The Feast of the Goat (36 page)

“I hope so, for Mireya’s sake. I think it’s fine that you bathe with soap every day, that your uniform is well pressed and your shoes shined. As head of the Armed Forces you’re obliged to set an example of cleanliness and proper appearance for Dominican officers and soldiers. Isn’t that true?”

“Of course it is, Chief.” The general groveled. “I beg you to tell me how I’ve failed. So I can set things right and make amends. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Appearance is the mirror of the soul,” Trujillo philosophized. “If somebody goes around smelling bad with snot running out of his nose, he isn’t a person who can be entrusted with public hygiene. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course, Chief.”

“The same is true of institutions. What respect can you have for them if they don’t even tend to their appearance?”

General Román chose not to speak. The Generalissimo had become more incensed and did not stop rebuking him for the fifteen minutes it took to reach San Isidro Air Base. He reminded Pupo how sorry he had been when the daughter of his sister Marina was crazy enough to marry a mediocre officer like him, which he still was despite the fact that because of his relationship by marriage to the Benefactor, he had been promoted to the very top of the hierarchy. These privileges, rather than motivating him, had led him to rest on his laurels and betray Trujillo’s confidence a thousand times over. Not content with being the nonentity he was as an officer, he had taken up farming, as if you didn’t need brains to raise cattle and manage lands and dairies. What was the result? He was drowning in debt and was an embarrassment to the family. Barely eighteen days ago he had personally paid with his own money the four-hundred-thousand-peso debt Román had contracted with the Agrarian Bank, so that the farm at kilometer fourteen on the Duarte Highway would not be put up for auction. And despite that, he made no effort to stop being a fool.

General José René Román Fernández remained mute and motionless as the recriminations and insults poured down on him. Trujillo did not rush; rage made him speak carefully, as if, in this way, each syllable, each letter, would strike a harder blow. The chauffeur drove at high speed, not deviating a millimeter from the center of the deserted highway.

“Stop,” Trujillo ordered a little before the first sentry post along the fence that encircled the sprawling San Isidro Air Base.

He jumped out, and despite the dark, he immediately located the large puddle of pestilential water. Sewage was still pouring out of the broken pipe, and in addition to mud and filth, the air was thick with mosquitoes that rushed to the attack.

“The leading military installation in the Republic,” Trujillo said slowly, barely containing a new surge of rage. “Does it seem right to you that at the entrance to the most important air base in the Caribbean, the visitor is greeted by this stinking shit pile of garbage, mud, and vermin?”

Román squatted down. He inspected, stood up, bent down again, did not hesitate to dirty his hands as he felt along the sewage pipe, looking for the break. He seemed relieved to discover the reason for the Chief’s anger. Had the idiot been afraid of something more serious?

“It’s a disgrace, no doubt about it.” He tried to display more indignation than he felt. “I’ll take all necessary steps to make certain the damage is repaired immediately, Excellency. I’ll punish those responsible, from top to bottom.”

“Beginning with Virgilio García Trujillo, the commander of the base,” the Benefactor roared. “You’re the first one responsible, and he’s the second. I hope you have the courage to impose the most severe sanctions on him, even though he’s my nephew and your brother-in-law. And if you don’t have the courage, I’ll be the one who’ll impose them on both of you. Not you, not Virgilio, not any of you shitty little generals is going to destroy my work. The Armed Forces will continue to be the model institution I created, even if I have to throw you and Virgilio and all the rest of you uniformed bunglers into jail for the rest of your lives.”

General Román came to attention and clicked his heels.

“Yes, Excellency. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

But Trujillo had already turned and was climbing into the car.

“Too bad for you if there’s any trace of what I’m seeing and smelling now when I come back here. Fucking tin soldier!”

Turning to the chauffeur, he ordered: “Let’s go.” They pulled away, leaving the Minister of the Armed Forces in the mudhole.

