The Discreet Hero (38 page)

“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 against 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 perfectly. 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?”

“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.”