“If you keep driving like this, I’m getting out,” his wife warned him. “Ah, so that was the reason. I thought she was putting on airs and had hired those giants just to show off.”
When they reached the Church of Santa María Reina, on the Gutiérrez de San Isidro Oval, the cortege was already leaving, so they joined the caravan without getting out of the car. The line of automobiles was endless. Don Rigoberto saw, as the hearse passed, many pedestrians making the sign of the cross. “Fear of dying,” he thought. As far as he could recall, he’d never been afraid of death. “At least, not yet,” he corrected himself. “All of Lima must be here.”
And in fact, all of Lima was there. The Lima of big businesses, owners of banks, insurance, mining, fishing, and construction companies, television stations, newspapers, country estates, and ranches, as well as many of the employees of the company Ismael had led until a few weeks ago, and even some humble people who must have worked for him or owed him favors. There was a military man wearing a dress uniform with gold braid, probably an aide-de-camp to the president, and the ministers of finance and foreign trade. A minor incident occurred when the coffin was taken out of the hearse and Miki and Escobita attempted to go to the head of the retinue. They succeeded for only a few seconds, because when Armida emerged from her car on the arm of Dr. Arnillas and surrounded now not by two but four bodyguards, the four immediately opened a path for her to the front of the cortege, firmly moving the twins out of the way. Miki and Escobita, after a moment’s confusion, chose to cede to the widow and fell back to either side of the coffin. They grasped the straps and followed the cortege with lowered heads. Most of those attending were men, but there were also a good number of elegant women who, during the priest’s prayer for the dead, kept staring insolently at Armida. They couldn’t see very much. Dressed all in black, she wore a hat and large sunglasses that hid a good part of her face. Claudio Arnillas—he wore his usual multicolored suspenders under a gray jacket—remained at her side, and the four security men formed a wall at her back that no one attempted to breach.
When the ceremony was over and the coffin finally hoisted into one of the recesses that was closed with a marble tablet bearing the name of Ismael Carrera and the dates of his birth and death in golden letters—he had died three weeks before his eighty-second birthday—Dr. Arnillas, his stride more unruly than usual because of his fast pace, and the four bodyguards took Armida to the exit, preventing anyone from approaching her. Rigoberto noted that once the widow had left, Miki and Escobita stood together at the tomb and many people came up to embrace them. He and Lucrecia withdrew without greeting them. (The previous night, at the vigil, they’d approached the twins to offer their condolences, and the handshake had been glacial.)
“Let’s stop by Ismael’s house,” Doña Lucrecia suggested to her husband. “Even if it’s only a moment, to see if we can talk to Armida.”
“All right, let’s try it.”
When they arrived at the house in San Isidro, they were surprised not to see a crowd of cars parked near the door. Rigoberto got out, announced himself, and after a wait of several minutes, they were shown into the garden, where they were received by Dr. Arnillas. With an air appropriate to the circumstances, he seemed to have taken control of the situation, though perhaps not completely. He seemed uncertain.
“A thousand pardons on Armida’s behalf,” he said. “She was awake all night at the vigil, and we’ve made her lie down. The doctor has ordered her to rest for a while. But come in, let’s go to the room by the garden and have something to drink.”
Rigoberto’s heart contracted a little when he saw the lawyer leading them to the room where two days earlier he’d seen his friend for the last time.
“Armida is very grateful to you both,” said Claudio Arnillas. He looked worried and very serious, pausing as he spoke. His gaudy suspenders gleamed each time his jacket opened. “According to her, you’re the only friends of Ismael she trusts. As you can imagine, the poor woman feels very helpless now. She’s going to need your support—”
“Excuse me, Doctor, I know this isn’t the right time,” Rigoberto interrupted. “But you know better than anybody everything that’s been left hanging with Ismael’s death. Do you have any idea of what’s going to happen now?”
Arnillas nodded. He’d asked for coffee and held the cup to his mouth. He blew on it slowly. In his lean, bony face, his steely, astute eyes looked doubtful.
