They’d reached their classroom, and from there it was impossible to see the stands on the soccer field.
“You didn’t see him?” Fonchito grabbed his arm. “A man with gray hair, wearing a suit, a tie, a purple sweater, sitting right next to me. Swear you didn’t see him, Chato.”
“Don’t fuck around,” said Chato Pezzuolo, pointing a finger at his temple again. “You were all alone, nobody else was there but you. Either you lost your mind or you’re seeing things. Don’t be a pain in the ass, Alfonso. You’re trying to fuck with me, right? I promise you can’t.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me, Papa,” Fonchito whispered, sighing. He paused and then declared, “But I know what I see and what I don’t see. And I’m sure I’m not a nut case. What I’m telling you is what happened. Exactly what happened.”
“All right, all right,” Rigoberto said, trying to calm him, “probably it was your friend Pezzuolo who didn’t see this Edilberto Torres. He must have been in a blind spot, something blocked his view. Don’t think about it anymore. What other explanation can there be? Your friend Chato couldn’t see him and that’s that. We’re not going to start believing in ghosts at this point in our lives, son, isn’t that right? Forget all that, and especially Edilberto Torres. Let’s say he doesn’t exist and never existed. He’s long gone, as you say nowadays.”
“Another of the boy’s feverish imaginings,” Doña Lucrecia would remark later. “He’ll never stop surprising us. I mean, a man appears and only he sees him, right there on his school’s soccer field. What an extravagant imagination he has, my God!”
But later, she was the one who urged Rigoberto to go to Markham, without telling Fonchito about it, to talk to Mr. McPherson, the director. The conversation caused Don Rigoberto a good deal of grief.
“Naturally, he didn’t know and hadn’t ever heard of Edilberto Torres,” he told Lucrecia that night, when they usually talked. “And then, as was to be expected, the gringo felt free to mock me. It was absolutely impossible for a stranger to have entered the school, let alone the soccer field. Nobody who isn’t a teacher or an employee is authorized to set foot there. Mr. McPherson also believes this is one of those fantasies that intelligent, sensitive boys tend to have. He told me there was no reason to give the matter any importance. At my son’s age, it’s perfectly normal for a child to see a ghost occasionally, unless he’s a dolt. We agreed that neither of us would tell Foncho about the interview. I think he’s right. What’s the point of playing along with something that makes no sense.”
“Well, if it turns out that the devil does exist, it seems he’s Peruvian and his name is Edilberto Torres.” Lucrecia had a sudden fit of laughter. But Rigoberto noticed it was a nervous laugh.
They were lying down, and it was obvious by this time that there would be no stories, no fantasies, and no lovemaking. This had been happening more often recently. Instead of inventing stories that excited them both, they began to talk, and often they enjoyed it so much that time slipped away until they were overcome by sleep.
“I’m afraid it’s no laughing matter.” A moment later she reversed herself and became serious again. “This has gone too far, Rigoberto. We have to do something. I don’t know what, but something. We can’t just look away, as if nothing were going on.”
“At least now I’m certain that it’s a fantasy, something very typical of him,” Rigoberto reflected. “But what’s he trying to do with these stories? Things like this aren’t unprovoked, they come from somewhere, with roots in the unconscious.”
“Sometimes he’s so quiet, so closed within himself, that I want to die of sorrow, my love. I feel that the boy is suffering in silence and it breaks my heart. Since he knows we don’t believe in his apparitions, he doesn’t tell us about them anymore. And that’s even worse.”
“He might be having visions, hallucinations,” Don Rigoberto digressed. “It happens to the most normal people, whether they’re clever or stupid. They think they’re seeing what they don’t see, what’s only in their head.”
“Sure, of course they’re inventions,” Doña Lucrecia concluded. “We assume the devil doesn’t exist. I believed in him when I met you, Rigoberto. In God and the devil, what every normal Catholic family believes. You convinced me they were superstitions, the foolish beliefs of ignorant people. And now it turns out that the one who doesn’t exist has interfered with our family, and what do you have to say to that?” She gave another nervous little laugh and then fell silent. To Rigoberto she seemed quiet and pensive.
“To be honest, I don’t know whether he exists or not,” he admitted. “The only thing I’m sure about now is what you just said. He might exist, I could get as far as that. But I can’t accept that he’s a Peruvian named Edilberto Torres, and that he devotes his time to stalking the students at Markham Academy. Please don’t fuck with me.”
They discussed the matter from every angle and finally decided to take Fonchito for a psychological evaluation. They made inquiries among their friends. Everyone recommended Dr. Augusta Delmira Céspedes. She had studied in France and was a specialist in child psychology, and those who’d placed their sons or daughters with problems in her care had high praise for her skill and good judgment. They were afraid Fonchito might resist and took every precaution to present the matter to him delicately. But to their surprise, the boy didn’t raise the slightest objection. He agreed to see her, went to her office several times, took all the tests Dr. Céspedes gave him, and always had the best attitude in the world when he talked to her. When Rigoberto and Lucrecia went to her office, the doctor received them with an encouraging smile. She was close to sixty, rather plump, agile, amiable, and droll.
“Fonchito is the most normal boy in the world,” she assured them. “Too bad: He’s so charming I would have liked to keep him as a patient for a while. Each session with him has been a delight. He’s intelligent, sensitive, and for that very reason sometimes feels distant from his classmates. But this is absolutely normal. If you can be totally sure of anything, it’s that Edilberto Torres is no fantasy but a flesh-and-blood person, as real and concrete as the two of you and me. Fonchito hasn’t lied to you. Exaggerated things a little, perhaps. That’s what his rich imagination is for. He’s never taken his encounters with that gentleman as either heavenly or diabolical apparitions. Never! What nonsense. He’s a kid with his feet planted very firmly on the ground and his head in the right place. You’re the ones who have invented all this, and for that very reason you’re the ones who really need a psychologist. Shall I make you an appointment? I see not only children but also adults who suddenly begin to believe the devil exists and wastes his time walking the streets of Lima, Barranco, and Miraflores.”
Dr. Augusta Delmira Céspedes continued joking as she accompanied them to the door. When they said goodbye, she asked Don Rigoberto to show her his collection of erotic prints one day. “Fonchito told me it’s terrific” was her final joke. Rigoberto and Lucrecia left her office floundering in a sea of confusion.
“I told you that going to a psychologist was very dangerous,” Rigoberto reminded Lucrecia. “I don’t know why I ever listened to you. A psychologist can be more dangerous than the devil himself, I’ve known that ever since I read Freud.”
“Shame on you if you think we should joke about this the way Dr. Céspedes does,” Lucrecia said in self-defense. “I only hope you’re not sorry.”
“I don’t take it as a joke,” he replied, serious now. “I was happier thinking that Edilberto Torres didn’t exist. If what Dr. Céspedes says is true, and this person does exist and is pursuing Fonchito, tell me what the hell we’re supposed to do now.”