“In the flesh, Fonchito,” said Edilberto Torres. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me. I don’t believe you’re so ungrateful.”
“I’ve just confessed and am doing the penance the priest gave me,” stammered Fonchito, more surprised than frightened. “I can’t talk to you now, señor, I’m very sorry.”
“In Fátima Church?” repeated Don Rigoberto, incredulous, swinging around as if suddenly possessed by Saint Vitus’s dance and dropping the book on Tantric art he was reading. “He was there? Inside the church?”
“I understand and beg your pardon,” said Edilberto Torres, lowering his voice, pointing at the altar with his index finger. “Pray, pray, Fonchito, it helps. We’ll talk afterward. I’m going to pray too.”
“Yes, in Fátima Church,” Fonchito confirmed, pale, his eyes a little wild. “My friends and I, the ones from the Bible group, went there for confession. The others had finished, and I was the last to go into the confessional. There weren’t many people left in the church. And suddenly I realized he was there, I don’t know for how long. Yes, right there, sitting next to me. I was really frightened, Papa. I know you don’t believe me, I know you’ll say I invented our meeting this time too. Talking about the Bible, yes.”
“All right, fine,” Don Rigoberto decided. “Now we should go back to the hotel. We’ll have lunch there. Señor Yanaqué said he’d get in touch with me some time this afternoon. If that’s really his name. An odd name, it sounds like the stage name of one of those rock singers covered with tattoos, doesn’t it?”
“It seems like a very Piuran last name to me,” Doña Lucrecia offered. “Maybe it’s Tallan.”
He paid the check and the three of them left the pastry shop. When they crossed the Plaza de Armas, Rigoberto had to push aside the shoeshine boys and lottery-ticket sellers who kept offering their services. Now it was definitely hotter. The sun was white in a cloudless sky, and all around them trees, benches, flagstones, people, dogs, cars seemed to be burning.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” murmured Fonchito, pierced by sorrow. “I know I’m giving you bad news, I know this is a difficult time for you, with the death of Señor Carrera and the disappearance of Armida. I know it’s rotten for me to do this. But you asked me to tell you everything, to tell you the truth. Isn’t that what you want, Papa?”
“I’ve had some financial problems, like everyone else these days, and my health is none too good,” said Señor Edilberto Torres, downcast and sad. “I’ve gone out very little recently. That’s the reason you haven’t seen me in so many weeks, Fonchito.”
“Did you come to this church because you knew I’d be here with my friends from the Bible-study group?”
“I came here to meditate, to ease my mind and see things more calmly, with greater perspective,” explained Edilberto Torres, but he didn’t look serene. He was trembling, as if suffering great anguish. “I do this frequently. I know half the churches in Lima, perhaps even more. This atmosphere of withdrawal, silence, and prayer does me good. I even like the pious old women and the smell of incense and antiquity that permeates the small chapels. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, and proud of it. I also pray and read the Bible, Fonchito, even though that surprises you. More proof that I’m not the devil, as your papa believes.”
“He’s going to be sad when he finds out I’ve seen you,” the boy said. “He thinks you don’t exist, that I invented you. And my stepmother does too. They really believe it. That’s why my papa was so enthusiastic when you said you could help him with the legal problems he had. He wanted to see you, meet with you. But you disappeared.”
“It’s never too late,” declared Señor Torres. “I’d be delighted to meet with Rigoberto and ease any concerns he has about me. I’d like to be his friend. I’d guess we’re about the same age. The truth is I don’t have friends, only acquaintances. I’m certain he and I would get along very well.”
“I’ll have a dried-beef stew,” Don Rigoberto told the waiter. “It’s a typical Piuran dish, isn’t it?”
Doña Lucrecia ordered grilled sea bass with a mixed salad, and Fonchito only a ceviche. The dining room at the Hotel Los Portales was almost empty, and some slow-moving fans kept the air cool. They drank lemonade with lots of ice.
“I want to believe you, I know you don’t lie to me, that you’re an honest kid with decent feelings,” Don Rigoberto concurred, his expression exasperated. “But this individual has become a burden in my life and in Lucrecia’s. It’s clear we’ll never be free of him, that he’ll pursue us to the grave. What did he want this time?”
