“It’s just that I don’t know what to do, Don Felícito.” She lowered her voice and blushed from head to toe. She brought her face close to her employer’s and whispered, her eyes as wide as an innocent girl’s, “You know, that police captain keeps calling me. Can you guess why? To ask me out, of course!”
“Captain Silva?” The trucker pretended to be surprised. “I suspected he was one of your conquests. Hey waddya think, Josefita!”
“So it seems, Don Felícito,” his secretary continued, affecting extreme modesty. “He pays me all kinds of compliments whenever he calls, you can’t imagine the things he says. That man is so fresh! You don’t know how embarrassed it makes me. Yes, yes, he wants to take me out. I don’t know what to do. What advice would you give me?”
“Well, I don’t know what to say, Josefita. Of course, I’m not surprised that you’ve made this conquest. You’re a very attractive woman.”
“But a little fat, Don Felícito,” she complained, pretending to pout. “Though according to what he said, that isn’t a problem for Captain Silva. He claimed he doesn’t like the starving girls in ads but does like well-padded women, like me.”
Felícito Yanaqué burst into laughter and she joined in. It was the first time the trucker had laughed like this since he’d heard the bad news.
“Have you found out at least if the captain’s married, Josefita?”
“He promised me he’s single and has no commitments. But who knows, men spend their whole lives telling women that story.”
“I’ll try to find out, leave it to me,” offered Felícito. “Meanwhile have a good time and enjoy life, you deserve it. Be happy, Josefita.”
He inspected the departure of the jitneys, buses, and vans, and the delivery of packages, and midmorning he left for the appointment he had with Dr. Hildebrando Castro Pozo in his tiny, crowded office on Calle Lima. He was the lawyer for his transport business and had taken care of all Felícito Yanaqué’s legal affairs for several years. He explained in detail what he had in mind, and Dr. Castro Pozo took notes on everything he said in his usual diminutive notebook, writing with a pencil as little as it was. He was a small, elegant man in his sixties, wearing a vest and tie, lively, energetic, amiable, concise, a modest but effective professional, not at all high-priced. His father had been a well-known fighter for social causes, a defender of peasants, who suffered through prison and exile and was the author of a book about indigenous communities that had made him famous. He’d been a deputy in Congress. When Felícito finished explaining what he wanted, Dr. Castro Pozo regarded him with satisfaction.
“Of course it’s feasible, Don Felícito,” he exclaimed, toying with his tiny pencil. “But let me study the matter calmly and give you all the legal twists and turns so we can move forward without taking any risks. I’ll need a couple of days at most. Do you know something? What you want to do fully confirms what I’ve always thought about you.”
“And what have you thought about me, Dr. Castro Pozo?”
“That you’re an ethical man, Don Felícito. Ethical down to the soles of your feet. One of the few I’ve known, in fact.”
What could that mean, “an ethical man”? Intrigued, Felícito told himself he’d have to buy a dictionary one of these days. He was always hearing words whose meaning he didn’t know. And it embarrassed him to go around asking people what they meant. He went to his house for lunch. Even though he found the reporters stationed there, he didn’t even stop to tell them he wouldn’t give any interviews. He walked around them, greeting them with a nod, not answering the questions they asked him, moving quickly.
After lunch, Armida asked to talk to him alone for a moment. But to Felícito’s surprise, when he and his sister-in-law withdrew to the television room, Gertrudis, once again cloistered in stubborn silence, followed them. She sat down in one of the armchairs and remained there for the duration of the long conversation Armida and the trucker had, listening, not interrupting them even once.
“It must seem strange to you that since I arrived, I’ve been wearing the same dress,” his sister-in-law began in the most trivial way.
“If you want me to be frank, Armida, everything about this seems strange to me, let alone that you haven’t changed your dress. To begin with, your showing up this way, out of the blue. Gertrudis and I have been married for I don’t know how many years, and until a few days ago I don’t think she ever told me you even existed. Can you think of anything stranger than that?”
