki, getting to his feet as well. “Right now. Beg his pardon.”
“All right.” Escobita gave in, trembling like a leaf. “I beg your pardon for what I said to you, uncle.”
“You’re forgiven,” Rigoberto agreed. “This conversation is over. Thank you for your visit, boys. Goodbye.”
“We’ll talk again when we’re calmer,” said Miki in farewell. “I’m sorry it ended this way, Uncle Rigoberto. We wanted to reach a friendly understanding with you. In view of your inflexibility, we’ll have to take this to court.”
“This won’t end well for you, and I tell you that from the heart because you’ll be sorry,” said Escobita. “So you’d better think it over.”
“Let’s go, brother, and just shut up.” Miki took his brother’s arm and dragged him to the front door.
As soon as the twins left the house, Rigoberto saw Lucrecia and Justiniana come into the room, alarmed expressions on their faces. The maid held a rolling pin like a deadly weapon.
“We heard everything,” said Lucrecia, grasping her husband’s arm. “If they’d done anything, we were ready to burst in and attack those hyenas.”
“Ah, is that what the rolling pin’s for?” Rigoberto asked, and Justiniana nodded, very seriously, swinging her improvised cudgel in the air.
“I had the poker from the fireplace in my hand,” said Lucrecia. “We would have scratched out those hoodlums’ eyes, I swear it, love.”
“I behaved rather well, didn’t I?” Rigoberto threw out his chest. “I didn’t let that pair of morons intimidate me for a moment.”
“You behaved like a great man,” said Lucrecia. “And this time, at least, intelligence defeated brute force.”
“Like a real man, señor,” Justiniana echoed Lucrecia.
“Not a word about any of this to Fonchito,” Rigoberto ordered. “The boy has enough headaches already.”
The women agreed and suddenly, at the same time, all three burst into laughter.
IX
Six days after El Tiempo published Don Felícito Yanaqué’s second notice (anonymous, unlike his first), the kidnappers still hadn’t given any signs of life. And Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva, in spite of all their efforts, had found no trace of Mabel. The kidnapping hadn’t yet reached the press, and Captain Silva said this kind of miracle couldn’t last; given the interest that the case of the owner of Narihualá Transport had awakened all over Piura, it was impossible for an event this important not to soon be front-page news in the papers and all over radio and television. Any day now, everything would become public knowledge, and Colonel Rascachucha would have another extraordinary temper tantrum complete with violent shouting, cursing, and foot-stamping.
Lituma knew his boss well enough to know how upset the chief was, even though he didn’t talk about it, simulated certainty, and continued to make his usual cynical, vulgar comments. No doubt he was wondering, as Lituma was, whether the spider gang hadn’t gone too far and Don Felícito’s mistress, that cute little brunette, wasn’t dead and buried in some garbage dump on the outskirts of town. Each time they met with the trucker, who was being consumed by this misfortune, the sergeant and captain were affected by the dark circles under his eyes, the tremor in his hands, and how his voice would break off in the middle of a phrase; he’d sit there dazed and mute, looking in terror at nothing, his watery eyes subject to fits of frantic blinking. “He could have a heart attack at any time and we’d have a stiff on our hands,” Lituma thought fearfully. His boss was smoking twice as many cigarettes as usual, clenching the butts between his teeth and biting them, something he did only in times of extreme stress.
“What do we do if Señora Mabel doesn’t show up, Captain? I’m telling you, this mess keeps me awake every night.”
“We kill ourselves, Lituma,” said the chief, trying to joke. “We’ll play Russian roulette and leave this world with our balls intact, like Seminario in your bet. But she’ll show up, don’t be so pessimistic. They know from the notice in El Tiempo, or they think they know, that they’ve finally broken Yanaqué. Now they’re making him suffer a little more just to clinch the deal. That isn’t what really worries me, Lituma. Do you know what does? That Don Felícito will lose his head and suddenly decide to publish another notice, do an about-face and ruin our plan.”
