The Discreet Hero (4 page)

Rigoberto nodded his head: Yes, yes, Ismael, if he asked how would he not agree. But, but … Damn, he didn’t know what the hell to say.

“Is this wedding absolutely necessary?” he finally found the courage to say. “I mean, to risk facing everything that you’ll suffer. I’m not thinking only of the scandal, Ismael. You can imagine where I’m going with this. Is it worth the monumental trouble this will unleash with your sons? A marriage has legal and economic effects. Well, I imagine you’ve thought about all this and that I’m talking to you like a fool. Am I right, Ismael?”

He saw his boss drink half a glass of white wine in a single swallow. He saw him shrug and agree.

“They’ll try to have me declared incompetent,” he said sarcastically, making a scornful face. “Of course a lot of palms will have to be greased, what with judges and shyster lawyers. I have more money than they do, so they won’t win the suit, if they decide to bring it.”

He spoke without looking at Rigoberto, without raising his voice so people at nearby tables couldn’t hear him, with his eyes fixed on the ocean. But he clearly wasn’t seeing the surfers, or the gulls, or the waves rushing to the shore and throwing off white foam, or the double line of cars driving along the Costa Verde. His voice was filling with rage.

“Is it all worth it, Ismael?” Rigoberto repeated. “Lawyers, notaries, judges, court appearances, the indecency of reporters digging into your private life ad nauseam. All that trouble, besides the fortune that this kind of whim will cost you, the headaches and quarrels. Is it worth it?”

Instead of responding, Ismael surprised him with another question.

“Do you remember when I had my heart attack in September?”

Rigoberto remembered very well. Everyone had thought Ismael would die. It had taken him by surprise in his car, driving back to Lima from a lunch in Ancón. He’d passed out and Narciso took him to the Clínica San Felipe. They kept him in intensive care for several days, on oxygen, so weak he couldn’t speak.

“We thought you were done for, what a scare you gave us. Why do you bring that up now?”

“That was when I decided to marry Armida.” Ismael’s face had become sour and his voice filled with bitterness. At that moment he looked older. “I was close to death, of course I was. I could see it up close, touch it, smell it. I was too weak to speak, that’s true. But I could hear. That pair of contemptible sons I have didn’t know that, Rigoberto. I can tell you. Only you. You’ll never tell anyone about it, not even Lucrecia. Swear you won’t, please.”

“Dr. Gamio has been crystal clear,” Miki said enthusiastically. “He kicks the bucket tonight, brother. A massive heart attack. A devastating heart attack, he said. And slim chances of recovery.”

“Not so loud,” Escobita reproached him. He spoke very softly in the half-light that deformed silhouettes, in the strange room that smelled of formaldehyde. “From your lips, compadre. Couldn’t you find out anything about the will in Dr. Arnillas’s office? Because if he wants to fuck us, we’re fucked. That old bastard knows all the tricks.”

“Arnillas keeps his mouth shut because he’s been paid off,” said Miki, lowering his voice. “I went to see him this afternoon and tried to get something out of him but there was no way. I asked around anyway. Even if he wanted to fuck us, he couldn’t. The money he gave us when he got us out of the company doesn’t count, there are no documents and no solid proof. The law’s absolutely clear. We’re compulsory heirs. That’s what it’s called: compulsory. He can’t do anything, brother.”

“Don’t be so sure, compadre. He knows all the tricks. As long as he can fuck us he’s capable of anything.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t last the day,” said Miki. “Because, if nothing else, the old geezer will give us another sleepless night.”

“‘Old bastard’ says one, ‘I hope he croaks right now’ says the other, less than a meter away from me, happy to know I was dying,” Ismael recalled, speaking slowly, his gaze lost in the void. “Do you know something, Rigoberto? They saved me from dying. Yes, those two, I swear it. Because listening to them say those outrageous things gave me an incredible will to live. To deny them the satisfaction, to not die. And I swear my body responded. I decided right there, right in the hospital: If I recover, I’m marrying Armida. I’ll fuck them before they can fuck me. They wanted war? They’d have one. And they’ll have one, old man. I can see their faces now.”

Bitterness, disappointment, anger filled not only his words and voice but also the grimace that twisted his mouth, the hands that crushed his napkin.

“It could have been a hallucination, a nightmare,” Rigoberto murmured, not believing what he was saying. “With all the drugs in your body, you could have dreamed the whole thing, Ismael. You were delirious, I saw you.”

