She dozed off from time to time and had intermittent attacks of panic. She was a practical woman and never wasted time feeling sorry for herself or crying over her mistakes. What she regretted most in life was giving in to the insistent young man who had pursued her, caught up with her, courted her, and with whom she’d flirted without suspecting he was Felícito’s son. It had begun two and a half years earlier, when in the streets, stores, restaurants, and cafeterias in the center of Piura, she realized she was often running into a white, athletic, good-looking, well-dressed boy who gave her suggestive looks and flirtatious smiles. She learned who he was when, after making him beg more than a little, and accepting fruit juice from him in a pastry shop, going out to eat with him, going dancing a couple of times in a discotheque along the river, she agreed to go to bed with him in a motel in Atarjea. She was never in love with Miguel. Well, Mabel hadn’t been in love with anybody since she was a kid, maybe because that was who she was or maybe because of what happened with her stepfather when she was thirteen. She’d been so disappointed with her first loves as a girl that from then on she’d had affairs, some longer than others, some very brief, but they had never involved her heart, only her body and her reason. She thought that’s how her affair with Miguel would be, that after two or three encounters it would dissolve on her own terms. But this time it didn’t happen that way. The boy had fallen in love. He stuck to her like a leech. Mabel realized the relationship had become a problem and tried to break it off. She couldn’t. The only time she hadn’t been able to get rid of a lover. A lover? Not really, since because he was either very poor or a tightwad, he rarely gave her presents, didn’t take her to nice places, and even warned her they’d never have a formal relationship because he wasn’t one of those men who wants to be a father and have a family. In other words, his only interest in her was sex.
When she tried to force the break, he threatened to tell his father everything. From that moment on she knew the story would end badly, and that of the three, she’d suffer the most.
“Effective cooperation with the justice system,” Captain Silva explained, smiling enthusiastically. “That’s what it’s called in legal jargon, Mabelita. The key word isn’t ‘cooperation,’ it’s ‘effective.’ It means that the cooperation has to be useful and productive. If you cooperate honestly and help us to put the crooks who got you involved in this mess behind bars, you’re exempt from prison, even from being tried. And with good reason, because you’re a victim too. No strings attached, Mabelita! Imagine what that means!”
The captain took a couple of drags on his cigarette, and she saw the little clouds of smoke thicken the rarefied atmosphere of the living room and then gradually disperse.
“You must be asking yourself what kind of cooperation we want from you. Why don’t you explain, Lituma.”
The sergeant agreed.
“For now, we want you to continue pretending, señora,” he said, very respectfully. “Just like you’ve pretended all this time with Señor Yanaqué and with us. Exactly the same. Miguel doesn’t know we know everything, and you, instead of telling him, will keep acting as if this conversation never took place.”
“That’s exactly what we want from you,” Captain Silva agreed. “I’ll be frank, give you more proof of our confidence. Your cooperation can be very useful to us. Not to nab Miguel Yanaqué. He’s already fucked and can’t make a move without our knowing about it. But we’re not sure about his accomplices. We don’t know who they are. With your help, we’ll set a trap and send them to prison, where gangsters should be, instead of on the street, making life hard for decent people. You’d be doing us a great service. And we’ll return it, pay you back with another great favor. I’m speaking for the National Police and the justice system. This deal has the prosecutor’s approval. You heard right, Mabelita. The prosecutor himself, Dr. Hermando Símula! You won the lottery with me, girl.”
From then on, she continued seeing Miguel only so he wouldn’t carry out his threat to tell Felícito about their affair “even if the spiteful old man puts a bullet in you and another in me, sweetie.” She knew the insane things a jealous man could do. Deep down, she hoped something would happen—an accident, an illness, anything to get her out of this. She did her best to keep Miguel at a distance, inventing excuses not to go out with him or have sex with him. But from time to time she couldn’t help it, and though she was unwilling and frightened, they went out to eat in sleazy bars, to dance in shabby discotheques, and to have sex in small hotels that rented rooms by the hour on the road to Catacaos. Only rarely did she let him visit her in the house in Castilla. One afternoon, she and her friend Zoila went into El Chalán for tea and Mabel ran into Miguel face-to-face. He was with a very young, very pretty girl, and they were lovey-dovey, holding hands. She watched as the boy became confused, blushed, and turned his head to avoid greeting her. Instead of jealousy, she felt relief. Now the break would be easier. But the next time they saw each other, Miguel whimpered, begged her to forgive him, swore he’d repented, Mabel was the love of his life, etcetera. And she, stupid, so stupid, forgave him.
