The Discreet Hero (32 page)

“She was fed up with Miguel and wanted to break it off, but he didn’t let her and threatened to tell you about their affair,” Lituma interjected again. “And she began to hate him for dragging her into this mess.”

“Does this mean you’ve talked to Mabel?” asked the trucker, disconcerted. “What did she confess to?”

“She’s cooperating with us, Señor Yanaqué.” Captain Silva nodded. “Her testimony was instrumental in our learning about the entire spider plot. What the sergeant told you is correct. At first, when she became involved with Miguel, she didn’t know he was your son. When she found out, she tried to break it off, but it was too late. She couldn’t because Miguel blackmailed her.”

“He threatened to tell you everything, Señor Yanaqué, so you’d kill her or at least give her a good beating,” Sergeant Lituma interjected again.

“And leave her in the street without a cent, which is the main thing,” the captain continued. “It’s what I told you before, Don Felícito. Miguel hates you, he feels a great deal of rancor toward you. He says it’s because you forced him and not his brother Tiburcio to do military service. But it looks to me like there’s something else. Maybe his hatred goes all the way back to when he was a kid. You’d know.”

“He also must have suspected he wasn’t my son, Adelaida,” the trucker added. He sipped at the fresh glass of water the holy woman had just brought him. “All he had to do was look at his face in the mirror to realize he didn’t have, couldn’t have my blood. And that’s how he must have begun to hate me, what else could it be. What’s strange is that he always hid it, never showed it to me. Do you see?”

“What do you want me to see, Felícito?” exclaimed the holy woman. “Everything’s very clear, even a blind person could see it. She’s a girl and you’re an old man. Did you think Mabel would be faithful to you until she died? Especially with you having a wife and family and her knowing she’d never be anything but your girlfriend. Life is what it is, Felícito, you must’ve known that. You come from poor people, you know what suffering means, like me and all the poor Piurans.”

“Of course, the kidnapping never was a kidnapping, it was a joke,” said the captain. “To put pressure on you, on your feelings, Don Felícito.”

“I knew it, Adelaida. I never had any illusions. Why do you think I always chose to look the other way and never asked what else Mabel was up to? But I never imagined she’d get involved with my own son!”

“So now maybe he’s your son?” the holy woman chided him mockingly. “What difference does it make who she got involved with, Felícito. How can that matter to you now? Don’t think about it anymore, compadre. Turn the page, forget about it, it’s over. It’s for the best, believe me.”

“Do you know what I think about now with real sorrow, Adelaida?” His glass was empty again. Felícito was shuddering. “The scandal. You must think that’s silly, but it’s what tortures me most. It’ll be in tomorrow’s papers, on radio and television. Then the reporters will come after me. My life will be a circus again. Reporters persecuting me, curious people on the street, in the office. I don’t have the patience or energy to go through all that again, Adelaida. Not anymore.”

“He fell asleep, Captain,” whispered Lituma, pointing to the trucker whose eyes were closed, his head bent.

“I think he has,” the captain agreed. “The news crushed him. His son, his girlfriend. From bad to worse. No surprise there, damn it.”

Felícito heard them without hearing them. He didn’t want to open his eyes, not even for a moment. He dozed, hearing the noise and hubbub on Avenida Sánchez Cerro. If all this hadn’t happened, he’d be at Narihualá Transport, reviewing the morning’s movement of buses, trucks, and cars, studying today’s total number of passengers and comparing it to yesterday’s, dictating letters to Señora Josefita, settling accounts or cashing checks at the bank, getting ready to go home for lunch. He felt so much sadness that he began to tremble from head to foot, as if he had tertian fever. Never again would his life have the tranquil rhythm it once had, never again would he be an anonymous face in the crowd. Now he’d always be recognized on the street; when he went into a movie theater or a restaurant the gossiping would begin, rude glances, whispers, fingers pointing him out. This very night or tomorrow at the latest, the news would become public, all of Piura would know about it. And his life would be hell again.

“Do you feel better after that little snooze, Don Felícito?” asked Captain Silva, giving him an affectionate pat on the arm.

“I nodded off for a minute, I’m sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. “Forgive me. So many emotions at the same time.”

“Sure, of course,” the officer reassured him. “Do you want to keep going or leave the rest for later, Don Felícito?”

