The Discreet Hero (31 page)

“Do you feel better, Felícito?” the holy woman asked.

“Yes,” he managed to stammer with difficulty. His tongue, palate, and teeth hurt. But the glass of cool water had done him good and returned some of the energy that had been draining from his body. “Thanks, Adelaida.”

“That’s good, thank God for that,” the mulatta exclaimed, crossing herself and smiling at him. “That was some scare you gave me, Felícito. You were so pale! Oh, hey waddya think! When I saw you come in and drop into the rocker like a sack of potatoes, you looked like a corpse. What happened, baby, who died?”

“With all this mystery you have me on pins and needles, Captain,” Felícito insisted, beginning to be alarmed. “What is this business, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“A good, strong coffee for me,” Captain Silva told the waiter. “An espresso cut with milk for the sergeant. What’ll you have, Don Felícito?”

“A soda, Coca-Cola, Inca Kola, whatever.” He was impatient now, tapping on the table. “Okay, let’s get to the point. I’m a man who knows how to hear bad news, with all that’s happened I’m getting used to it. Let’s have it, no more beating around the bush.”

“The matter’s resolved,” said the captain, looking him in the eye. But he looked at him not with joy but with sorrow, even compassion. Surprisingly, instead of continuing, he fell silent.

“Resolved?” Felícito exclaimed. “Do you mean you caught them?”

He saw the captain and sergeant nod, still very serious and displaying a ridiculous solemnity. Why were they looking at him in that strange way, as if they felt sorry for him? On Avenida Sánchez Cerro there was infernal noise, people going and coming, car horns, shouts, barking, braying. A band was playing a waltz, but the singer didn’t have Cecilia Barraza’s sweet voice, how could he when he was an old man reeking of aguardiente?

“Do you remember the last time I was here, Adelaida?” Felícito spoke very quietly, searching for the words, afraid he’d lose his voice. To breathe more easily he’d unbuttoned his vest and loosened his tie. “When I read the first spider letter to you.”

“Yes, Felícito, sure I remember.” The holy woman’s enormous, worried eyes drilled into him.

“And do you remember that when I was saying goodbye, you had a sudden inspiration and told me to do what they wanted and give them the money they asked for? Do you remember that too, Adelaida?”

“Sure I do, Felícito, sure, how could I not remember. Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong? Why are you so pale and dizzy?”

“You were right, Adelaida. Like always, you were right. I should’ve listened to you. Because, because…”

He couldn’t go on. His voice broke in the middle of a sob and he began to cry. Something he hadn’t done for a very long time, not since the day his father died in that dark, dingy corner of the emergency room of the Hospital Obrero de Piura. Or maybe not since the night he had sex with Mabel for the first time. But that didn’t count as crying because that had been for happiness. And now tears came all the time.

“Everything’s resolved and now we’ll explain it to you, Don Felícito.” The captain finally came back to life, repeating what he’d already told him. “I’m really afraid you won’t like what you’re going to hear.”

He sat up straight in his seat and waited, every sense alert. He had the impression that the people in the small bar had disappeared, that the street noises had become muted. Something made him suspect that what was coming would be the worst misfortune he’d suffered in a good long time. His legs began to tremble.

“Adelaida, Adelaida,” he moaned as he wiped his eyes. “I had to let this out somehow. I couldn’t control myself. I’m sorry, I swear I don’t usually cry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Felícito.” The holy woman smiled, patting him affectionately on his hand. “It does us all good to let the tears flow once in a while. I start wailing too sometimes.”

“Go ahead and talk, Captain, I’m ready,” the trucker declared. “Loud and clear, please.”

“Let’s take it slow,” Captain Silva said hoarsely, playing for time. He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth, took a sip, and continued: “The best thing is for you to hear about the plot the way we did, from the beginning. Lituma, what’s the name of the officer who was guarding Señora Mabel?”

Candelario Velando, twenty-three years old, from Tumbes. Two years on the force, and this was the first time his superiors had him in plain clothes for a job. They stationed him across from the señora’s house on that dead-end street in the Castilla district, near the river and the Salesian fathers’ Don Juan Bosco Academy, and ordered him to make sure nothing happened to the lady who lived there. He was supposed to come to her aid if necessary, write down who came to visit her, follow her without being seen, take notes on whom she met, whom she visited, what she did or stopped doing. They gave him a service weapon with ammunition for twenty shots, a camera, a notebook, a pencil, and a cell phone to use only in case of an emergency, never for personal calls.