That morning, after not closing her eyes all night, a more and more common occurrence recently, Mabel was depressed, her head filled with premonitions. She also felt sorry for the old man. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. She never would’ve gotten involved with Miguel if she’d known he was Felícito’s son. How strange that he had a son so white and so good-looking. Felícito wasn’t the type a woman falls in love with, but he did have the qualities that make a woman feel affection for a man. She’d grown used to him. She didn’t think of him as a lover but as a close friend. He gave her security, made her think that as long as he was nearby, he’d get her out of any situation. He was a decent person, with good intentions, one of those men you can trust. She’d be very sorry to embitter him, or hurt him, or offend him. Because he’d suffer so much if he found out she’d gone to bed with Miguel.
At about midday, when the police knocked at the door, she had the feeling that the threat she’d sensed since the previous night was about to materialize. She opened the door and saw Captain Silva and Sergeant Lituma in the doorway. My God, my God, what was going to happen?
“Now you know what the deal is, Mabelita,” said Captain Silva. He looked at his watch and stood up, as if he were remembering something. “You don’t have to answer me now, of course. I’ll give you till tomorrow, at this time. Think about it. If that lunatic Miguel comes to visit you again, don’t even think about telling him about our conversation. Because that would mean you’d sided with the gangsters against us. An aggravating circumstance in your file, Mabelita. Isn’t that right, Lituma?”
As the captain and the sergeant were walking toward the door, she asked them, “Does Felícito know you’ve come here to make me this offer?”
“Señor Yanaqué doesn’t know anything about it, and even less that the spider extortionist is his son Miguel and you’re his accomplice,” the captain replied. “When he finds out, he’ll have a fit. But that’s life, as you know better than anybody. When you play with fire, somebody gets burned. Think about our proposition, sleep on it, and you’ll see it’s the best thing for you to do. We’ll talk tomorrow, Mabelita.”
When the police left, she closed the door and leaned her back against the wall. Her heart was pounding. “I’m fucked, I’m fucked. You did it to yourself, Mabel.” Leaning against the wall, she dragged herself into the living room—her legs were trembling and sleep was still irresistible—and let herself drop into the nearest armchair. She closed her eyes and immediately fell asleep, or passed out. She had a nightmare she’d had before. She’d fallen into quicksand and was sinking through that gritty surface; both legs were already entangled in viscous filaments. Making a great effort, she was able to move toward the closest shore, but it wasn’t her salvation: Instead, crouching there, waiting, was a shaggy beast, a dragon from the movies, with sharp tusks and piercing eyes, watching and waiting for her.
When she
woke her neck, head, and back hurt, and she was soaked in sweat. She went to the kitchen and sipped a glass of water. “You’ve got to calm down, have a cool head. You’ve got to think calmly about what you’re going to do.” She went to lie down in the bed, taking off only her shoes. She didn’t feel like thinking. She would have liked to take a car, a bus, a plane, get as far as possible from Piura, go to a city where nobody knew her. Start a new life from the beginning. But it was impossible, wherever she went the police would find her, and running away would only make her guilt worse. Wasn’t she a victim too? The captain had said so and it was absolutely true. Maybe it had been her idea? Not at all. She’d discussed it with that imbecile Miguel when she found out what he was planning. She agreed to take part in the farce of the kidnapping only when he threatened her—again—with telling the old man about their affair. “He’ll throw you out like a dog, sweetie. And then how will you live as well as you’re living now?”