He nodded, murmuring: “Let’s go on.” During the few minutes he’d had his eyes closed, the bar had filled with people, most of them men. They smoked, ordered sandwiches, sodas, beers, cups of coffee. The captain lowered his voice so he wouldn’t be overheard at the next table.

“Miguel and Mabel have been detained since last night and the investigating judge is up to date on everything. We have a meeting with the press at the station at six tonight. I don’t think you want to be present for that, do you, Don Felícito?”

“No way,” exclaimed the trucker, horrified. “Of course not!”

“You don’t have to come,” the captain assured him. “But prepare yourself. The reporters are going to drive you crazy.”

“Miguel confessed to all the charges?” Felícito asked.

“At first he denied them, but when he found out that Mabel had turned on him and would testify at the hearing, he had to accept reality. As I said, her testimony is devastating.”

“Thanks to Señora Mabel, in the end he confessed to everything,” Sergeant Lituma added. “She’s made our work easier. We’re writing up the report. It’ll be in the hands of the investigating judge tomorrow at the latest.”

“Will I have to see him?” Felícito spoke so quietly, the policemen had to lean their heads in to hear him. “Miguel, I mean.”

“At the trial, absolutely,” the captain said. “You’ll be the star witness. You’re the victim, remember.”

“And before the trial?” the trucker insisted.

“The investigating judge or the prosecutor may ask for a face-to-face meeting,” the captain explained. “In that case, yes. We don’t need to do that because, as Lituma said, Miguel confessed to all the charges. His lawyer may decide on another strategy and deny everything, claim that his confession is invalid because it was forced out of him through illegal means. You know, the usual story. But I don’t think he has any out. As long as Mabel cooperates, he’s a goner.”

“How much time will they give him?” the trucker asked.

“That will depend on the lawyer who represents him and how much he can spend on his defense,” said the chief, looking somewhat skeptical. “It won’t be much. The only act of violence was the small fire at your office. Extortion, false abduction, and conspiracy to commit a crime aren’t all that serious under the circumstances. Because they didn’t result in anything, they were all faked. Two or three years at most, I doubt he’ll get any longer. And since he’s a first-time offender and has no record, he might even avoid jail altogether.”

“What about her?” the trucker asked, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“Since she’s cooperating with the law, the sentence will be very light, Don Felícito. Maybe nothing will happen to her. After all, she was the white guy’s victim too. That’s what her lawyer might argue, and he wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Do you see, Adelaida?” Felícito Yanaqué said with a sigh. “They put me through weeks of torture, they burned my place on Avenida Sánchez Cerro—the losses have been big: A lot of customers left because they were afraid the extortionists would throw a bomb at my buses. And those two crooks will probably go home free and live the good life. Do you see what justice is in this country?”

He stopped talking because he saw that something had changed in the holy woman’s eyes. She was staring at him, her eyes wide, very serious and concentrated, as if she saw something unsettling inside or through him. She grasped one of his hands between her large, callused hands with their dirty nails. She squeezed it with great strength. Felícito shuddered, dying of fear.

“An inspiration, Adelaida?” he stammered, trying to free his hand. “What do you see, what’s going on? Please, dear friend.”

“Something’s about to happen to you, Felícito,” she said, squeezing his hand even harder, staring at him insistently with her deep, now feverish eyes. “I don’t know what, maybe what happened to you this morning with the cops, maybe something else. Worse or better, I don’t know. Something tremendous, very strong, a jolt that will change your whole life.”

“Do you mean, something different from everything that’s already happening to me? Even worse things, Adelaida? Isn’t my cross heavy enough?”

She moved her head like a madwoman and didn’t seem to hear him. She raised her voice.

“I don’t know if it’ll be better or worse, Felícito,” she shouted, terrified. “But I do know it’s more important than anything that’s happened to you so far. A revolution in your life, that’s what I see.”

“Even worse?” he repeated. “Can’t you tell me anything concrete, Adelaida?”

“No, no I can’t.” The holy woman freed his hand and slowly began to recover her usual appearance and manner. He saw her sigh and pass her hand over her face as if she were brushing away an insect. “I only tell you what I feel, what the inspiration makes me feel. I know it’s confusing. For me too, Felícito. It’s not my fault, it’s what God wants me to feel. He’s the one in charge. That’s all I can tell you. Be prepared, something’s going to happen. Something that will surprise you. I only hope it isn’t for the worse, baby.”