As soon as he left Román behind, a pathetic figure splashing in the muck, his bad temper vanished. He gave a little laugh. He was sure about one thing: Pupo would move heaven and earth and curse out everybody necessary to make sure the pipe was repaired. If this kind of thing went on while he was alive, what would happen when he could no longer personally keep laziness, negligence, and imbecility from tearing down what it had cost him so much effort to build up? Would anarchy and misery, the backwardness and isolation of 1930, return? Ah, if only Ramfis, the son he had longed for, were capable of continuing his work. But he did not have the slightest interest in politics or the country; all he cared about was booze, polo, and women. Fuck! General Ramfis Trujillo, head of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Dominican Republic, playing polo and fucking the dancers at the Lido in Paris while his father did battle here alone against the Church, the United States, conspirators, and cretins like Pupo Román. He moved his head, trying to shake off those bitter thoughts. In an hour and a half he would be in San Cristóbal, in the peaceful refuge of the Fundación Ranch, surrounded by fields and gleaming stables, beautiful woods, the broad Nigua River, whose unhurried movement through the valley he would observe through the tops of mahogany trees, royal palms, and the great cashew tree by the house on the hill. It would do him good to wake there tomorrow, stroking the sweet little body of Yolanda Esterel as he contemplated the tranquil, unsullied landscape. It was the prescription of Petronius and King Solomon: a fresh little cunt to restore youth to a veteran of seventy years.

At Radhamés Manor, Zacarías de la Cruz had already taken out the light blue four-door 1957 Bel Air Chevrolet in which he always drove to San Cristóbal. A military adjutant was waiting for him with the briefcase full of documents that he would study tomorrow at Mahogany House, and 110,000 pesos in bills, for the ranch payroll, plus incidental expenses. For twenty years he had not gone anywhere, even for a few hours, without the dark brown briefcase with his engraved initials, and a few thousand dollars or pesos in cash for gifts and incidental expenses. He indicated to the adjutant that he should put the briefcase in the back seat and told Zacarías, the tall, husky black who had been with him for three decades—he had been his orderly in the Army—that he would be right down. Nine o’clock already. It was getting late.

He went up to his rooms to clean up, and as soon as he walked in the bathroom, he saw the stain. On his fly and down his leg. He felt himself trembling from head to foot: it had to happen now, damn it. He asked Sinforoso for another olive green uniform and another change of underwear. He lost fifteen minutes at the bidet and sink, soaping his testicles, his penis, his face, and his armpits, and applying creams and perfumes before he changed. His attack of bad humor, brought on by that shiteating Pupo, was to blame. Again he sank into a state of gloom. It was a bad omen for San Cristóbal. While he was dressing, Sinforoso handed him a telegram: “Lloyds matter resolved. Spoke with person in charge. Remittance directly to Central Bank. Fond regards Ramfis.” His son was ashamed: that’s why he sent a telegram instead of calling him.

“We’re a little late, Zacarías,” he said. “So step on it.”

“Understood, Chief.”

He leaned back against the cushioned seat and closed his eyes, prepared to rest for the hour and ten minutes the trip to San Cristóbal would take. They were driving to the southwest, toward Avenida George Washington and the highway, when he opened his eyes:

“Do you remember Moni’s house, Zacarías?”

“On Wenceslao Álvarez, near where Marrero Aristy lived?”

“Let’s go there.”

It had been an illumination, a lightning flash. Suddenly he saw Moni’s round little cinnamon-colored face, her curly mane of hair, the mischief in her star-filled almond eyes, her compact shape, high breasts, sweet ass with firm buttocks, voluptuous hips, and again he felt the delicious tingling in his testicles. The head of his penis woke up and brushed against his trousers. Moni. Why not? She was a pretty, affectionate girl who had never disappointed him, not since the time in Quinigua when her father in person brought her to the party the Americans from La Yuquera were holding for him: “Look at the surprise I have for you, Chief.” The little house where she lived, in the new development at the end of Avenida México, was his present to her on the day she married a boy from a good family. When he required her, from time to time, he took her to one of the suites at El Embajador or El Jaragua that Manuel Alfonso kept ready for such occasions. The idea of fucking Moni in her own house excited him. They’d send her husband out for a beer at Rincón Pony, as Trujillo’s guest—he laughed—or he could pass the time talking to Zacarías de la Cruz.