“Mabel?” The holy woman’s half-mad eyes opened very wide. “Your girlfriend? It was her?”

Felícito nodded. The glass of water was empty, but he didn’t seem to realize it, because from time to time he brought it up to his mouth and moved his lips and throat as if he were taking a sip.

“It was her, Adelaida.” He moved his head several times. “Yes, Mabel. I still can’t believe it.”

He was a good policeman, reliable and punctual. He liked the profession and so far had refused to take bribes. But that night he was very tired, he’d been following the señora on the street and guarding her house for fourteen hours, and as soon as he sat down in that corner where there was no light and leaned his back against the wall, he fell asleep. He didn’t know for how long; it must have been a while, because when he woke with a start, the street was quiet, the kids spinning tops had disappeared, and in the houses the lights had been turned off and the doors locked. Even the dogs had stopped running around and barking. The entire neighborhood seemed to be asleep. He stood up in a daze, and, keeping to the shadows, approached the señora’s house. He heard voices. He put his ear to one of the windows. It seemed to be an argument. He couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying but he had no doubt it was a man and a woman, and they were fighting. He ran to crouch at another window and from there he could hear better. They were insulting each other and cursing but there were no blows, not yet. Only long silences, and then voices again, quieter. She seemed to be consenting. She’d had a visitor, and apparently the visitor was fucking her. Candelario Velando knew right away it wasn’t Señor Felícito Yanaqué. Did the señora have another lover, then? Finally, the house was completely silent.

Candelario went back to the corner where he’d fallen asleep. He sat down again, lit a cigarette, and waited, leaning his back against the wall. This time he didn’t nod off or become distracted. He was sure the visitor would reappear at some point. And in fact, he did reappear after a long time, taking the precautions that gave him away: barely opening the door, putting only his head out, looking to the right and the left, and only when he was sure no one would see him, beginning to walk. Candelario saw the full length of his body, and his silhouette and movements confirmed it couldn’t be the very short old man who owned Narihualá Transport. This was a young man. Candelario couldn’t make out his face, it was too dark. When he saw him heading toward the Puente Colgante, he went after him, walking slowly, trying not to be seen, keeping a fair distance without losing sight of him. He moved a little closer as they crossed the Puente Colgante because night owls were on the bridge and he could hide among them. Candelario saw him take one of the paths on the Plaza de Armas and disappear into the bar of the Hotel Los Portales. He waited a moment and then went in too. He was at the bar—young, white, good-looking, with an Elvis Presley pompadour—gulping down what must have been a small bottle of pisco. Then Candelario recognized him. He’d seen him when he came to the station on Avenida Sánchez Cerro to make his statement.

“Are you sure it was him, Candelario?” Sergeant Lituma asked, looking doubtful.

“It was Miguel, absolutely, positively, definitely,” Captain Silva said drily, bringing the cup of coffee up to his lips again. He seemed very uncomfortable saying what he was saying. “Yes, Señor Yanaqué. I’m very sorry. But it was Miguel.”

“My son Miguel?” the trucker repeated very rapidly, blinking constantly, waving one of his hands; he’d suddenly turned pale. “At midnight? At Mabel’s?”

“They were having an argument, Sergeant,” the guard Candelario Velando explained to Lituma. “They were really fighting, using curse words like ‘whore,’ ‘motherfucker,’ and worse. After that it was quiet for a long time. I imagined then what you must be imagining now: They made up and went to bed. And why else but to fuck, though I didn’t hear or see any of that. That’s only a guess.”

“You shouldn’t tell me those things,” Adelaida said, uncomfortable and lowering her eyes. Her lashes were long and silky and she was upset. She gave the trucker an affectionate pat on the knee. “Unless you think it will help you to tell me about them. Whatever you like, Felícito. Whatever you say. That’s what friends are for, hey waddya think.”

“A guess that reveals what a filthy mind you have, Candelario.” Lituma smiled at him. “Okay, boy. You passed. Since there are asses involved, the captain will like your story.”