“For the worse?” the trucker exclaimed. “The only thing worse that could happen to me now would be to die, run over by a car, bitten by a rabid dog. Maybe that would be the best thing for me, Adelaida. Dying.”

“You’re not going to die yet, I can promise you that. Your death isn’t something the inspiration told me about.”

The holy woman looked exhausted. She was still on the floor, sitting on her heels and rubbing her hands and arms slowly, as if brushing away dust. Felícito decided to leave. Half the afternoon was over. He hadn’t eaten a thing at midday but wasn’t hungry. The mere idea of sitting down to eat filled him with disgust. With an effort he got up from the rocker and took out his wallet.

“You don’t need to give me anything,” said the holy woman from the floor. “Not today, Felícito.”

“Yes, I do,” said the trucker, leaving fifty soles on the nearest counter. “Not for that confused inspiration but for having comforted and advised me with so much kindness. You’re my best friend, Adelaida. That’s why I’ve always trusted you.”

He went out, buttoning his vest, adjusting his tie, his hat. He felt very hot again. The presence of so many people crowding the streets in the center of Piura oppressed him. Some recognized and greeted him with nods and bows while others were more secretive, merely pointing him out. Still others took pictures of him with their cell phones. He decided to stop by Narihualá Transport in case there were new developments. He looked at his watch: five o’clock. The press conference at the police station was at six. An hour until the news went off like gunpowder. It would explode on the radio and the Internet, to be spread by blogs and televised reports. He’d be the most popular man in Piura again. “Deceived by son and mistress,” “Son and mistress tried to extort him,” “The spiders were his son and his girlfriend, and on top of everything, they were lovers too!” He felt nauseated imagining the headlines, the caricatures that would show him in embarrassing poses, wearing horns that stretched to the clouds. What dogs they were! Ungrateful, thankless dogs! What Miguel had done angered him less. Because, thanks to the spider extortion, he’d confirmed his suspicion that Miguel wasn’t his son. Who could his real father be? Did Gertrudis even know? Back then, any patron at the inn fucked her, so there were plenty of candidates. Should he leave her? Get a divorce? He’d never loved her, but now, after so long, he couldn’t even feel rancor toward her. She hadn’t been a bad wife; in all these years her conduct had been exemplary, she’d lived only for her home and her religion. The news would shake her, naturally. A photograph of Miguel in handcuffs, behind bars for having tried to extort his father, the father he shared a mistress with, wasn’t something a mother would easily accept. She’d cry and hurry to the cathedral so the priests could console her.

What Mabel had done was worse. He thought about her and a hollow opened in his stomach. She was the only woman he’d ever really loved. He’d given her everything: house, allowance, gifts. A freedom no other man would have granted to the woman he kept. So she’d go to bed with his son! So she’d extort him in cahoots with that hateful wretch! He wasn’t going to kill her, or even punch her in her lying mouth. He wouldn’t see her again. Let her make her living whoring. Let’s see if she could find another lover as considerate as him.

Instead of walking down Calle Lima, at the Puente Colgante he turned toward the Eguiguren Seawalk. There were fewer people there and he could walk more calmly, free of the feeling of knowing that people were looking at him and pointing him out. He thought of the old mansions that had lined this seawalk when he was a kid. They’d fallen into disrepair one after the other because of the havoc caused by El Niño: the rains, the river overflowing its banks and flooding the neighborhood. Instead of rebuilding, the whites had made their new homes in El Chipe, far from the center of town.

What would he do now? Go on with his work at Narihualá Transport as if nothing had happened? Poor Tiburcio. He’d suffer a terrible blow. His brother, Miguel, whom he’d always been so close to, suddenly a criminal who tried to rob his father with the help of his father’s mistress. Tiburcio was a very good man. Maybe not very intelligent but decent, reliable, incapable of anything as low as what his brother had done. He’d be destroyed by the news.

The Piura River was very high, carrying away branches, small shrubs, papers, bottles, plastic. It looked muddy, as if there’d been landslides in the mountains. Nobody was swimming in it.