“I knew very well my sons never loved me,” his boss continued, ignoring him. “But not that they hated me so much that they’d wish me dead so they could get their inheritance once and for all. And of course squander in the blink of an eye what my father and I broke our backs to build up over so many years. Well, they won’t be able to. Those hyenas will be disappointed.”

Hyenas described Ismael’s sons pretty well, thought Rigoberto. A couple of scoundrels, one worse than the other. Lazy, too fond of carousing, abusive, a pair of parasites who dishonored the name of their father and grandfather. How had they turned out this way? It certainly wasn’t for lack of affection and care from their parents. Just the opposite. Ismael and Clotilde always bent over backward for them, doing the impossible to give them the best upbringing. They dreamed of turning them into two fine gentlemen. How the devil did they turn out so bad? It wasn’t all that strange that they’d had their sinister conversation at the foot of their dying father’s bed. And they were stupid on top of everything else, not even thinking he could hear them. They were capable of that and worse, of course. Rigoberto knew this very well; over the years he’d often been the shoulder his boss had cried on, Ismael’s confidant about his sons’ outrageous behavior. How Ismael and Clotilde had suffered because of the scandals the boys had caused from the time they were very young.

They’d attended the best school in Lima, had private tutors for the courses in which they were weak, gone to summer school in the United States and England. They learned English but spoke an illiterate Spanish full of the awful slang and dropped endings of Lima’s young people, hadn’t read a book or even a newspaper in their entire lives, probably didn’t know the capital of half the countries in Latin America, and neither one had been able to pass even the first year at the university. They’d made their debut as villains while still adolescents, raping a girl they picked up at a run-of-the-mill party in Pucusana. Floralisa Roca, that was her name, a name right out of a novel of chivalry. Slim, rather pretty, with terrified, tear-filled eyes, her thin body trembling with fear. Rigoberto remembered her clearly. She was on his conscience, and he still felt remorse for the ugly role he’d had to play in the matter. The whole imbroglio came back to him: lawyers, doctors, police reports, desperate measures to keep the names of the twins out of the articles about the incident in
La Prensa
and
El Comercio
. He’d had to speak to the girl’s parents, an Ican couple already along in years, and it cost close to $50,000, a fortune at the time, to placate and silence them. He remembered very clearly the conversation he had one day with Ismael. His boss pressed his hands to his head, held back his tears while his voice broke: “How have we failed, Rigoberto? What did Clotilde and I do to have God punish us like this? How can we have these thugs for sons! They’re not even sorry for the outrage they committed. Can you imagine? They blame the poor girl. They not only raped her, they hit and abused her.” “Thugs,” that was the word exactly. Perhaps Clotilde and Ismael had spoiled them too much, perhaps they hadn’t been strict enough. They shouldn’t have always excused their escapades, not so quickly, at any rate. The twins’ escapades! Car crashes caused by driving drunk and drugged, debts incurred using their father’s name, forged receipts at the office when Ismael had the bad idea of placing them in the company to toughen them up. They’d been a nightmare for Rigoberto. He had to go in person to inform his boss about the brothers’ exploits. They even emptied the petty cash box in his office. That was the last straw, fortunately. Ismael let them go, preferring to give them an allowance to finance their idleness. Their record was endless. For example, they enrolled at Boston University and their parents were ecstatic. Months later, Ismael discovered they’d never set foot in BU, had pocketed their tuition and allowance, and forged their grades and attendance reports. One of them—Miki or Escobita?—ran over a pedestrian in Miami and was a fugitive because he fled to Lima while out on bail. If he ever returned to the United States, he’d go to prison.

After Clotilde’s death, Ismael gave up. Let them do whatever they wanted. He’d advanced them part of their inheritance so they could increase it if they chose or squander it, which naturally is what they did, traveling through Europe and living the high life. By now they were grown men, close to forty. His boss wanted no more headaches with his incorrigible sons. And now this! Of course they would try to annul the marriage, if it actually happened. They’d never allow an inheritance they’d waited for, with the voraciousness of cannibals, to be snatched away from them. He imagined their paroxysms of rage. Their father married to Armida! A servant! A
chola
! He laughed to himself: Yes, what faces they’d make. The scandal would be tremendous. He could already hear, see, smell the river of slander, conjecture, jokes, falsehoods that would spread like wildfire along the telephone lines in Lima. He could hardly wait to tell Lucrecia the news.

