“Don’t add to the headaches I already have, Lituma,” he warned, standing up at his desk so violently that the cubicle shook. “What the hell’s wrong with you now? Who died?”
“What’s died is the suspicion that it was Josefino Rojas who drew the spiders,” Lituma stammered, taking off his kepi and wiping away sweat with his handkerchief. “Now it turns out that the suspect isn’t the pimp but my cousin José León. One of the Unconquerables I told you about, Captain.”
“Are you kidding me, Lituma?” the disconcerted captain exclaimed. “Just explain to me how I’m supposed to swallow that shit you just said.”
The sergeant sat down, trying to make the breeze from the fan blow directly into his face. In complete detail he recounted everything that had happened to him that morning.
“In other words, now it’s your cousin José who draws spiders with his fingernails.” The captain was angry. “And on top of that, he’s so hopelessly dumb he betrays himself in front of a police sergeant, knowing very well that all of Piura is talking about the spiders of Felícito Yanaqué and Narihualá Transport. I can see your brains have been completely fried, Lituma.”
“I’m not sure he was drawing spiders with his nails,” his subordinate apologized, filled with remorse. “I might be wrong about that too. Please forgive me. I’m not sure about anything anymore, Captain, not even the ground I walk on. Yes, you’re right. It’s bedlam in my head, like a stewpot full of crickets.”
“A stewpot full of spiders, you mean.” The captain laughed. “And now, look who’s here. The only piece missing. Good morning, Señor Yanaqué. Come in, come in.”
Lituma knew right away from the trucker’s face that something serious had happened: Another letter from the gang? Felícito was ashen, dark circles under his eyes, his mouth half open in an idiotic expression, his eyes dilated with fear. He’d just removed his hat and his hair was messy, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. He, who was always so elegantly dressed, had buttoned the first button of his vest into the second buttonhole. His appearance was ridiculous, careless, clownish. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t respond to the greeting but took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the captain, his hand trembling. He looked smaller and more fragile than ever, almost like a midget.
“Fuck,” muttered the chief, taking the letter and beginning to read aloud:
Dear Señor Yanaqué:
We told you your obstinacy and your challenge in El Tiempo would have unpleasant consequences. We told you you’d regret your refusal to be reasonable and reach an understanding with those who wish only to provide protection for your business and security for your family. We’re as good as our word. We have one of your loved ones and will keep that individual until you relent and come to an agreement with us.
Even though we know you have the bad habit of going to the police with your complaints, as if that would be of any use, we assume that this time, for your own good, you’ll be more discreet. It’s in no one’s interest for it to be known that we have this person, above all if you’re interested in her not suffering as the result of another of your imprudent acts. This matter should remain between us and be resolved quietly and quickly.
Since you like to make use of the press, place a notice in El Tiempo, giving thanks to the Captive Lord of Ayabaca for performing the miracle you asked for. Then we’ll know you’ve agreed to the conditions we proposed to you. And the person in question will immediately return safe and sound to her house. Otherwise, you may never hear from her again.
May God keep you.
Though he hadn’t seen it, Lituma could guess at the spider signature on the letter.
“Who have they kidnapped, Señor Yanaqué?” Captain Silva asked.
“Mabel,” the trucker said, choking. Lituma saw that the little man’s eyes were wet and fat tears were running down his cheeks.
“Sit here, Don Felícito.” The sergeant offered him his chair and helped him into it.
The trucker sat and covered his face with his hands. He wept slowly, silently. His weak body was shaken by sudden tremors. Lituma felt sorry for him. Poor man, now those sons of bitches had found the way to soften him up. It wasn’t right, what an injustice.
“I can assure you of one thing, sir.” The captain also seemed to be moved by what was happening to Felícito Yanaqué. “They’re not going to touch a hair on your friend’s head. They want to frighten you, that’s all. They know it’s not a good idea for them to harm Mabel in any way, that the person in their hands is untouchable.”
“Poor girl,” Felícito Yanaqué stammered, between hiccups. “It’s my fault, I got her into this. What’s going to happen to her? My God, I’ll never forgive myself.”
Lituma saw Captain Silva’s plump face, with its shadow of a beard, moving from pity to anger and back to compassion. He watched him stretch out his arm, pat Don Felícito’s shoulder, and, bringing his head forward, say firmly, “I swear to you by the thing I hold most holy, which is the memory of my mother, that nothing’s going to happen to Mabel. She’ll be returned to you safe and sound. By my blessed mother, I’m going to solve this case and those sons of bitches are going to pay dearly. I never make vows like this, Don Felícito. You’re a man with serious balls, everybody in Piura says so. Don’t go soft on us now, for the sake of all you hold dear.”
Lituma was impressed. What the chief said was true: He never made vows like the one he’d just made. He felt his spirits rising: He’d do it, they’d do it. They’d catch them. Those shits would be sorry they’d done anything so low to this poor man.
“I won’t weaken now or ever,” the trucker stammered, wiping his eyes.
VIII
Miki and Escobita arrived right on time, at exactly eleven in the morning. Lucrecia opened the door for them herself, and they kissed her on the cheek. Then, when they were sitting in the living room, Justiniana came in to ask what they would like to drink. Miki asked for an espresso cut with milk and Escobita a glass of sparkling mineral water. It was a gray morning, and low clouds passed over the dark green, foam-flecked ocean in Lima bay. Out at sea some small fishing boats were visible. Ismael Carrera’s sons wore dark suits, ties, handkerchiefs in their breast pockets, and glittering Rolex watches on their wrists. When they saw Rigoberto come in they rose to their feet: “Hello, uncle.” “Damn stupid custom,” thought the master of the house. He didn’t know why, but he was exasperated by the fashion, widespread for some years among Lima’s younger generation, of calling family acquaintances and older people “uncle” or “aunt,” inventing a kinship that didn’t exist. Miki and Escobita shook his hand and smiled, displaying cordiality too effusive to be true. “How well you’re looking, Uncle Rigoberto,” “Retirement agrees with you, uncle,” “You look I don’t know how many years younger than the last time we saw you.”
“You have a nice view from here,” Miki finally said, indicating the seawall and the Barranco ocean. “When it’s clear you must be able to see all the way from La Punta to Chorrillos, isn’t that right, uncle?”
“And I also see and am seen by all the hang gliders and paragliders who brush against the windows as they go by,” Rigoberto agreed. “Any day now a gust of wind will blow one of those intrepid fliers right inside our house.”
His “nephews” greeted the joke with exaggerated laughter. “They’re more nervous than I am,” Rigoberto told himself in surprise.