He’d forced her, and she had no reason to be loyal to a son of a bitch like him. Maybe all she could do was cooperate with the police and the prosecutor. Her life wouldn’t be easy, of course. There’d be revenge, she’d become a target, they’d put a bullet or a knife in her. What was better? That or prison?
She didn’t leave the house again that day or night, devoured by doubts, her head a madhouse. The only thing that was clear was that she was fucked and would keep being fucked because of the mistake she’d made when she got involved with Miguel and agreed to this charade.
She ate nothing that night; she fixed a ham and cheese sandwich but she couldn’t even taste it. She went to bed thinking that in the morning the two cops would be back to ask what her answer was. She spent the whole night worrying, making plans and then changing them. Sometimes she was overcome by sleep, but as soon as she dozed off she would wake in a fright. When the first light of the new day came into the house in Castilla, she felt herself growing calmer. She began to see things clearly. A short time later, she’d made her decision.
XIV
The winter Tuesday in Lima, which Don Rigoberto and Doña Lucrecia would consider the worst day of their lives, dawned, paradoxically, with a cloudless sky and the promise of sun. After two weeks of persistent fog and damp and an intermittent drizzle that barely wet anything but penetrated down to one’s bones, this kind of beginning seemed a good omen.
Rigoberto’s appointment in the office of the examining magistrate was for ten that morning. Dr. Claudio Arnillas, with his invariable gaudy suspenders and crooked-leg walk, picked him up at nine, as previously arranged. Rigoberto thought this new proceeding before the judge would, like the earlier ones, be a sheer waste of time—stupid questions about his duties and responsibilities as manager of the insurance company, to which he would reply with obvious explanations and equivalent foolishness. But this time he discovered that the twins had escalated their judicial harassment; in addition to paralyzing his retirement process under the pretext of examining his responsibilities and personal income during his years of service at the company, they’d opened a new judicial investigation into an alleged fraudulent action to the detriment of the insurance company in which he had supposedly been an accessory after the fact, a beneficiary, and an accomplice.
Don Rigoberto barely remembered the episode, which had occurred three years before. The client, a Mexican residing in Lima, owner of a small farm and a factory that produced dairy products in the Chillón valley, had been the victim of a fire that destroyed his property. Following the police investigation and the judge’s decision, he was compensated according to his policy for the losses he’d suffered. When, after a partner’s accusations, he was charged with contriving to set the fire himself in order to fraudulently collect the insurance, the individual had already left the country, leaving no trace of his new location, and the company had been unable to recoup its losses from the swindle. Now the twins said they had proof that Rigoberto, manager of the company, had acted negligently and suspiciously throughout the entire affair. The proof consisted of the testimony of a former employee of the company who’d been fired for incompetence and who claimed he could prove the manager had been in cahoots with the swindler. It was a preposterous situation, and Dr. Arnillas, who’d already filed a judicial rejoinder against the twins and their false witness for libel and slander, assured him the accusation would collapse like a house of cards; Miki and Escobita would have to pay fines for offenses to his honor, false testimony, and intent to defraud justice.
The process took the entire morning. The narrow, suffocating office was simmering with heat and flies, and the walls were marred by tacked-up forms. Sitting in a small, rickety chair that barely held half his buttocks and, to make matters even worse, that rocked back and forth, Rigoberto was constantly balancing to avoid falling to the floor as he responded to the judge’s questions, which were so arbitrary and absurd that, he said to himself, they had no purpose other than to waste his time and make him lose his temper and his patience. Had this judge also been bribed by Ismael’s sons? Every day that dissolute pair piled on another annoyance intended to force him into testifying that their father wasn’t in his right mind when he married his servant. Not only holding up his retirement but now this. The twins knew very well that this accusation might be counterproductive for them. Why were they making it? Was it simply blind hatred, a desire for bullheaded revenge because of his complicity in that marriage? A Freudian transference, perhaps. They were furious, out for his blood because they couldn’t do anything to Ismael and Armida, who were having the time of their lives in Europe. They were wrong. He wouldn’t give in. We’d see who laughed last in the war they’d declared on him.