It hadn’t been easy to convince him. It had taken the captain several hours to make him give in, presenting every possible argument for his taking the notice to El Tiempo that same day. He spoke to him first in the police station and then in El Pie Ajeno, a bar he and Lituma had to all but drag him to. They watched him drink half a dozen carob-bean cocktails, one after the other, even though, as he repeated several times, he never drank. Alcohol wasn’t good for him, it upset his stomach and gave him diarrhea. But now it was different. He’d suffered a terrible blow, the most painful of his life, and alcohol would control his longing to have another crying fit.
“I beg you to believe me, Don Felícito,” said the chief, making a show of his patience. “Understand, I’m not asking you to surrender to the gang. I’d never think of advising you to pay the extortion they’re demanding.”
“That’s something I’d never do,” the trucker repeated, shaking and adamant. “Even if they kill Mabel and I had to kill myself so I wouldn’t have to live with that remorse on my conscience.”
“I’m only asking you to pretend, that’s all. Make them think you accept their conditions,” the captain insisted. “You won’t have to cough up a penny for them, I swear on my mother. And on Josefita, that gorgeous woman. We need them to release the girl, that will put us right on their trail. I know what I’m talking about, believe me. This is my profession and I know for a fact how these shits act. Don’t be stubborn, Don Felícito.”
“I’m not doing this out of stubbornness, Captain.” The trucker had calmed down and now his expression was tragicomic because a lock of hair had fallen over his forehead and covered part of his right eye; he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m really fond of Mabel, I love her. It breaks my heart that someone like her, who has nothing to do with this, is the victim of those greedy, vicious criminals. But I can’t give them the satisfaction. Understand, Captain, it’s not for my own sake. I can’t insult my father’s memory.”
He was silent for a while, staring into his empty cocktail glass, and Lituma thought he’d begin to whimper again. But he didn’t. Instead, with his head down, not looking at them, as if speaking not to them but to himself, the small man in his close-fitting, ash-colored jacket and vest began to recall his father. Blue flies buzzed in circles around their heads, and in the distance they could hear a heated argument between two men over a traffic accident. Felícito spoke in a hesitant way, searching for the words that would give the story he was telling proper weight and allowing himself at times to be overcome by emotion. Lituma and Captain Silva soon realized that the tenant farmer Aliño Yanaqué, from the Hacienda Yapatera, in Chulucanas, was the person Felícito had loved most in his life. And not only because the same blood ran in their veins but because thanks to his father, he’d been able to lift himself out of poverty, or rather, out of the wretchedness in which he was born and spent his childhood—a wretchedness they couldn’t even imagine—to become a businessman, the owner of a large fleet of cars, trucks, and buses, an accredited transport company that made his humble family name shine. He’d earned people’s respect; those who knew him also knew he was trustworthy and honorable. He’d been able to give his children a good education, a decent life, a profession, and would leave them Narihualá Transport, a business both customers and competitors thought well of. All this was due more to the sacrifices of Aliño Yanaqué than to his own efforts. He’d been not only his father but also his mother and his family, because Felícito had never known the woman who brought him into the world or any other relative. He didn’t even know why he’d been born in Yapatera, a village of blacks and mulattoes where the Yanaqués, being Europeans, that is cholo
s, seemed like foreigners. They led an isolated life, because the dark-skinned people of Yapatera didn’t make friends with Aliño and his son. Either because they had no family or because his father didn’t want Felícito to know who his aunts and uncles and cousins were or where they could be found, they’d always lived alone. He didn’t remember it, he was very young when it happened, but he knew that soon after he was born his mother ran off, who knows where or with whom. She never came back. For as long as he could remember his father had worked like a mule, on the tiny farm the boss gave him and on the boss’s hacienda, with no Sundays or holidays off, every day of the week and every month of the year. Aliño Yanaqué spent everything he earned, which wasn’t much, so that Felícito could eat, go to school, have shoes and clothes, notebooks and pencils. Sometimes he gave him a toy for Christmas or a coin so he could buy a lollipop or taffy. He wasn’t one of those fathers always kissing and spoiling their children. He was frugal, austere, and never gave him a kiss or a hug or told him jokes to make him laugh. But he deprived himself of everything so his son wouldn’t be an illiterate tenant farmer when he grew up. Back then Yapatera didn’t even have a school. Felícito had to go from his house to the public school in Chulucanas, five kilometers each way, and he didn’t always find a kindly driver who’d let him climb into his truck and save him the walk. He didn’t recall ever missing a single day of school. He always got good grades. Since his father couldn’t read, he had to read his report card to him, and it made Felícito happy to see Aliño proud as a peacock when he heard the teachers praise his son. Since there was no room in the only secondary school in Chulucanas, they had to move to Piura so that Felícito could continue his education. To Aliño’s great joy, Felícito was accepted to School Unit San Miguel of Piura, the most prestigious national secondary school in the city. Following his father’s instructions, Felícito hid from his classmates and teachers the fact that Aliño earned his living loading and unloading merchandise in the Central Market, near the slaughterhouse, and at night picked up garbage in municipal trucks. All that effort so his son could study and grow up to be something more than a tenant farmer or a porter or a garbage collector. The advice Aliño gave before he died, “Never let anybody walk all over you, my son,” had been the motto of his life. And Felícito wasn’t going to let those goddamn son of a bitch thieves, arsonists, and kidnappers walk all over him now.