“I haven’t changed my clothes because I don’t have anything else to wear,” his sister-in-law continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “I left Lima with what I had on my back. I tried one of Gertrudis’s dresses, but I was swimming in it. Well, I ought to begin this story at the beginning.”
“Explain at least one thing to me,” Felícito asked her. “Because Gertrudis, as you must have seen, has become mute and will never explain it to me. Are you full sisters?”
Armida shifted in her seat, disconcerted, not knowing how to answer. She looked for help to Gertrudis, who remained silent, folded in on herself, like one of those mollusks with odd names sold in the Central Market by fishwives. Her expression was one of total apathy, as if nothing she heard had anything to do with her, but she didn’t take her eyes off either one of them.
“We don’t know,” Armida said finally, gesturing toward her sister with her chin. “We’ve talked a lot about it these past three days.”
“Ah, in other words, Gertrudis talks to you. You’re luckier than I am.”
“We have the same mother, that’s the only thing we know for sure,” Armida declared, slowly regaining her self-control. “She’s a few years older than me. But neither one of us remembers our father. Maybe he was the same man. Maybe not. There’s nobody left to ask, Felícito. As far back as we can remember, the Boss Lady—that’s what they called my mama, do you remember?—didn’t have a husband.”
“Did you live in El Algarrobo too?”
“Until I was fifteen,” Armida said. “It wasn’t a boardinghouse yet, just a wayside inn for mule drivers in the middle of the sandy tract. When I was fifteen I went to Lima to find a job. It wasn’t easy. I went through some hard times, worse than you can imagine. But Gertrudis and I never lost touch. I wrote to her sometimes, though she answered only once in a blue moon. She never liked writing letters. The fact is, Gertrudis only spent two or three years in school. I was luckier and finished elementary school. The Boss Lady made sure I went to school, but she put Gertrudis to work in the boardinghouse very early.”
Felícito turned to his wife.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me you had a sister,” he said.
But she kept looking at him as if she were looking through water and didn’t respond.
“I’ll tell you why, Felícito,” Armida intervened. “Gertrudis was ashamed, she didn’t want you to find out her sister was working in Lima as a maid. Especially after she married you and became respectable.”
“You were a domestic servant?” the trucker said in surprise, looking at his sister-in-law’s dress.
“All my life, Felícito. Except for a time when I worked in a textile factory in Vitarte.” She smiled. “I can see you think it’s strange for me to have a fine dress and shoes, and a watch like this. They’re Italian, just imagine.”
“That’s right, Armida, I think it’s very strange,” Felícito concurred. “You look like anything but a servant.”
“It’s just that I married the man who owned the house where I worked,” Armida explained, blushing. “An important man, and prosperous.”
“Ah, caramba, I get it, a marriage that changed your life,” said Felícito. “In other words, you won the lottery.”
“In a certain sense I did, but in another way, no,” Armida corrected him. “Because Señor Carrera, I mean Ismael, my husband, was a widower. He had two sons from his first marriage. They’ve hated me since I married their father. They tried to annul the marriage, they filed a complaint a
gainst me with the police, they went before a judge and accused their father of being a demented old man. They said I’d tricked him, given him cocaine, and used all other kinds of witchcraft.”
Felícito saw that Armida’s face had changed. It wasn’t serene anymore. Now there was sadness and anger in her expression.
“Ismael took me to Italy for our honeymoon,” she added, sweetening her voice and smiling. “They were very nice weeks. I never imagined I’d see such pretty things, such different things. We even saw the pope on his balcony, from St. Peter’s Square. That trip was like a fairy tale. My husband always had business meetings, and I spent a lot of time alone, being a tourist.”
“That’s how she got the dress, those jewels, that watch, those shoes,” thought Felícito. “A honeymoon in Italy! She married a rich man! A gold digger!”
