The Discreet Hero (18 page)

“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?”

Had his cousin José become nervous? Lituma, between yawns, noticed that José had started to make lines again on the surface of the table with the tip of his nail. He didn’t stare, to avoid fooling himself the way he had the other day when he thought he was drawing spiders.

“And why don’t you people do something, cousin?” Mono protested. “The Civil Guard, I mean. Don’t take offense, Lituma, but the police, here in Piura at least, are useless. They don’t do anything; they only take bribes.”

“Not just in Piura,” said Lituma, following his lead. “We’re useless all over Peru, cousin. But let me tell you that I, at least, in all the years I’ve been wearing this uniform, have never asked anybody for a single bribe. And that’s why I’m poorer than a beggar. But with Don Felícito, the truth is that the case isn’t moving forward because we’re very short on technology. The handwriting expert who was supposed to help us is on leave because they operated on his hemorrhoids. Imagine, the whole investigation held up because of one gentleman’s damaged ass.”

“Do you mean you still don’t have clues about the crooks?” insisted Mono. Lituma would have sworn that José was begging his brother with his eyes not to keep harping on the same subject.

“We have some clues, but nothing very certain,” the sergeant answered. “But sooner or later they’ll make a false move. The problem is that now, in Piura, it’s not one gang operating but several. But they’ll fall. They always do something wrong and end up giving themselves away. Unfortunately, so far they haven’t made any mistakes.”

He asked them again about Tiburcio and Miguelito, the trucker’s sons, and again he thought that José didn’t like the subject. At a certain point the brothers contradicted each other.

“We actually haven’t known them for very long,” José repeated from time to time.

“What do you mean not very long, it’s been six years at least,” Mono corrected him. “Don’t you remember the time when Tiburcio drove us to Chiclayo in one of his trucks? How long ago was that? A long time. When we tried to go into that business but it didn’t work out.”

“What business was that, cousin?”

“Selling agricultural machinery to the communities and cooperatives in the north,” said José. “The bastards never paid. They protested every bill of exchange. We lost almost everything we’d invested.”

Lituma didn’t insist. That night, after saying goodbye to Mono and José, thanking them for the meal, taking a jitney to his boardinghouse, and getting into bed, he lay awake for a long time thinking about his cousins. Especially José. Why did he have so many doubts about him? Was it just because he drew with his fingernail on the table? Or was there really something suspicious in his behavior? He’d started acting strangely, as if he were worried, every time Don Felícito’s sons came up. Or was this nothing but his own qualms about how lost the investigation was? Should he tell Captain Silva about his misgivings? Better to wait until it was all less insubstantial and something took shape.

But the first thing he did the next morning was to tell his boss everything. Captain Silva listened attentively, not interrupting him, taking notes in a tiny notebook with a pencil so small it disappeared between his fingers. When Lituma had finished, the captain murmured, “I don’t think there’s anything serious here. No clue to follow, Lituma. Your León cousins seem clean.” But he sat there brooding, silent, chewing on his pencil as if it were a cigarette. Suddenly, he made a decision. “You know what, Lituma? Let’s talk to Don Felícito’s sons again. From what you’ve told me, it seems we still haven’t gotten all the juice from those two. We’ll have to squeeze a little harder. Make an appointment with them for tomorrow, each one separately, of course.”

At that moment the guard at the entrance knocked on the cubicle door and his young, beardless face appeared in the opening: Señor Felícito Yanaqué was on the phone for the captain. It was extremely urgent. Lituma watched the chief pick up the old telephone receiver, heard him murmur, “Good morning, sir.” And he saw his face light up as if he’d just been told he’d won the lottery. “We’ll be right there,” he shouted and hung up.

“Mabel’s turned up, Lituma. She’s in her house in Castilla. Let’s go, run. Didn’t I tell you? They swallowed the story! They let her go!”

X

“This certainly is a surprise,” Father O’Donovan exclaimed when he saw Rigoberto come into the sacristy where the priest had just removed the chasuble he’d worn to celebrate eight o’clock Mass. “Fancy seeing you here, Ears. What a long time it’s been. I can’t believe it.”

He was tall and stout, a jovial bald man with kind eyes that sparkled behind tortoiseshell glasses. He seemed to take up all the space in the small room with its shabby, faded walls and chipped floor; daylight came in through a Theatine window hung with cobwebs.

They embraced with their old affection; they hadn’t seen each other for months, perhaps a year. In the Academy of La Recoleta, where they’d both been students from the first year of primary school to the fifth year of secondary school, they had been very good friends and for one year had even shared the same desk. Then, when both matriculated at the Universidad Católica to study law, they continued to see a good deal of each other. They joined Acción Católica, took the same courses, studied together. Until one fine day Pepín O’Donovan gave his friend Rigoberto the surprise of his life.

“Don’t tell me that your showing up here is because you’ve converted and have come to make your confession, Ears,” Father O’Donovan said mockingly, leading him by the arm to his small office in the church. He offered him a seat. There were bookcases, books, pamphlets, a crucifix, a photograph of the pope, and another of Pepín’s parents. A piece of the ceiling had fallen, revealing the mix of ditch reeds and clay with which it had been constructed. Was this church a colonial relic? It was in ruins and could collapse at any moment.

“I’ve come to see you because I need your help, it’s that simple.” Rigoberto dropped into the chair that creaked under his weight and exhaled, overwhelmed. Pepín was the only person who still called him by his school nickname: Ears. In his adolescence, it had made him self-conscious. Not now.

That morning in the cafeteria at the Universidad Católica, at the beginning of the second year of law school, when Pepín O’Donovan suddenly announced—as casually as if he were discussing a class in civil law and principles, or the last Clásico match between Alianza and the U—that they wouldn’t see each other for a while because he was leaving that night for Santiago de Chile to begin his novitiate, Rigoberto thought his friend was joking. “Do you mean you’re going to become a priest? Don’t kid around, man.” True, both had joined Acción Católica, but Pepín had never even hinted to Ears that he’d heard the call. What he was telling him now was no joke but a deeply considered decision made in solitude and silence, over many years. Rigoberto learned afterward that Pepín had faced many problems with his parents, that his family tried everything to dissuade him from entering the seminary.