“Do you get along with Fonchito?” His boss’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “How old is your son now? He must be fourteen or fifteen, isn’t he?”

Rigoberto shuddered as he imagined Fonchito turning into someone like Ismael’s sons. Happily, his son didn’t go in for carousing.

“I get along pretty well with him,” he replied. “And Lucrecia even better than I do. Fonchito loves her just as if she were his mother.”

“You’ve been lucky: A child’s relationship with a stepmother isn’t always easy.”

“He’s a good boy,” Don Rigoberto acknowledged. “Studious, well-behaved. But very solitary. He’s in that difficult period of adolescence. He withdraws too much. I’d like to see him with more friends, going out, falling in love with girls, going to parties.”

“That’s what the hyenas did at his age,” Don Ismael lamented. “Go to parties, have a good time. He’s better off the way he is, old man. It was bad company that ruined my sons.”

Rigoberto was about to tell Ismael the nonsense about Fonchito and the appearances of one Edilberto Torres, whom he and Doña Lucrecia called the devil, but he restrained himself. To what end—who knew how he would take it. At first he and Lucrecia had been amused by the supposed appearances of that asshole and had celebrated the boy’s luminous imagination, convinced it was another of the tricks he liked to spring on them from time to time. But now they were concerned and considered taking him to a psychologist. Really, he had to reread that chapter on the devil in Thomas Mann’s
Doktor Faustus
.

“I still can’t believe all of this, Ismael,” he exclaimed again, blowing on his demitasse. “Are you really sure you want to do it—get married?”

“As sure as I am that the world is round,” his boss declared. “It’s not only to teach those two a lesson. I’m very fond of Armida. I don’t know what would have happened to me without her. Since Clotilde’s death, her help has been invaluable.”

“If memory serves, Armida’s very young,” murmured Rigoberto. “How many years older are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-eight, that’s all,” Ismael said with a laugh. “Yes, she’s young, and I hope she reinvigorates me, like the young girl did with Solomon in the Bible. The Shulamite, wasn’t it?”

“All right, all right, it’s your business, your life,” Rigoberto said, resigned. “I’m not good at giving advice. Marry Armida and let the world end, what difference does it make, old man.”

“If you’re interested, we’re very compatible in bed,” Ismael boasted, laughing, while he gestured to the waiter to bring the check. “To be even more precise, I rarely use Viagra because I hardly need it. And don’t ask me where we’ll spend our honeymoon because I won’t tell you.”

III

Felícito Yanaqué received the second letter signed with a spider a few days after the first, on a Friday afternoon, the day he always visited Mabel. Eight years ago, when he set her up in the small house in Castilla, not far from the Puente Viejo, a bridge that had since fallen victim to El Niño’s devastation, he’d see her two, even three times a week; but over the years the fire of passion had subsided, and for some time now he saw her only on Fridays after he left the office. He’d spend a few hours with her, and they almost always ate together, in a nearby Chinese restaurant or in a Peruvian restaurant in the center of the city. Sometimes Mabel cooked him a dried-beef stew, her specialty, which Felícito dispatched happily with a nice cold beer from Cusco.

Mabel took good care of herself. In these eight years she hadn’t gotten fat: She still had her gymnast’s figure, her narrow waist, pert breasts, and round, high ass that she still shook joyfully when she walked. She was dark, with straight hair, a full mouth, very white teeth, a radiant smile, and laughter that infected everyone around her with joy. Felícito thought she was as pretty and attractive as she’d been the first time he saw her.

That was in the old stadium in the Buenos Aires district during a historic match: Atlético Grau, which hadn’t been in the first division for thirty years, took on and defeated none other than Alianza Lima. For him it was love at first sight. “You’re in a daze, compadre,” joked Colorado Vignolo, his friend, colleague, and competitor—he owned La Perla del Chira Transport—with whom he would go to soccer games when the teams from Lima and other departments came to Piura to play. “You’re staring at that little brunette so hard you’re missing all the goals.” “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Felícito murmured, clicking his tongue. “She’s absolutely fantastic!” She was a few meters away, accompanied by a young man who put his arm across her shoulders and from time to time caressed her hair. After a while, Colorado Vignolo whispered in his ear, “I know her. Her name’s Mabel. You’re primed and loaded, compadre. That one fucks.” Felícito gave a start: “Are you telling me, compadre, that this delicious girl is a whore?”