“Over there in Italy, my husband sold an insurance company he had in Lima,” Armida continued. “So it wouldn’t fall into the hands of his sons, who couldn’t wait to inherit it, even though he’d already given them an advance on their inheritance. They’re big spenders and the worst kind of bums. Ismael suffered a lot because of them and that’s why he sold the company. I tried to understand the whole complicated situation but couldn’t follow his legal explanations. Well, we went back to Lima, and as soon as we got there, my husband had a heart attack that killed him.”
“I’m very sorry,” Felícito stammered. Armida had fallen silent, and her eyes were lowered. Gertrudis was motionless, implacable.
“Or they killed him,” added Armida. “I don’t know. He used to say his sons wanted him to die so much so they could get his money that they would even hire somebody to kill him. He died so suddenly, I can’t help thinking that the twins—his sons are twins—somehow caused the heart attack that killed him. If it was a heart attack and not poison. I don’t know.”
“Now I’m beginning to understand your escaping to Piura and hiding here, not even going outside,” said Felícito. “Do you really think your husband’s sons might—”
“I don’t know if it’s even occurred to them or not, but Ismael used to say they were capable of anything, even having him killed.” Armida was agitated now and talking quickly. “I began to feel unsafe and very scared, Felícito. There was a meeting with them at the lawyers’ offices. They talked to me and looked at me in a way that made me think they might have me killed too. My husband used to say that nowadays in Lima you can hire a killer to murder anybody for a few soles. Why wouldn’t they do that if it meant keeping all of Señor Carrera’s inheritance?”
She paused and looked into Felícito’s eyes.
“That’s why I decided to escape. It occurred to me that nobody would come to look for me here, in Piura. That’s pretty much the story I wanted to tell you, Felícito.”
“Well, well,” he said. “I understand, I do. The thing is, what bad luck. Fate delivered you straight into the lion’s den. The thing is, it’s called jumping from the frying pan into the fire, Armida.”
“I told you I’d stay only two or three days, and I promise you I’ll keep my word,” said Armida. “I need to talk to a person who lives in Lima. The only one my husband trusted completely. He was a witness at our wedding. Would you help me contact him? I have his phone number. Would you do me that huge favor?”
“But call him yourself, from here,” said the trucker.
“It wouldn’t be smart.” Armida hesitated, pointing at the telephone. “What if the line’s bugged? My husband thought the twins had tapped all our phones. Better to call outside, from your office, and use your cell phone, it seems cell phones are harder to bug. I can’t leave this house. That’s why I’ve turned to you.”
“Give me the number and the message I should give him,” said Felícito. “I’ll do it from the office this afternoon. Very happy to, Armida.”
That afternoon, when he’d shoved his way past the roadblock of reporters and was walking to his office along Calle Arequipa, Felícito Yanaqué told himself that Armida’s story seemed straight out of one of the adventure films he liked to see on the rare occasions he went to the movies. And he’d thought that kind of brutal action had nothing to do with real life. But Armida’s story and his own, ever since he received the first spider letter, were nothing more or less than action movies.
At Narihualá Transport he went to a quiet corner to make the call without Josefita hearing. A man’s voice answered immediately and seemed disconcerted when Felícito asked for Señor Don Rigoberto.
“Who’s calling?” the man asked, after a silence.
“I’m calling for a woman friend,” replied Felícito.
“Yes, yes, that’s me. What friend are you talking about?”
“A friend of yours who prefers not to say her name, for reasons you understand,” said Felícito. “I imagine you know who I mean.”
“Yes, I think so,” said Señor Rigoberto in a hoarse voice. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine, and sends you her regards. She’d like to talk to you, in person, if that’s possible.”
“Yes, of course, naturally,” the man said right away, without hesitating. “Very happy to. How should we do this?”
“Can you travel to the place she comes from?” asked Felícito.
There was a long silence, and another forced clearing of the throat.
“I could, if necessary,” he said finally. “When?”
“Whenever you like,” replied Felícito. “The sooner the better, of course.”
“I understand,” said Señor Rigoberto. “I’ll get tickets immediately. This afternoon.”