“It all depends on those two gentlemen,” he said with a sigh, expanding his chest. “Tomorrow the will is opened at Nuñez Notary. I more or less know its contents. We’ll see how the hyenas react. Their lawyer is a shyster who advises them to threaten and make war. I don’t know how far they’ll want to take this. Señor Carrera has left practically his entire fortune to Armida, so we’ll have to be prepared for the worst.”
He shrugged, resigning himself to the inevitable. Rigoberto assumed that the inevitable was the twins screaming bloody murder. And he thought about the extraordinary paradoxes in life: one of the humblest women in Peru transformed overnight into one of the richest.
“But didn’t Ismael give them their inheritance in advance?” he recalled. “He did that when he had to throw them out of the company because of all the trouble they were making, I remember that very clearly. He gave them each a large amount of money.”
“But he did it informally, with a simple letter.” Dr. Arnillas shrugged again and frowned as he adjusted his glasses. “There was no public document of any kind, and no formal acceptance on their part. The matter can be legally contested, and undoubtedly will be. I doubt very much that the twins will give up so easily. I’m afraid the battle will go on for some time.”
“Let Armida settle and give them something so they’ll leave her in peace,” Don Rigoberto suggested. “The worst thing for her would be a prolonged lawsuit. It would last for years and the lawyers would keep three-quarters of the money. Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t mean you, it was a joke.”
“Thanks for my share,” Dr. Arnillas said with a laugh and stood up. “I certainly agree. A settlement is always best. We’ll soon see where this is heading. I’ll keep you informed, of course.”
“Will I still be involved in this?” Rigoberto asked, standing up as well.
“Naturally we’ll try to prevent that,” the lawyer halfheartedly reassured him. “Judicial action against you now makes no sense since Don Ismael has died. But you never know with our judges. I’ll call you immediately as soon as I have any news.”
For the three days following the burial of Ismael Carrera, Rigoberto was paralyzed by uncertainty. Lucrecia called Armida several times, but she never came to the phone. A woman’s voice would answer, someone who sounded more like a secretary than a domestic servant. Señora Carrera was resting, and for the moment, for obvious reasons, she preferred not to receive visitors; she’d give her the message, naturally. Rigoberto couldn’t communicate with Dr. Arnillas either. He was never in his office or his house; he’d just gone out or hadn’t returned yet, he had urgent meetings, he’d return the call as soon as he had a free moment.
What was going on? What could be going on? Had the will already been opened? What would the twins’ reaction be when they learned that Ismael had declared Armida his sole heir? They’d contest the will and argue it was null and void because it violated Peruvian laws that stipulated an obligatory third for the children. The law wouldn’t recognize the advance payment of their inheritance that Ismael had made to the twins. Would Rigoberto still be implicated in the hyenas’ lawsuit? Would they persist? Would he be summoned again to appear before that horrible judge in that claustrophobic office? Would he be obliged to stay in Peru until the suit was settled?
He devoured the papers and listened to all the radio and television reports, but the matter wasn’t news yet, it was still confined to the offices of executors, notaries, and lawyers. In his study, Rigoberto racked his brains trying to guess what was happening in those stuffy offices. He
had no desire to listen to music—even his beloved Mahler got on his nerves—or concentrate on a book, or look at his prints, losing himself in fantasy. He could barely eat. He hadn’t said much more than good morning and good night to Fonchito and Doña Lucrecia. He didn’t go out for fear he’d be surrounded by reporters and not know how to answer their questions. In spite of all his prejudices, he had to use the sleeping pills he hated.
Finally, very early on the fourth day, when Fonchito had just left for school and Rigoberto and Lucrecia, still in their bathrobes, were sitting down to breakfast, Dr. Claudio Arnillas came to the penthouse in Barranco. He looked as if he’d survived a disaster. The dark circles under his eyes indicated sleepless nights, the stubble on his face made it seem as if he’d forgotten to shave for the past three days, and his clothing—a crooked tie, very wrinkled shirt collar, one of the psychedelic suspenders unfastened, his shoes unpolished—displayed a carelessness that was surprising, for he always was very well dressed and groomed. He shook their hands, apologized for showing up unexpectedly and so early, and accepted a cup of coffee. Immediately after sitting down at the table, he explained what had brought him.