The judge was a small, thin, badly dressed man who spoke without looking into the eyes of his interlocutor in a voice so low and indecisive that Don Rigoberto’s irritation increased by the minute. Was anyone recording the interrogation? Apparently not. A secretary sat hunched between the judge and the wall, his head buried in an enormous file, but there was no tape recorder visible. For his part, the magistrate had a small notebook in which, from time to time, he scrawled something so rapidly it couldn’t have been even a very brief synthesis of his statement. Which meant this entire interrogation was a farce intended only to harass him. Rigoberto was so annoyed that he had to make a huge effort to take part in the ridiculous pantomime and not explode in a fit of rage. When they left, Dr. Arnillas said he ought to be happy: By showing so little enthusiasm, the investigative magistrate had made it clear he didn’t take the hyenas’ accusation seriously. He’d declare it null and void, Dr. Arnillas was absolutely certain of that.
Rigoberto returned home tired, in a bad mood, and with no desire for lunch. It was enough for him to see Doña Lucrecia’s contorted face to realize that more bad news was waiting for him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as he took off his jacket and hung it in the bedroom closet. Since his wife didn’t answer right away, he turned to look at her. “What’s the bad news, my love?”
Agitated, her voice trembling, Doña Lucrecia murmured, “Edilberto Torres, imagine.” Half a moan escaped her, and she added: “He appeared in a jitney. Again, Rigoberto, my God, again!”
“Where? When?”
“On the Lima–Chorrillos jitney, Stepmother,” Fonchito said, very calm, his eyes begging her not to give the matter any importance. “I got on at the Paseo de la República, near Plaza Grau. He got on at the next stop, on the Zanjón.”
“He did? Was it really him? Was it?” she exclaimed, bringing her face close, examining him. “Are you sure about what you’re telling me, Fonchito?”
“Hello, young friend,” Señor Edilberto Torres greeted him, making one of his customary bows. “What a coincidence, look where we’ve met. I’m happy to see you, Fonchito.”
“Dressed in gray, with a jacket and tie and his garnet-colored sweater,” the boy explained. “Nicely combed and shaved, very pleasant. Of course it was him, Stepmother. And this time, fortunately, he didn’t cry.”
/>
“Since the last time we saw each other, I think you’ve grown a little,” said Edilberto Torres, looking him over from head to toe. “Not only physically. Now you have a more serene, a more definite gaze. Almost the gaze of an adult, Fonchito.”
“My papa has forbidden me to talk to you, señor. I’m sorry, but I have to obey him.”
“Has he told you the reason for this prohibition?” Señor Torres asked, not at all perturbed. He observed him with curiosity, smiling slightly.
“My papa and stepmother think you’re the devil, señor.”
Edilberto Torres didn’t seem very surprised, but the jitney driver was. He stepped lightly on the brakes and turned to look at the two passengers in the backseat. When he saw their faces, he calmed down. Señor Torres’s smile broadened, but he didn’t laugh out loud. He nodded, taking the matter as a joke.
“In our day everything’s possible,” he remarked in his perfect announcer’s diction, and shrugged. “The devil even wanders the streets of Lima and mobilizes his recruits on jitneys. Speaking of the devil, I’ve learned that you’ve become friends with Father O’Donovan, Fonchito. Yes, the one with a Bajo el Puente parish, who else. Do you get on well with him?”
“He was kidding you, don’t you see that, Lucrecia?” stated Don Rigoberto. “It’s a joke that he’d appear again in a jitney. And more than impossible that he’d mention Pepín. He was simply deceiving you. He’s been deceiving us from the very beginning, and that’s the truth.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen his face, Rigoberto. I think I know him well enough to know when he’s lying and when he’s not.”
“Do you know Father O’Donovan, señor?”
“On some Sundays I go to hear his Mass, even though his parish is fairly far from where I live,” replied Edilberto Torres. “I walk there because I like his sermons. They’re those of an educated, intelligent man who speaks to everybody, not just to believers. Didn’t he give you that impression when you chatted with him?”