“For us to have a conversation about profound things, a dialogue between friends,” said Edilberto Torres. “God, the afterlife, the world of the spirit, transcendence. Since you’re reading the Bible, I know those topics interest you, Fonchito, and I know too that you’re somewhat disappointed by your readings in the Old Testament. That you were expecting something else.”
“And how do you know that, señor?”
“A little bird told me,” Edilberto Torres said with a smile, but there was no joy at all in his smile, only the usual hidden anxiety. “Pay no attention to me, I’m joking. All I wanted to say is that the same thing happens to everybody who begins reading the Old Testament. Keep it up, keep it up, don’t be discouraged, and you’ll see that very soon your impression will change.”
Don Rigoberto gave another start behind his desk. “How did he know you’re disappointed by your biblical reading? Is that true, Fonchito? Are you?”
“I don’t know if I’m disappointed,” Fonchito admitted, somewhat sharply. “It’s just that everything’s so violent. Beginning with God, with Yahweh. I never would have imagined He was so fierce, hurling so many curses, commanding adulterous women to be stoned, ordering those who failed to perform the rituals to be killed. That He’d have the foreskins of the enemies of the Hebrews cut off. I didn’t even know what foreskin meant until I read the Bible, Papa.”
“Those were barbarous times, Fonchito,” Edilberto Torres reassured him, pausing frequently as he spoke without changing his taciturn expression. “All that happened thousands of years ago, in the days of idolatry and cannibalism. A world where tyranny and fanaticism reigned. Besides, you shouldn’t take what the Bible says literally. A good deal that appears there is symbolic, poetic, exaggerated. When fearsome Yahweh disappears and Jesus Christ appears, God will become gentle, pitying, and compassionate, you’ll see. But for that you have to get to the New Testament. Patience and perseverance, Fonchito.”
“He told me again that he wants to see you, Papa. Anyplace, anytime. He’d like to be friends with you, since you’re the same age.”
“I heard that story the last time that ghost materialized next to you, on the jitney,” Don Rigoberto said mockingly. “Wasn’t he going to help me with my legal problems? And what happened? He vanished into thin air! It’ll be the same thing this time. Well, son, I don’t understand you. Do you or don’t you like the Bible readings you’re doing now?”
“I don’t know if we’re doing it the right way.” The boy avoided answering. “Because, though sometimes we like it a lot, other times everything gets very complicated with all the nations the Jews fight in the desert. It’s impossible to remember so many exotic names. We’re more interested in the stories. They’re not like religious stories, more like adventures from Arabian Nights. Pecas Sheridan, one of my friends, said the other day that this wasn’t a good way to read the Bible, that we weren’t taking full advantage of it. That it would be better to have a guide. A priest, for example. What do you think, señor?”
“This tastes pretty good,” said Don Rigoberto, chewing a mouthful of his dried-beef stew. “I like the chifles a lot, that’s what they call fried plantain slices here. But I’m afraid with all this heat it’ll be a little hard to digest.”
After they finished their dishes they ordered ice cream and were just beginning their dessert when they saw a woman come into the restaurant. Standing in the doorway, she scrutinized the
place, looking for someone. She was no longer young, but there was something fresh and bright about her, the youthful traces in her plump, smiling face, her bulging eyes and wide, heavily painted mouth. Her false, fluttering lashes were charming, her round, gaily colored earrings danced, and she had on a very tight white dress with a flower print; her generous hips did not keep her from moving with agility. After looking over the three or four occupied tables, she headed resolutely for the one where the three of them were sitting. “Señor Rigoberto, right?” she asked, smiling. She shook hands with each one and sat down in the empty chair.
“My name’s Josefita and I’m Señor Felícito Yanaqué’s secretary,” she introduced herself. “Welcome to the land of the tondero dance and the ‘hey waddya think.’ Is this your first time in Piura?”
She spoke not only with her mouth but also with her expressive, darting green eyes, moving her hands constantly.