The street was dark and deserted, but a light was burning on the first floor of the house. “Call her.” He saw the driver walk through the front gate and ring the bell. It took a while for anyone to answer. Finally, a maid must have come to the door, and Zacarías spoke to her in whispers. He was left at the door, waiting. Beautiful Moni! Her father had been a good leader of the Dominican Party in Cibao, and he brought her to the reception himself, a nice gesture. That was a few years ago now, and the truth was that every time he fucked this good-looking woman he felt very happy. The door opened again, and in the light coming from the house he saw Moni’s silhouette. He felt another surge of excitement. After speaking for a moment with Zacarías, she walked to the car. In the darkness he couldn’t see what she was wearing. He opened the door to let her in, and welcomed her with a kiss on the hand:

“You weren’t expecting a visit from me, beautiful.”

“Really, what an honor. How are you, Chief, how are you?”

Trujillo kept her hand between his. Feeling her so close, touching her, inhaling her scent, he felt in control of all his powers.

“I was going to San Cristóbal, but suddenly I thought of you.”

“What an honor, Chief,” she repeated, flustered and confused. “If I had known, I would have fixed myself up to receive you.”

“You’re always beautiful, fixed up or not.” He pulled her to him, and as his hands caressed her breasts and legs, he kissed her. He felt the beginnings of an erection that reconciled him with the world and with life. Moni let herself be caressed, and she kissed him, with some restraint. Zacarías stood outside, a few meters from the Chevrolet, on guard as always, holding a submachine gun. What was going on? There was an edginess in Moni that was unusual.

“Is your husband home?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a quiet voice. “We were about to eat.”

“Have him go out for a beer,” said Trujillo. “I’ll go around the block. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“It’s just that…,” she stammered, and the Generalissimo felt her tensing. She hesitated, and finally she mumbled, almost inaudibly: “I have the curse, Chief.”

All his excitement left him in a matter of seconds.

“Your period?” he exclaimed in disappointment.

“Please forgive me, Chief,” she stammered. “The day after tomorrow I’ll be fine.”

He let her go and sighed deeply, repulsed.

“All right, I’ll come see you soon. Goodbye.” He leaned his head toward the open door through which Moni had just left. “We’re leaving, Zacarías!”

A short while later he asked De la Cruz if he had ever fucked a menstruating woman.

“Never, Chief.” He was shocked, and made a disgusted face. “They say it gives you syphilis.”

“And worst of all, it’s dirty,” Trujillo lamented. What if Yolanda Esterel, by some damn coincidence, had her period today too?

They had taken the highway to San Cristóbal, and on the right he saw the lights of the Livestock Fairgrounds and the Pony, crowded with couples eating and drinking. Wasn’t it strange that Moni seemed so reluctant and inhibited? She was usually so sassy, ready for anything. Did the presence of her husband make her like that? Could she have invented a period so he’d leave her alone? Vaguely he noticed that a car was blowing its horn at them. Its brights were on.

“These drunks…,” Zacarías de la Cruz remarked.

At that moment, it occurred to Trujillo that perhaps it wasn’t a drunk, and he turned to get the revolver he carried in the back seat, but he couldn’t reach it, because at that moment he heard the blast of a rifle whose bullets shattered the glass in the back window and tore off a piece of his shoulder and his left arm.

When General Juan Tomás Díaz, his brother Modesto, and Luis Amiama came back, and Antonio de la Maza saw their faces, he knew before they opened their mouths that the search for General Román had been futile.

“It’s hard to believe,” murmured Luis Amiama, biting his thin lips. “But it looks like Pupo skipped out on us. There’s no sign of him.”

They had gone everywhere he could have been, including the General Staff Headquarters at December 18 Fortress; but Luis Amiama and Bibín Román, Pupo’s younger brother, had been thrown out in a very unpleasant way by the guards: their compadre could not or would not see them.

“My last hope is that he’s putting the Plan into effect on his own,” Modesto Díaz fantasized, without much conviction. “Mobilizing installations, persuading military leaders. In any event, we’re in a very compromised situation right now.”