“I’ll reserve a hotel room for you,” said Felícito. “Could you call me on this cell when you’ve decided on the date you’ll be traveling? I’m the only one who uses it.”
“Very good, we’re agreed, then.” Señor Rigoberto said goodbye. “Happy to meet you and see you soon, sir.”
Felícito Yanaqué worked all afternoon at Narihualá Transport. From time to time he thought about Armida’s story, and wondered how much of it was true and how much was exaggerated. Was it possible that a rich man, owner of a large company, would marry his maid? He could barely wrap his mind around it. But was it much more unbelievable than a son stealing his father’s mistress and then the two of them trying to extort him? Greed drove men crazy, it was a known fact. As night was falling, Dr. Hildebrando Castro Pozo appeared in his office with a large sheaf of papers in a lime-green folder.
“As you can see it didn’t take much time, Don Felícito,” he said, handing him the folder. “These are the documents that have to be signed, there where I’ve written an X. Unless he’s an imbecile, he’ll be delighted to do it.”
Felícito reviewed them carefully, asked some questions that the attorney answered, and was satisfied. He thought he’d made a good decision, and even if this didn’t resolve all the problems plaguing him, at least it would lift a great weight from his shoulders. And the uncertainty that had followed him for so many years would evaporate forever.
When he left the office, instead of going straight to his house he made a detour and stopped at the police station on Avenida Sánchez Cerro. Captain Silva wasn’t there, but Sergeant Lituma received him. He was a little surprised at the sergeant’s solicitude.
“I want to talk to Miguel right away,” Felícito Yanaqué repeated. “I don’t care if you or Captain Silva are present at the interview.”
“That’s fine, Don Felícito, I imagine there won’t be any problem,” said the sergeant. “I’ll talk to the captain first thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Felícito as he took his leave. “Give my best to Captain Silva and tell him that my secretary, Señora Josefita, sends her regards.”
XVIII
Don Rigoberto, Doña Lucrecia, and Fonchito arrived in Piura at midmorning on the LAN Perú flight, and took a taxi to Hotel Los Portales on the Plaza de Armas. The reservations made by Felícito Yanaqué—a double room and an adjacent single—suited them perfectl
y. As soon as they’d settled in, the three of them went out for a walk. They took a turn around the Plaza de Armas, shaded by tall old tamarinds and colored at intervals by the bright red blossoms of poincianas.
It wasn’t very hot. They stopped for a while to look at the central monument, La Pola, a bold marble woman who represented liberty, a gift from President José Balta in 1870, and had a glance at the dreary cathedral. Then they sat down in a pastry shop, El Chalán, to have a cold drink. Rigoberto and Lucrecia, intrigued and somewhat skeptical, observed their environs and people they didn’t know. Would they really have the secret meeting with Armida as planned? They wanted to intensely, of course, but all the mystery surrounding this trip made it difficult for them to take any of it too seriously. At times they thought they were playing one of those games old people play in order to feel young.
“No, it can’t be a joke or a trap,” Don Rigoberto declared one more time, trying to convince himself. “The gentleman I spoke to on the phone made a good impression on me, as I’ve said. Undoubtedly humble, provincial, somewhat timid, but well intentioned. A good person, I’m certain. I have no doubt he was speaking for Armida.”
“Doesn’t it seem as if the whole situation is kind of unreal?” Doña Lucrecia replied with a nervous little laugh. She held a mother-of-pearl fan and fanned her face constantly. “It’s hard to believe the things that are happening to us, Rigoberto. Coming to Piura, telling everybody we needed a rest. Nobody believed it, of course.”
Fonchito didn’t seem to be listening. He sipped his eggfruit frappe from time to time, his eyes fixed on the table, totally indifferent to what his father and stepmother were saying, as if absorbed by a secret worry. He’d been this way since his last encounter with Edilberto Torres, which was why Don Rigoberto had decided to bring him to Piura, though he would miss a few days of school because of the trip.
“Edilberto Torres?” Don Rigoberto gave a start in his desk chair. “Him again? Talking about Bibles?”