“The first, but it won’t be the last,” Don Rigoberto replied pleasantly. “Señor Yanaqué couldn’t come?”
“He preferred not to, because, as you probably know, Don Felícito can’t set foot on the streets of Piura without a swarm of reporters following him.”
“Reporters?” Don Rigoberto was amazed, opening his eyes very wide. “And may I ask why they’re following him, Señora Josefita?”
“Señorita,” she corrected him, and added with a blush: “Though now I have an admirer who’s a captain in the Civil Guard.”
“A thousand pardons, Señorita Josefita,” Rigoberto apologized, bowing his head. “Can you tell me why reporters are chasing Señor Yanaqué?”
Josefita stopped smiling. She looked at them with surprise and even a little pity. Fonchito had emerged from his lethargy and seemed suddenly attentive to what the newcomer was saying.
“Don’t you know that at this moment Don Felícito Yanaqué is more famous than the president of the republic?” she exclaimed, dumbfounded, showing the tip of her tongue. “For some time now he’s been talked about on radio and television, and in the papers. But sad to say, it’s for bad reasons.”
Don Rigoberto and his wife were clearly so astonished that Josefita had to explain how the owner of Narihualá Transport had passed from anonymity to popularity. It was obvious that these Limeños were in the dark about the spider story and the subsequent scandals.
“It’s a magnificent idea, Fonchito,” Señor Edilberto Torres agreed. “To sail with confidence on the ocean of the Bible, one needs an experienced navigator. It could be a cleric like Father O’Donovan, of course. But also a layman, someone who’s devoted many years to studying the Old and New Testaments. Myself, for example. Don’t think I’m bragging, but the truth is I’ve spent a good part of my life studying Scripture. I can see in your eyes you don’t believe me.”
“Now the pedophile is passing himself off as a theologian and an expert in biblical studies,” Don Rigoberto said indignantly. “I can’t tell you how much I want to see his face, Fonchito. Any time now he’ll tell you he’s a priest—”
“He already told me that, Papa,” Fonchito interrupted. “I mean, he’s not a priest now but he was one. He hung up his seminarian’s habit before being ordained. He couldn’t endure chastity, that’s what he told me.”
“I shouldn’t talk to you about these things, you’re still too young,” added Señor Edilberto Torres, turning pale, his voice trembling. “But that’s what happened. I masturbated all the time, sometimes several times a day. It grieves and troubles me, because believe me, my vocation to serve God was very strong. Since the time I was a boy, like you. Except I never could defeat the damned demon of sex. The time came when I thought I’d go mad because of the temptations that pursued me day and night. And then, what could I do, I had to leave the seminary.”
“He talked to you about that?” Don Rigoberto was shocked. “About masturbation, about jerking off?”
“And then did you get married, señor?” the boy asked timidly.
“No, no, I’m still a bachelor.” Señor Torres gave a somewhat forced laugh. “You don’t need to be married to have a sex life, Fonchito.”
“According to the Catholic religion you do,” declared the boy.
“Certainly, because the Catholic religion is very intransigent and puritanical in sexual matters,” the man explained. “Other religions are more tolerant. Besides, in our permissive time, even Rome will modernize, no matter how difficult it may be.”
“Yes, yes, now I remember,” Señora Lucrecia interrupted Josefita. “Of course, I read it somewhere or saw it on television. Señor Yanaqué is that man: His son and mistress wanted to kidnap him and steal all his money?”
“Well, well, this is unbelievable.” Don Rigoberto was completely disheartened by what he was hearing. “It means we’ve walked right into the lion’s den. If I understand you correctly, your employer’s office and house are surrounded by reporters day and night. Is that right?”
“No, not at night.” With a triumphant smile Josefita tried to cheer up this big-eared man, who not only turned pale but also began to grimace and contort his face. “When the scandal first broke, yes, those early days were unbearable. Reporters circling his house and office twenty-four hours a day. But then they got tired; now, at night, they go to sleep or to get drunk, because here all the reporters are bohemians and romantics. Señor Yanaqué’s plan will work very well, don’t worry.”