They were standing in the living room of General Juan Tomás Díaz’s house. Chana, his young wife, served them glasses of lemonade with ice.

“We have to hide until we know what’s going on with Pupo,” said General Juan Tomás Díaz.

Antonio de la Maza, who had not spoken yet, felt a wave of anger coursing through his body.

“Hide?” he exclaimed in a rage. “Cowards hide. Let’s finish the job, Juan Tomás. Put on your general’s uniform, give us some uniforms, and we’ll go to the Palace. And that’s where we’ll call for a popular uprising.”

“You want the four of us to take the Palace?” Luis Amiama tried to reason with him. “Have you gone crazy, Antonio?”

“Nobody’s there now, just the guards,” he insisted. “We have to force the hand of the Trujillistas before they can react. We’ll call on the people, we can use the Palace connection to every radio station in the country. We’ll tell them to take to the streets. In the end, the Army will support us.”

The skeptical expressions of Juan Tomás, Amiama, and Modesto Díaz made him even angrier. They were soon joined by Salvador Estrella Sadhalá, who had just left Antonio Imbert and Amadito at the doctor’s office, and Dr. Vélez Santana, who had taken Pedro Livio Cedeño to the International Clinic. They were devastated by the disappearance of Pupo Román. They agreed that Antonio’s idea of infiltrating the National Palace disguised as officers was futile and rash, an act of suicide. And all of them energetically opposed Antonio’s new proposal: to take the body of Trujillo to Independencia Park and hang it from the parapet so that residents of the capital could see how he had died. Rejection by his friends provoked one of those fits of uncontrolled rage De la Maza had recently been subject to. Cowards! Traitors! They weren’t equal to what they had done, ridding the Nation of the Beast! When he saw Chana Díaz come into the living room, her eyes terrified by the shouting, he realized he had gone too far. He muttered apologies to his friends and fell silent. But he felt waves of nausea inside.

“We’re all upset, Antonio,” said Luis Amiama, patting him on the shoulder. “The important thing now is to find a safe place. Until Pupo shows up. And we see how the people react when they find out Trujillo is dead.”

An ashen Antonio de la Maza nodded. Yes, after all, Amiama, who had worked so hard to bring the military and highly placed officials in the regime into the conspiracy, perhaps he was right.

Luis Amiama and Modesto Díaz decided to go their separate ways; they thought they had a better chance of avoiding detection if each was on his own. Antonio persuaded Juan Tomás and Turk Sadhalá that they should stay together. They went through possibilities—relatives, friends—and discarded them; the police would search all those houses. Vélez Santana was the one who came up with an acceptable name:

“Robert Reid Cabral. He’s a friend of mine. Totally apolitical, all he cares about is medicine. He won’t refuse.”

He drove them in his car. General Díaz and Turk didn’t know Robert personally, but Antonio de la Maza was a friend of his older brother, Donald Reid Cabral, who was working in Washington and New York in support of the conspiracy. The young doctor was dumbfounded at being awakened close to midnight. He knew nothing about the plot; he wasn’t even aware that his brother Donald was collaborating with the Americans. But as soon as he regained his color and his power of speech, he hurried them into his small, Moorish-style, two-story house, which was so narrow it looked like something out of a fairy tale. He was a clean-shaven boy with kindhearted eyes who made a superhuman effort to hide his consternation. He introduced them to his wife, Ligia, who was several months pregnant. She accepted the invasion by strangers good-naturedly, without much apprehension. She showed them her two-year-old son, who slept in a corner of the dining room.

The young couple led the conspirators to a narrow little room on the top floor that was used as an attic storeroom. It had almost no ventilation, and the low ceiling made the heat intolerable. There was room for them only if they sat with their legs drawn up, and they had to crouch when they stood to avoid hitting their heads on the beams. On that first night they hardly noticed the discomfort and the heat; they spent the time whispering, trying to guess what had happened to Pupo Román: why did he drop out of sight when everything depended on him? General Díaz recalled his conversation with Pupo on May 24, Román’s birthday, on his farm at kilometer fourteen. He had assured him and Luis Amiama that he was ready to mobilize the Armed Forces as soon as they showed him the body.