“My father never asked for charity or let anybody humiliate him,” he concluded.
“Your father must have been a person as respectable as you are, Don Felícito,” said the chief, flattering him. “I’d never ask you to betray him, I swear. I’m only asking you to feint, to play a trick, by putting the notice that they asked for in El Tiempo. They’ll think they’ve broken you and let Mabel go. That’s what matters most now. They’ll show themselves, and we’ll be able to catch them.”
Finally Don Felícito agreed. Together he and the captain wrote the text that would be published in the paper the following day:
THANKS TO THE CAPTIVE LORD OF AYABACA
With all my heart I thank the divine Captive Lord of Ayabaca who, in his infinite kindness, performed the miracle I asked him for. I’ll always be grateful and ready to take all the steps that in his great wisdom and mercy he may wish to point out to me.
A devoted follower
During this time, while they were waiting for some sign from the spider gangsters, Lituma received a message from the León brothers. They’d persuaded Rita, Mono’s wife, to let him go out at night, so instead of lunch they’d have dinner on Saturday. They met in a Chinese restaurant near the convent of the nuns from the Lourdes Academy. Lituma left his uniform in the Calanchas’ boardinghouse and went in civilian clothes, wearing the only suit he owned. He took it to a laundry beforehand to have it washed and ironed. He didn’t put on a tie but bought a shirt at a store that auctioned off its stock. He had his shoes polished at a newsstand and showered at a public bath before he went to meet his cousins.
It was harder for him to recognize Mono than José. He’d really changed. Not only physically—though he was much fatter than when he was young and had very little hair, purple bags under his eyes, and wrinkles around his sideburns and mouth and on his neck. He was dressed casually in elegant clothes and wore white loafers. He had a thin chain on his wrist and another around his neck. But the greatest change was in his manner: calm, serene, belonging to someone very self-assured because he’s discovered the secret to life and how to get on well with everyone. There was no trace left of the silly tricks and clownishness of his boyhood, which had earned him his nickname: Mono, the Monkey.
He embraced Lituma very affectionately. “How terrific to see you again, Lituma!”
“All that’s missing is for us to sing the anthem of the Unconquerables,” exclaimed José. And clapping his hands, he asked the Chinese waiter to bring some ice-cold Cusqueña beers.