“Finally, the end of the thread. We began to pull on it and undo the knot. I already suspected something when I questioned her after the kidnapping. There were too many contradictions, she didn’t know how to lie. That’s how it was, Señor Yanaqué,” the chief added. “Don’t think this is easy for us. I mean, giving you this awful news. I know it feels like a knife in the back. But it’s our duty, I hope you’ll forgive us.”

“No chance there’s been a mistake?” he murmured in a voice that was hollow now, and somewhat pleading. “No chance at all?”

“None at all,” stated Captain Silva pitilessly. “It’s been proved ad nauseam. Señora Mabel and your son Miguel have been pulling the wool over your eyes for a long time now. That’s where the spider story begins. We’re really sorry, Señor Yanaqué.”

“It’s more your son Miguel’s fault than Señora Mabel’s,” Lituma said, then immediately apologized for adding his two cents: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Felícito Yanaqué no longer seemed to be listening to the two police officers. His pallor had intensified; he looked at empty space as if a ghost had just materialized. His chin trembled.

“I really know what you’re feeling and my heart goes out to you, Felícito.” The holy woman had placed a hand on her chest. “Well, yes, you’re right. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest. Nothing you tell me will leave here, baby, you know that.”

She hit her chest and Felícito thought, “How strange, it sounded hollow.” Ashamed, he felt his eyes filling with tears again.

“He’s the spider,” Captain Silva declared categorically. “Your son, the white-skinned one. Miguel. It seems he didn’t do it just for the money; his motives are more twisted. And maybe, maybe, that’s why he went to bed with Mabel. He has something personal against you. A grudge, resentment, those bitter things that poison a person’s soul.”

“Because you forced him to do military service, it seems,” Lituma intervened again. And this time too he apologized: “Excuse me. At least, that’s what he led us to believe.”

“Are you listening to what we’re telling you, Don Felícito?” the captain asked, leaning toward the trucker and grasping his arm. “Do you feel sick?”

“I feel great.” The trucker forced a smile. His lips and nostrils were trembling, as were the hands holding the empty bottle of Inca Kola. A yellow ring encircled the whites of his eyes, and his voice was like a thread. “Just go on, Captain. But excuse me, I’d like to know one thing, if I can. Was Tiburcio, my other son, also involved?”

“No, it was just Miguel.” The captain tried to be encouraging. “I can assure you of that definitively. You can rest easy as far as that’s concerned, Señor Yanaqué. Tiburcio wasn’t involved and didn’t know anything about it. When he finds out, he’ll be as shocked as you are now.”

“This terrible story has a good side, Adelaida,” the trucker grunted, after a long pause. “Even if you don’t believe it, it does.”

“I believe it, Felícito,” said the holy woman, opening her mouth wide, showing her tongue. “Life’s always like that. Good things always have their bad side and bad things their good side. So, what’s the good side here?”

“I’ve resolved a doubt that’s been eating at my heart ever since I got married, Adelaida,” Felícito Yanaqué murmured. At that moment he seemed to recover: He regained his voice, his color, a certain sureness in his speech. “Miguel isn’t my son. He never was. Gertrudis and her mother made me marry her by telling me she was pregnant. Sure she was pregnant, but not by me, by another man. I was her dumb
cholito
. They stuck me with a stepson, passing him off as mine, and Gertrudis was saved from the shame of being a single mother. I mean, tell me how that white kid with blue eyes could be my son? I always suspected something fishy there. Now I finally have the proof, though it’s a little late. He isn’t mine, my blood doesn’t run in his veins. A son of mine, a son of my blood, would never have done what he did to me. Do you see, do you get the picture, Adelaida?”

“I see, baby, I get it,” the holy woman agreed. “Give me your glass, I’ll fill it again with cool water from the distilling stone. I can’t tell you how it makes me feel to see you drink water from an empty glass, hey waddya think.”

“And Mabel?” the trucker mumbled, his eyes lowered. “Was she involved in the spider plot from the beginning? Was she?”

“Unwillingly, but yes.” Captain Silva was modulating his words, as if reluctant to speak. “She was. She never liked the idea, and according to her, at first she tried to talk Miguel out of it, which is possible. But your son is strong-willed, and—”

“He isn’t my son,” Felícito Yanaqué interrupted, looking him in the eye. “Excuse me, I know what I’m saying. Go on, what else, Captain.”