He threw the butt into the river and began to laugh out loud, scratching at his armpits.
Lituma had taken off his kepi and was smoothing down his hair.
“Either I’m dumber than I look or you’re a genius, Captain,” he declared, demoralized. “Or crazier than a coot, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Better believe I’m a genius, Lituma, and besides, I know all about people’s psychology,” the exultant captain assured him. “I’ll make you a prediction, if you like. The day we arrest those thugs, which will happen very soon, as there’s a God in heaven I’ll fuck my darling Señora Josefita up the ass and break her cherry and keep her shrieking all night long. Hooray for life, damn it!”
XII
“Did you find poor Narciso?” asked Señora Lucrecia. “What happened to him?”
Don Rigoberto nodded and collapsed, exhausted, in a chair in the living room of his house.
“A real odyssey,” he said, sighing. “Ismael did us no favor by involving us in his troubles in bed and with his children, my love.”
The relatives of Narciso, Ismael Carrera’s driver, had made an appointment to meet Rigoberto at the first gas station at the entrance to Chincha, and he drove on the highway for two hours to get there, but when he arrived no one was waiting for him. He spent a long time in the sun watching trucks and buses go by and swallowing the dust that a hot wind from the sierra blew into his face, and when he’d had enough and was tired and ready to go back to Lima, a little black boy appeared and said he was Narciso’s nephew. Very dark-skinned and barefoot, he had large, effusive, conspiratorial eyes. He spoke in such a roundabout way that Don Rigoberto barely understood what he was trying to tell him. Finally, it became clear that there had been a change of plan: his uncle Narciso was waiting for Rigoberto in Grocio Prado, in the doorway of the same house where the Blessed Melchorita (the boy crossed himself when he said her name) had lived, performed miracles, and died. Another half hour of driving on a dusty road filled with potholes, which ran between vineyards and small farms that grew fruit for export. In the doorway of the house-museum-sanctuary of the Blessed One, on the Plaza de Grocio Prado, Ismael’s driver finally appeared.
“Half in disguise, wearing a kind of poncho and a penitent’s hood so that nobody would recognize him and, of course, dying of fear,” Don Rigoberto recalled with a smile. “That black man was white with panic, Lucrecia. And really, it’s no wonder. The hyenas hound him day and night, it’s worse than I’d imagined.”
First they’d sent a lawyer, that is, a fast-talking shyster, to try to bribe him. If he appeared before the judge and said he’d been coerced into being a witness at his employer’s wedding and, in his opinion, Señor Ismael Carrera hadn’t been in his right mind on the day he married, they’d give him a gratuity of twenty thousand soles. When he replied that he’d think about it but in principle preferred not to have dealings with the judiciary or anyone in the government, the police showed up at his family’s house in Chincha with a summons. The twins had filed a complaint against him for complicity in several crimes, among them conspiracy and the abduction of his boss!
“All he could do was hide again,” Rigoberto continued. “Fortunately, Narciso has friends and relatives all over Chincha. And it’s lucky for Ismael that he’s the most upright and loyal fellow in the world. In spite of how frightened he is, I doubt those two thugs are going to break him. I paid him his salary and gave him a little extra, just in case, for anything unforeseen. This business gets more complicated every day, my love.”
Don Rigoberto stretched and yawned in the easy chair in the living room, and while Doña Lucrecia prepared lemonade, he stared at the ocean of Barranco for a long time. It was a windless afternoon and several hang gliders were in the air. One passed by so close he could clearly see his head encased in a helmet. Damn mess, happening now when he was supposed to begin a retirement he thought would be dedicated to rest, art, and travel — that is, to pure pleasure. Things never worked out as planned: It was a rule with no exceptions. “I never imagined my friendship with Ismael would turn out to be so onerous,” he thought. “Much less that I’d have to sacrifice my small piece of civilization for it.” If the sun had been out, this would have been Lima’s magical time. A few minutes of absolute beauty. The fiery ball would sink into the sea on the horizon behind the islands of San Lorenzo and El Frontón, burning up the sky, turning the clouds pink, and for a few minutes putting on a show, both serene and apocalyptic, that signaled the onset of night.
“What did you say to him?” Doña Lucrecia asked, sitting beside him. “Poor Narciso, what he’s gotten himself into for being so decent to his employer.”
“I tried to reassure him,” recounted Don Rigoberto, tasting the lemonade with pleasure. “I told him not to be frightened, that nothing would happen to him or me because we’d been witnesses, that there was absolutely no crime in what we did. And that Ismael would win this battle with the hyenas. That Escobita and Miki’s campaign, the fuss they were making, didn’t have the slightest basis in law. That if he wanted more reassurance, he should consult a lawyer in Chincha whom he trusted and send me the bill. In short, I did everything I could. He’s a very honorable man and I repeat: Those thugs won’t be able to control him. But they certainly are giving him a very hard time.”
“And us too, aren’t they?” Doña Lucrecia complained. “I tell you, ever since this joke began, I’m even afraid to go out. Everybody asks me about the couple, as if it were the only thing Limeños cared about. Everybody I see looks like a reporter. You can’t imagine how much I hate them when I hear and read all the foolishness and lies they write.”
“She’s frightened too,” thought Don Rigoberto. His wife smiled at him, but he could detect a fleeting glimmer in her eyes and saw the uneasy way she was constantly wringing her hands. Poor Lucrecia. Not only had the European trip she’d so looked forward to been canceled but, on top of everything else, there was this scandal. And old man Ismael was still on his honeymoon in Europe, staying out of touch, while in Lima his boys were making life impossible for Narciso, for him, and for Lucrecia; they had even thrown the insurance company into an uproar.
“What is it, Rigoberto?” Lucrecia asked with some surprise. “The man who laughs alone is thinking of his evil deeds.”
“I’m laughing at Ismael,” Rigoberto explained. “He’s been on his honeymoon for a month. And he’s over eighty! I’ve confirmed it, he’s an octogenarian, not a septuagenarian. Chapeau! Do you see, Lucrecia? All that Viagra will eat up his brains, and the hyenas’ accusation that he’s soft in the head will turn out to be true. Armida must be a wild animal. She’ll drain him dry!”
“Don’t be vulgar, Rigoberto.” His wife laughed and pretended to admonish him.
“She knows how to make the best of a bad time,” Rigoberto thought tenderly. Over the past few days, while the twins’ campaign of intimidation had filled their house with judicial and police citations and bad news — the worst: they’d managed to tie up his retirement process with some legal dirty tricks — Lucrecia hadn’t shown the least sign of weakness. She’d supported him body and soul in his decision not to give in to the hyenas’ extortion and remain loyal to his employer and friend.
“The one thing that bothers me,” said Lucrecia, reading his mind, “is that Ismael hasn’t even called or dropped us a line. Doesn’t that seem strange to you? Can he really not know about the headaches he’s giving us? Doesn’t he realize what poor Narciso is going through?”