“Have you seen Armida? Have you spoken to her? Do you know where she is? I need you to be very frank with me. For her sake and your own.”
Don Rigoberto and Doña Lucrecia shook their heads and looked at him, mouths agape. Dr. Arnillas realized his questions had stunned them and seemed to become even more depressed.
“I can see you have no clue, like me,” he said. “Yes, Armida’s disappeared.”
“The hyenas…” murmured Rigoberto, who’d turned pale. He imagined the poor widow abducted and perhaps murdered, her corpse thrown to the sharks in the ocean or onto some garbage dump outside the city for the turkey buzzards and stray dogs to finish off.
“Nobody knows where she is.” Dr. Arnillas, despondent, slumped in his chair. “The two of you were my last hope.”
Armida had disappeared twenty-four hours earlier in a very strange way, after spending the entire morning at Nuñez Notary, summoned there along with Miki and Escobita, their shyster lawyer, Arnillas, and two or three attorneys from his office. The meeting was interrupted at one, for lunch, and was supposed to reconvene at four. Armida, with her chauffeur and four bodyguards, returned to her house in San Isidro. She said she had no desire to eat and would take a short nap in order to be rested for the afternoon appearance. She went to her room, and at a quarter to four, when the maid knocked on her door and went in, the bedroom was empty. No one had seen her leave the room or the house. The bedroom was in perfect order—the bed was made—and there was no indication of violence. The bodyguards, the butler, the chauffeur, the two maids who were in the house—no one had seen her or noticed any stranger lurking outside. Dr. Arnillas immediately called the twins, convinced they were responsible for her disappearance. But Miki and Escobita, terrified by what had happened, raised a huge fuss and in turn accused Arnillas of trying to ambush them. Finally, all three went together to file a complaint with the police. The minister of the interior had intervened, giving instructions to everyone to say nothing about it for the moment. No information was to be given to the press until the kidnappers contacted the family. There had been a general mobilization but so far no trace of either Armida or her abductors.
“It was them, the hyenas,” Doña Lucrecia declared. “They bought off the bodyguards, the chauffeur, and the servants. Of course it was them.”
“That’s what I thought at first, señora, though now I’m not so sure,” Dr. Arnillas explained. “Armida’s disappearance isn’t to their advantage at all, especially right now. The talks at Nuñez Notary were heading in the right direction. An agreement was being worked out so they could receive a little more money. It all depends on Armida. Ismael didn’t leave any loose ends. The bulk of the inheritance is sheltered in offshore foundations in the safest fiscal paradises on earth. If the widow disappears, nobody will receive a penny of the fortune. Not the hyenas, not the servants, not anybody. I wouldn’t even be able to collect my fees. So things are looking pretty bleak.”
His sad, helpless expression was so ridiculous that Rigoberto couldn’t control his laughter.
“May I ask what you’re laughing at, Rigoberto?” Doña Lucrecia looked at him in annoyance. “Do you think there’s something funny in this tragedy?”
“I know why you’re laughing, Rigoberto,” said Dr. Arnillas. “Because now you feel free. In fact, the lawsuit over Ismael’s marriage isn’t going forward. It’ll be dismissed. In any case, it wouldn’t have had the slightest effect on the inheritance, which, as I told you, is beyond the reach of Peruvian law. Nothing can be done. The money belongs to Armida. She and the kidnappers will divide it up. Do you realize that? Of course it’s laughable.”
“You mean the Swiss and Singaporean bankers will have it,” added Rigoberto, serious again. “I’m laughing at what a stupid ending to this story that would be if it really happens, Dr. Arnillas.”
“In other words, we, at least, are free of the nightmare?” asked Doña Lucrecia.
“In principle, yes,” Arnillas concurred. “Unless you’re the ones who have kidnapped or killed the multimillionaire widow.”