Marcelino Vélez Santana stayed with them, out of solidarity, for he had no reason to hide. The next morning he went out to learn the news. He returned a little before noon, highly agitated. There was no sign of a military uprising. On the contrary, one could see a frantic mobilization of SIM Beetles and jeeps and military trucks. Patrols were searching all the neighborhoods. There were rumors that hundreds of men, women, old people, and children were being dragged from their houses and taken to La Victoria, El Nueve, or La Cuarenta. In the interior as well, those suspected of anti-Trujillism were being rounded up. A colleague from La Vega told Dr. Vélez Santana that the entire De la Maza family, beginning with the father, Don Vicente, and including all of Antonio’s brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and cousins, had been arrested in Moca. That city was now occupied by guards and
caliés
. The houses of Juan Tomás, his brother Modesto, Imbert, and Salvador were all surrounded by barbed-wire barricades and armed guards.

Antonio said nothing. He was not surprised. He always knew that if the plot did not succeed, the regime’s response would be unimaginably brutal. His heart constricted as he thought of his aged father, Don Vicente, and his brothers abused and mistreated by Abbes García. At about one o’clock, two black Volkswagens filled with
caliés
appeared on the street. Ligia, Reid Cabral’s wife—he had gone to his office so as not to arouse the neighbors’ suspicions—came to tell them in whispers that men wearing civilian clothes and carrying submachine guns were searching a nearby house. Antonio exploded in a string of curses (though he kept his voice low):

“You should have listened to me, assholes. Wouldn’t it be better to die fighting in the Palace than to be trapped here like rats?”

Throughout the day they kept arguing and reproaching one another. During one of these disputes, Vélez Santana erupted. He grabbed General Juan Tomás Díaz by the shirt and accused him of involving him for no reason in a stupid, absurd plot that hadn’t even made provision for the conspirators’ escape. Did he have any idea what would happen to them now? Turk Estrella Sadhalá came between them to prevent a fistfight. Antonio controlled his desire to vomit.

On the second night, they were so exhausted by arguments and insults that they slept, huddled together, using one another as pillows, dripping perspiration, almost suffocating in the burning air.

On the third day, when Dr. Vélez Santana brought a copy of
El Caribe
to their hiding place and they saw their photographs under a huge headline: “Killers Sought in Trujillo Murder,” and, below that, the photograph of General Román Fernández embracing Ramfis at the Generalissimo’s funeral, they knew they were lost. There would be no civilian-military junta. Ramfis and Radhamés had returned, and the entire country was mourning the dictator.

“Pupo betrayed us.” General Juan Tomás Díaz seemed to be foundering. He had taken off his shoes, his feet were very swollen, and he was gasping for breath.

“We have to get out of here,” said Antonio de la Maza. “We can’t fuck up this family. If they find us here, they’ll kill them too.”

“You’re right,” Turk agreed. “It wouldn’t be fair. We have to leave.”

Where would they go? They spent all of June 2 considering possible flight plans. Shortly before noon, two Beetles carrying
caliés
pulled up to the house across the way and half a dozen armed men forced the door and went in. Alerted by Ligia, they waited, guns at the ready. But the
caliés
left after dragging out a young man in handcuffs. Of all the suggestions, Antonio’s seemed the best: get hold of a car or van and try to reach Restauración, where he knew a good many people because he owned pine and coffee plantations there, and managed Trujillo’s sawmill. It was so close to the border, it wouldn’t be difficult to cross over into Haiti. But where would they find a car? Who would lend them one? They didn’t get any sleep that night either, tormented by apprehension, fatigue, despair, and doubt. At midnight, Reid Cabral came up to their garret with tears in his eyes:

“They’ve searched three houses on this street,” he pleaded. “Any minute now it’ll be my turn. I don’t care about dying. But what about my wife and little boy? And the baby she’s carrying?”