“And what is his plan?” asked Rigoberto. He hadn’t finished his ice cream and still held the glass of lemonade he’d just emptied in a single swallow.
Very simple. They should stay in the hotel or, at the most, if they preferred, go to a movie; there were several modern theaters now in the new malls, she recommended the Centro Comercial Open Plaza in Castilla, not very far, right next to the Puente Andrés Avelino Cáceres. It wasn’t a good idea for them to appear on the streets of the city. When night came, when all the reporters had left Calle Arequipa, Josefita herself would come for them and take them to Señor Yanaqué’s house. It was near the theater, just a couple of blocks away.
“What bad luck for poor Armida,” lamented Doña Lucrecia as soon as Josefita had left. “She really fell into a trap worse than the one she wanted to escape. I don’t understand how the reporters or the police haven’t found her yet.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be scandalized by my confidences, Fonchito.” A remorseful Edilberto Torres apologized, lowering his eyes and his voice. “But tormented by that damned demon of sex, I went to brothels and paid prostitutes. Horrible things that made me feel disgusted with myself. God willing you’ll never succumb to those repugnant temptations, the way I did.”
“I know very well where that degenerate wanted to lead you by talking about touching yourself and hookers,” Don Rigoberto said in a hoarse, choking voice. “You should have left immediately and not encouraged him. Didn’t you realize that his supposed confidences were a strategy designed to make you fall into his net, Fonchito?”
“You’re wrong, Papa,” he replied. “I assure you Señor Torres was sincere, he had no hidden motives. He looked very sad, full of grief for having done those things. Suddenly his eyes grew red, his voice broke, and he began to cry again. It broke my heart to see him like that.”
“It’s just as well I’ve brought something good to read,” remarked Don Rigoberto. “We have a long time to wait until nightfall. I’m guessing you won’t want to go to a movie in this heat.”
“Why not, Papa?” Fonchito protested. “Josefita said they had air-conditioning and were very modern.”
“We could see something of their progress. Don’t they say that Piura is one of the Peruvian cities that’s developing the fastest?” Doña Lucrecia agreed. “Fonchito’s right. Let’s take a little walk around that shopping center, there’s probably something good playing. We never go to the movies as a family in Lima. Come on, Rigoberto.”
“I’m so ashamed of doing those bad, dirty things that I impose my own penance. And sometimes, as punishment, I flog mysel
f until I bleed, Fonchito,” confessed Edilberto Torres, his voice breaking and his eyes red.
“And didn’t he ask you then to do the flogging?” Don Rigoberto exploded. “I’ll search heaven and earth for that pervert and won’t stop until I find him and put the screws to him, I’m warning you. He’ll go to prison or I’ll put a bullet in him if he tries to do anything to you. If he shows up again, tell him that for me.”
“And then he began crying even harder and couldn’t go on talking, Papa,” Fonchito reassured him. “It isn’t what you think, I swear it isn’t. Because listen, in the middle of crying, suddenly he stopped and ran out of the church, without saying goodbye or anything. He seemed desperate, like someone who’s going to kill himself. He isn’t a pervert but a man in a lot of pain. He’s more to be pitied than feared, I swear.”
Then a nervous knocking on the study door interrupted them. One of the panels opened and Justiniana’s worried face peered in.
“Why do you think I closed the door?” Rigoberto stopped her, raising an admonishing hand, not letting her speak. “Don’t you see that Fonchito and I are busy?”
“But they’re here, señor,” the maid said. “They’ve planted themselves at the door, and even though I told them you’re busy, they want to come in.”
“They?” Don Rigoberto gave a start. “The twins?”
“I didn’t know what else to tell them or what to do,” Justiniana said, very upset, speaking quietly and gesticulating. “I’m really sorry. They say it’s very urgent and will take only a few minutes of your time. What should I tell them, señor?”
“All right, show them into the living room,” Rigoberto said in a resigned voice. “You and Lucrecia stay alert in case something happens and you have to call the police.”
When Justiniana withdrew, Don Rigoberto grasped Fonchito’s arms and looked deep into his eyes. He regarded him with affection but also with an anxiety that was apparent in his uncertain, imploring speech.