The reunion was a little strained and difficult at first, because their catalogues of shared memories were followed by great parentheses of silence, punctuated by little forced laughs and nervous glances. A good deal of time had gone by, each had lived his life, it wasn’t easy to revive the old camaraderie. Lituma shifted uncomfortably in his seat, telling himself that maybe he should have avoided this meeting. He thought of Bonifacia, of Josefino, and something in his stomach contracted. And yet, as they kept emptying the bottles of beer that accompanied the platters of fried rice, Chinese noodles, Peking duck, wonton soup, and crispy fried prawns, their blood ties came to life and their tongues loosened. They began to feel more relaxed and comfortable. José and Mono told jokes and Lituma urged his cousin to do some of the imitations that had been his strong suit when he was young—the sermons of Father García in the Church of the Virgen del Carmen on Plaza Merino, for example. Mono held back at first, but soon he grew more animated and began to preach and hurl biblical thunderbolts like the old Spanish priest, philatelist, and grouch. Legend had it that, backed up by a crowd of pious old women, he’d burned down the first brothel in the history of Piura, the one in the middle of the sandy tract on the way to Catacaos, run by the father of La Chunga from the Green House. Poor Father García! The Unconquerables had embittered his life, shouting at him in the streets “Burner! Burner!” They’d made the old grouch’s final years a calvary. Each time he passed them on the street, he’d shout insults at them: “Bums! Drunkards! Degenerates!” Oh, how funny. What times those were—times, as the tango said, that had gone and would never came back.
They’d finished off the meal with a dessert of Chinese apples but were still drinking; Lituma’s head was a soft, agreeable whirlpool. Everything was spinning and from time to time he yawned uncontrollably, almost dislocating his jaw. Suddenly, in a kind of semi-lucid doze, he realized that Mono had started to talk about Felícito Yanaqué. He was asking him something. He felt his drunkenness beginning to evaporate and regained control of his consciousness.
“What’s happening with poor Don Felícito, cousin?” Mono repeated. “You must know something. Is he still determined not to make the payments they’re demanding? Miguelito and Tiburcio are very worried, this mess has really fucked the two of them up. He may have been really hard on them, but they love their old man. They’re afraid the crooks will kill him.”
“You know Don Felícito’s sons?” Lituma asked.
“Didn’t José tell you?” Mono replied. “We’ve known them for a while.”
“They’d bring the vehicles from Narihualá Transport to the shop for repairs and tuning.” José seemed annoyed at Mono’s confidences. “They’re both nice guys. We’re not good friends. Just acquaintances.”
“We’ve done a lot of gambling with them,” Mono added. “Tiburcio’s damn good at dice.”
“Tell me more about them,” Lituma insisted. “I only saw them a couple of times when they came to the station to make their statements.”
“Very good people,” Mono declared. “They’re very upset over what’s happening to their father
. Even though the old man was really a tyrant with them, it seems. He made them do everything in the business, beginning from the very bottom. He still has them working as drivers, supposedly paying them what the others make. No preferential treatment even though they’re his sons. He doesn’t pay them a penny more, and doesn’t give them more time off. You probably know he put Miguelito in the army, supposedly to straighten him out, because he stepped off the straight and narrow. What a tough old bird!”
“Don Felícito is one of those rare types who appear only once in a while in this life,” declared Lituma. “The most upstanding man I’ve known. Any other businessman would be making his payments by now and have gotten this nightmare off his back.”
“Well, whatever, Miguelito and Tiburcio will inherit Narihualá and won’t be poor anymore.” José tried to change the subject. “And how are you doing, cousin? I mean, with women, for example. Do you have a wife, a girlfriend, girlfriends? Or just whores?”
“Don’t go too far, José,” Mono said, gesticulating, exaggerating the way he used to. “Look how you’ve embarrassed our cousin with that evil-minded curiosity of yours.”
“You don’t still miss the girl Josefino turned into a whore, cousin?” José asked with a laugh. “They called her Jungle Girl, didn’t they?”
“I don’t even remember her now,” Lituma said, looking at the ceiling.
“Hey, don’t remind our cousin of sad things, José.”
“Let’s talk about Don Felícito instead,” Lituma suggested. “Really, he’s got character; he’s got balls. He’s impressed me.”
“Who hasn’t he impressed—he’s the hero of Piura, almost as famous as Admiral Grau,” said Mono. “Maybe, now that he’s become so popular, the gangsters won’t dare to hurt him.”
“Just the opposite, they’ll try to hurt him precisely because of how famous he is; he’s made them look ridiculous and they can’t allow that,” declared José. “The gangsters’ honor is at stake, brother. If Don Felícito gets away with it, all the businessmen who pay extortion will stop tomorrow and the gang will break apart. Do you think they’ll put up with that?”