“Let me take care of two or three little things and then we’ll go and remember the days of the Unconquerables,” said José, giving him another pat on the back. “Sit down, Lituma. I’ll be free in no time. What a huge pleasure, brother.”
Lituma sat down in the chair again and from there he watched León examine papers on the desk, check some large books with the secretary, leave the office and walk around the shop, inspecting the mechanics’ work. He noticed how confident he seemed giving orders and greeting his employees, the ease with which he gave instructions or took care of questions. “Man, how you’ve changed, cousin,” he thought. It was difficult for him to reconcile the ragged José of his youth, running barefoot among the goats and burros of Mangachería, with this white owner of a large repair shop, who wore a suit and dress shoes in the middle of the day.
They went out, Lituma holding José’s arm, to a cafeteria-restaurant called Piura Linda. His cousin said their meeting called for a celebration and ordered beers. They toasted the old days and spent a long time nostalgically comparing their shared memories. Mono had been his partner in the repair shop when José first opened it. But then they’d had differences, and Mono left the business, though the two brothers were still very close and saw each other frequently. Mono was married and had three children. He’d worked a few years for the city and then opened a brickyard. It was doing well, many of the construction companies in Piura placed orders with him, especially now, when money was flowing in and new neighborhoods were going up. Every Piuran dreamed of owning a house, and it was terrific that good times had come. José couldn’t complain. It was difficult at first, there was a lot of competition, but gradually word spread about the quality of his service and now, in all modesty, his shop was one of the best in the city. He had more than enough work, thank God.
“In other words, you and Mono stopped being Unconquerables and Mangaches and turned into rich white men,” Lituma joked. “I’m the only one who’s still a poor beggar and will be a cop forever.”
“How long have you been here, Lituma? Why didn’t you look me up earlier?”
The sergeant lied, saying only a short while, and that the inquiries he’d made regarding José’s whereabouts had gone nowhere, and then he’d decided to take a walk around the old neighborhoods. That’s how he’d come face-to-face with Morropón 17. He never could have imagined that the sandy tracts with those crummy huts had turned into this. And with a first-rate auto repair shop!
“Times have changed, fortunately for the better,” José agreed. “These are good times for Piura and for Peru, cousin. I hope they last, knock wood.”
He’d married too, to a woman from Trujillo, but the marriage had been a disaster. They’d fought like cats and dogs and finally divorced. They had two daughters who lived with their mother in Trujillo. José went to see them from time to time, and they spent their vacations with him. They were at the university, the older one studying to be a dentist and the younger one a pharmacist.
“Congratulations, cousin. Both will be professionals, what luck.”
And then, when Lituma was getting ready to bring the pimp’s name up in conversation, José, as if reading his mind, beat him to it.
“Do you remember Josefino, cousin?”
“How could I forget a son of a bitch like him,” Lituma said with a sigh. And after a long pause, as if just making conversation, he asked, “Whatever happened to him?”
José shrugged and made a contemptuous face.
“I haven’t heard anything about him for years. He became a crook, you know. He lived off women, had little whores working for him, and went from bad to worse. Mono and I didn’t have much to do with him. He’d come by from time to time to put the touch on us, telling us stories about his ailments and the loan sharks who were threatening him. He even got involved in something really ugly — a crime of some kind. They accused him of being an accomplice or an accessory after the fact. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he turns up somewhere murdered by those hoodlums he liked so much. He’s probably rotting in some jail, who knows.”
“That’s true, he was drawn to crime, like a fly to honey,” said Lituma. “The fucker was born to be a crook. I don’t understand why we hooked up with him, cousin. Besides, he was a Gallinazo and we were Mangaches.”
And at that moment Lituma, who’d been looking at without really seeing the movements of one of his cousin’s hands on the table, saw that José was drawing lines with his thumbnail on the rough wooden surface covered with carved-in words, burns, and stains. Barely able to breathe, he focused his eyes and repeated to himself that he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t obsessed because what his cousin was doing, without realizing it, was tracing spiders with his nail. Yes, spiders, like the ones on the threatening anonymous letters Felícito Yanaqué had received. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t seeing things, damn it. Spiders, spiders. Fuck, fuck.
“Now we have one hell of a problem,” he murmured, hiding his agitation and indicating Avenida Sánchez Cerro. “You must know about it. You must have read the letter in El Tiempo from Felícito Yanaqué, the owner of Narihualá Transport to the guys who are trying to extort him.”
“The biggest balls in Piura,” his cousin exclaimed. His eyes shone with admiration. “I not only read that letter, like every other Piuran, but I cut it out, had it framed, and have it hanging on the wall in my office, cousin. Felícito Yanaqué is an example for all the asshole executives and business owners in Piura who bend over for the gangs and pay them protection money. I’ve known Don Felícito a long time. In the shop we do the repairs and tune-ups for Narihualá Transport’s buses and trucks. I wrote him a few lines congratulating him for his letter in El Tiempo.”
He poked Lituma with his elbow, pointing to the braid on his epaulets.
“You cops have an obligation to protect that guy, cousin. It would be a tragedy if the gangs sent a killer to take care of Don Felícito. You know they already burned down his place.”
The sergeant looked at him, nodding. So much indignation and admiration couldn’t be an act; he’d made a mistake, José hadn’t been drawing spiders with his nail, only lines. A coincidence, a fluke, like so many others. But at that moment his memory struck another blow; lighting everything so he could see it in the clearest, most obvious way, it reminded him, with a lucidity that made him tremble, that in fact, ever since they were kids, the one who was always drawing stars that looked like spiders, with a pencil, a twig, or a knife, was his cousin José, not Josefino the pimp. Of course, of course. It was José. Long before they even knew Josefino, José was always drawing. He and Mono often teased him about his obsession. Fuck, fuck.
“Let’s have lunch or dinner together soon and you’ll have a chance to see Mono, Lituma. What a kick he’ll get out of seeing you!”
“Me too, José. My best memories are Piuran, why deny it. When we hung out together, when we were the Unconquerables. The best time of my life, I think. Back then I was happy. The hard times came later. Besides, as far as I know, you and Mono are the only family I have left in the world. Whenever you want, you two tell me the date and I’ll be there.”
“Then lunch is better than dinner,” said José. “Rita, my sister-in-law, is incredibly jealous, she keeps an eye on Mono like you wouldn’t believe. She makes big scenes whenever he goes out at night. I even think she hits him.”
“Lunch, then, no problem.” Lituma felt so agitated that, afraid José might suspect what was whirling around in his head, he looked for an excuse to say goodbye.
He went back to the station distracted, confused, dazed, paying so little attention to where he was stepping that a fruit vendor’s tricycle almost knocked him down as he crossed at a corner. When he reached the station, Captain Silva understood his state of mind as soon as he saw him.