And suddenly he laughed too, hysterical, noisy laughter, laughter devoid of any joy. He removed his glasses, wiped them with a flannel cloth, tried to straighten out his clothes, and becoming very serious again murmured, “Laughing to keep from crying, as the saying goes.” He stood and took his leave, promising to keep them informed. If they heard any news—he didn’t discount the possibility that the kidnappers might call them—they could reach him on his cell phone any time, day or night. Control Risk, a specialized firm in New York, would be negotiating the ransom.
As soon as Dr. Arnillas left, a disconsolate Lucrecia began to cry. Rigoberto tried in vain to comfort her. She was shaken by sobs, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Poor thing, poor thing,” she whispered. “They’ve killed her, it was those dogs, who else could it be. Or they had her abducted to rob her of everything Ismael left her.” Justiniana brought her a glass of water with a few drops of paregoric, which finally calmed her down. She stayed in the living room, quiet and dejected. Rigoberto was moved, seeing his wife so despondent. Lucrecia was right. It was very possible the twins were behind this; they had the most to lose and must be going crazy at the idea that the entire inheritance would slip away from them. My God, what stories ordinary life devised; not masterpieces to be sure, they were doubtless closer to Venezuelan, Brazilian, Colombian, and Mexican soap operas than to Cervantes and Tolstoy. But then again not so far from Alexandre Dumas, Émile Zola, Charles Dickens, or Benito Pérez Galdós.
He felt confused and demoralized. Of course, it was good to have shaken off that damn lawsuit. As soon as it was confirmed, he’d update the tickets to Europe. Right. Put an ocean between them and this melodrama. Paintings, museums, operas, concerts, first-rate theater, exquisite restaurants. Right. Poor Armida, she got out of hell, had a taste of heaven, and was right back in the flames again. Kidnapped or murdered. Which was worse?
Justiniana came into the dining room, her expression very serious. She looked disconcerted.
“What is it now?” asked Rigoberto, and Lucrecia, as if emerging from a centuries-long sleep, opened her eyes, still wet from crying, very wide.
“I think Narciso’s lost his mind,” said Justiniana, putting a finger to her temple. “He’s acting very strange. He wouldn’t give his name, but I recognized his voice right away. He seems very frightened. He wants to talk to you, señor.”
“I’ll take the call in my study, Justiniana.”
He hurried out of the dining room, heading for his study. He was sure this call would bring bad news.
“Hello, hello,” he said into the receiver, prepared for the worst.
“You know who you’re talking to, don’t you?” answered a voice he recognized right away. “Please don’t say my name.”
“All right, agre
ed,” said Rigoberto. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“It’s urgent I see you,” said a frightened and perturbed Narciso. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s very important, señor.”
“Yes, of course, certainly.” He tried to think where they could meet. “Do you remember where we had lunch the last time with your employer?”
“I remember it very well,” said the driver after a brief pause.
“Wait for me there in exactly an hour. I’ll pick you up in the car. See you soon.”
When he returned to the dining room to tell Lucrecia about Narciso’s call, Rigoberto found his wife and Justiniana glued to the television set. They were hypnotized by Raúl Vargas, the star reporter for news channel RPP, who was giving details and speculating about the mysterious disappearance yesterday of Doña Armida de Carrera, the widow of the well-known businessman Don Ismael Carrera, recently deceased. The orders of the minister of the interior not to divulge the news had been useless. Now all Peru, like them, would be aware of this new development. Limeños would have their entertainment for a while, listening to Raúl Vargas. He said more or less what they already knew: She’d disappeared yesterday, early in the afternoon, after an appearance at Nuñez Notary related to the opening of the deceased’s will. The meeting was scheduled to resume in the afternoon. The disappearance occurred during the break. The police had detained all the servants in the house, as well as the widow’s four bodyguards, for questioning. There was no confirmation of an abduction, but that was the assumption. The police had announced a number to call if anyone had seen her or knew of her whereabouts. He showed photographs of Armida and of Ismael’s burial, recalled the scandal of the marriage of the wealthy entrepreneur to his former maid. And he announced that the dead man’s two sons had issued a communiqué expressing their sorrow at what had happened and their hope that the señora would reappear safe and sound. They offered a reward to anyone helping to find her.