The Discreet Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa
“I see you don’t know who I am, cousin,” said Lituma. “Have I changed that much?”
José’s face broke into a broad smile.
“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, holding out his arms as well. “Lituma! What a surprise, brother. After so many years, hey waddya think.”
They embraced, patted each other’s backs under the astonished gazes of the secretary and the workers. They scrutinized each other, smiling and effusive.
“Do you have time for a coffee, cousin?” Lituma asked. “Or would you prefer to get together later or tomorrow?”
“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 s
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.
“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.
They were twins but looked nothing alike except for their height, athletic bodies, and bad habits. Did they spend hours in the gym of the Club de Villa or the Regatas Club, exercising and lifting weights? How to reconcile those muscl
“Don’t you miss the office now that all your time is free, uncle?” asked Miki.
“The truth is I don’t, nephew. I read a great deal, listen to good music, lose myself for hours in my art books. I’ve always liked painting more than insurance, as Ismael must have told you. Now I can finally devote a great deal of my time to it.”
“What a library you have here, uncle,” Escobita exclaimed, indicating the orderly shelves in the adjacent study. “Damn, that’s a lot of books! Have you read them all?”
“Well, not yet, not all of them.” (“This one’s stupider,” he decided.) “Some are reference books, like the dictionaries and encyclopedias in this corner. But my theory is that there’s more chance of reading a book if you have it at home than if it’s in a bookstore.”
The two brothers, disconcerted, kept looking at him, no doubt wondering whether he’d made a joke or was serious.
“With so many art books it’s like you’ve brought to your study here all the museums in the world,” declared Miki, putting on the face of an astute and learned man. “And this way you can visit them without bothering to leave your house. That’s really convenient.”
“When you’re as imbecilic as this biped, you become intelligent,” Rigoberto thought. It was impossible to know which he was: six of one, half a dozen of the other. A heavy, interminable silence had settled over the living room, and to hide the tension, the three of them looked toward the study. “The time has come,” Rigoberto thought. He experienced a slight feeling of alarm but was curious to know what would happen. He felt absurdly protected because he was on his own territory, surrounded by his books and etchings.