They swore they’d leave the next day, no matter what. And they did, at dusk on June 4. Salvador Estrella Sadhalá decided to go alone. He didn’t know where, but thought he had more chance of getting away on his own than with Juan Tomás and Antonio, whose names and faces were the ones appearing most frequently on television and in the papers. Turk was the first to leave, at ten minutes to six, when it was beginning to grow dark. Through the blinds in Reid Cabral’s bedroom, Antonio de la Maza watched him walk quickly to the corner, where he raised his hand and hailed a cab. He felt very troubled: Turk had been his closest friend, and they had never completely reconciled after that damn fight. There wouldn’t be another chance.

Dr. Marcelino Vélez Santana decided to stay a little while longer with his colleague and friend, Dr. Reid Cabral, who seemed overwhelmed. Antonio shaved his mustache, put on an old hat he found in the attic, and pulled it down over his ears. Juan Tomás Díaz, however, made no effort to disguise himself. They both embraced Dr. Vélez Santana.

“No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings. Good luck.”

Ligia Reid Cabral, when they thanked her for her hospitality, burst into tears and made the sign of the cross over them: “May God protect you.”

They walked eight blocks along deserted streets, their hands in their pockets, clutching their revolvers, until they reached the house of Antonio de la Maza’s brother-in-law, Toñito Mota. He had a Ford van; perhaps he’d lend it to them, or agree to let them steal it. But Toñito wasn’t home, and the van wasn’t in the garage. The servant who opened the door recognized De la Maza immediately: “Don Antonio! What are you doing here?” He had a horrified look on his face, and Antonio and the general, certain he would call the police as soon as they left, hurried away. They didn’t know what the hell to do.

“Shall I tell you something, Juan Tomás?”

“What, Antonio?”

“I’m glad to be out of that rattrap. That heat, the dust that got in your nose and didn’t let you breathe. The discomfort. It’s good to be in the fresh air and feel your lungs clearing out.”

“The only thing I need is for you to say: ‘Let’s go have a couple of beers and celebrate how beautiful life is.’ Brother, you have a lot of balls!”

They both broke into intense, fleeting little laughs. On Avenida Pasteur they tried for a long time to hail a cab. The ones that passed had passengers.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you on the Avenida,” General Díaz said suddenly, as if remembering something important. “And didn’t have the chance to shoot the Goat. Damn it to hell!”

“It’s as if you had been there, Juan Tomás. Just ask Johnny Abbes, Blacky, Petán, and Ramfis, then you’ll see. As far as they’re concerned, you were with us on the highway pumping the Chief full of lead. Don’t worry. I fired one of those shots for you.”

Finally a taxi stopped. They climbed in, and when they didn’t tell him right away where they wanted to go, the driver, a fat, gray-haired black in shirtsleeves, turned to look at them. Antonio de la Maza saw in his eyes that he had recognized them.

“To San Martín,” he told him.

The driver nodded, not saying a word. A short while later, he murmured that he was running out of gas; he had to fill the tank. He drove along March 30, where the traffic was heavy, and stopped at a Texaco station at the corner of San Martín and Tiradentes. He got out of the car to open the gas tank. Now Antonio and Juan Tomás held the revolvers in their hands. De la Maza took off his right shoe, twisted the heel, and removed a small cellophane bag, which he put in his pocket. Juan Tomás looked at him, intrigued, and Antonio explained:

“It’s strychnine. I got it in Moca; I said it was for a rabid dog.”

The fat general shrugged disdainfully, and showed him his revolver:

“There’s no better strychnine than this, brother. Poison is for dogs and women, don’t fuck around with bullshit like that. Besides, asshole, you commit suicide with cyanide, not strychnine.”

They laughed again, with the same fierce, sad little laugh.

“Did you notice the guy at the register?” Antonio de la Maza pointed at the cashier’s window. “Who do you think he’s calling?”

“Maybe his wife, to ask how her pussy’s doing.”

Antonio de la Maza laughed again, a real, long, open laugh this time.

“What the fuck are you laughing at, asshole?”

“Don’t you think it’s funny?” asked Antonio, who was serious again. “The two of us in this taxi. What the hell are we doing here? We don’t even know where we’re going.”