The Discreet Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa
Had his cousin José become nervous? Lituma, between yawns, noticed that José had started to make lines again on the surface of the table with the tip of his nail. He didn’t stare, to avoid fooling himself the way he had the other day when he thought he was drawing spiders.
“And why don’t you people do something, cousin?” Mono protested. “The Civil Guard, I mean. Don’t take offense, Lituma, but the police, here in Piura at least, are useless. They don’t do anything; they only take bribes.”
“Not just in Piura,” said Lituma, following his lead. “We’re useless all over Peru, cousin. But let me tell you that I, at least, in all the years I’ve been wearing this uniform, have never asked anybody for a single bribe. And that’s why I’m poorer than a beggar. But with Don Felícito, the truth is that the case isn’t moving forward because we’re very short on technology. The handwriting expert who was supposed to help us is on leave because they operated on his hemorrhoids. Imagine, the whole investigation held up because of one gentleman’s damaged ass.”
“Do you mean you still don’t have clues about the crooks?” insisted Mono. Lituma would have sworn that José was begging his brother with his eyes not to keep harping on the same subject.
“We have some clues, but nothing very certain,” the sergeant answered. “But sooner or later they’ll make a false move. The problem is that now, in Piura, it’s not one gang operating but several. But they’ll fall. They always do something wrong and end up giving themselves away. Unfortunately, so far they haven’t made any mistakes.”
He asked them again about Tiburcio and Miguelito, the trucker’s sons, and again he thought that José didn’t like the subject. At a certain point the brothers contradicted each other.
“We actually haven’t known them for very long,” José repeated from time to time.
“What do you mean not very long, it’s been six years at least,” Mono corrected him. “Don’t you remember the time when Tiburcio drove us to Chiclayo in one of his trucks? How long ago was that? A long time. When we tried to go into that business but it didn’t work out.”
“What business was that, cousin?”
“Selling agricultural machinery to the communities and cooperatives in the north,” said José. “The bastards never paid. They protested every bill of exchange. We lost almost everything we’d invested.”
Lituma didn’t insist. That night, after saying goodbye to Mono and José, thanking them for the meal, taking a jitney to his boardinghouse, and getting into bed, he lay awake for a long time thinking about his cousins. Especially José. Why did he have so many doubts about him? Was it just because he drew with his fingernail on the table? Or was there really something suspicious in his behavior? He’d started acting strangely, as if he were worried, every time Don Felícito’s sons came up. Or was this nothing but his own qualms about how lost the investigation was? Should he tell Captain Silva about his misgivings? Better to wait until it was all less insubstantial and something took shape.
But the first thing he did the next morning was to tell his boss everything. Captain Silva listened attentively, not interrupting him, taking notes in a tiny notebook with a pencil so small it disappeared between his fingers. When Lituma had finished, the captain murmured, “I don’t think there’s anything serious here. No clue to follow, Lituma. Your León cousins seem clean.” But he sat there brooding, silent, chewing on his pencil as if it were a cigarette. Suddenly, he made a decision. “You know what, Lituma? Let’s talk to Don Felícito’s sons again. From what you’ve told me, it seems we still haven’t gotten all the juice from those two. We’ll have to squeeze a little harder. Make an appointment with them for tomorrow, each one separately, of course.”
At that moment the guard at the entrance knocked on the cubicle door and his young, beardless face appeared in the opening: Señor Felícito Yanaqué was on the phone for the captain. It was extremely urgent. Lituma watched the chief pick up the old telephone receiver, heard him murmur, “Good morning, sir.” And he saw his face light up as if he’d just been told he’d won the lottery. “We’ll be right there,” he shouted and hung up.
“Mabel’s turned up, Lituma. She’s in her house in Castilla. Let’s go, run. Didn’t I tell you? They swallowed the story! They let her go!”
X
“This certainly is a surprise,” Father O’Donovan exclaimed when he saw Rigoberto come into the sacristy where the priest had just removed the chasuble he’d worn to celebrate eight o’clock Mass. “Fancy seeing you here, Ears. What a long time it’s been. I can’t believe it.”
He was tall and stout, a jovial bald man with kind eyes that sparkled behind tortoiseshell glasses. He seemed to take up all the space in the small room with its shabby, faded walls and chipped floor; daylight came in through a Theatine window hung with cobwebs.
They embraced with their old affection; they hadn’t seen each other for months, perhaps a year. In the Academy of La Recoleta, where they’d both been students from the first year of primary school to the fifth year of secondary school, they had been very good friends and for one year had even shared the same desk. Then, when both matriculated at the Universidad Católica to study law, they continued to see a good deal of each other. They joined Acción Católica, took the same courses, studied together. Until one fine day Pepín O’Donovan gave his friend Rigoberto the surprise of his life.
“Don’t tell me that your showing up here is because you’ve converted and have come to make your confession, Ears,” Father O’Donovan said mockingly, leading him by the arm to his small office in the church. He offered him a seat. There were bookcases, books, pamphlets, a crucifix, a photograph of the pope, and another of Pepín’s parents. A piece of the ceiling had fallen, revealing the mix of ditch reeds and clay with which it had been constructed. Was this church a colonial relic? It was in ruins and could collapse at any moment.
“I’ve come to see you because I need your help, it’s that simple.” Rigoberto dropped into the chair that creaked under his weight and exhaled, overwhelmed. Pepín was the only person who still called him by his school nickname: Ears. In his adolescence, it had made him self-conscious. Not now.
That morning in the cafeteria at the Universidad Católica, at the beginning of the second year of law school, when Pepín O’Donovan suddenly announced—as casually as if he were discussing a class in civil law and principles, or the last Clásico match between Alianza and the U—that they wouldn’t see each other for a while because he was leaving that night for Santiago de Chile to begin his novitiate, Rigoberto thought his friend was joking. “Do you mean you’re going to become a priest? Don’t kid around, man.” True, both had joined Acción Católica, but Pepín had never even hinted to Ears that he’d heard the call. What he was telling him now was no joke but a deeply considered decision made in solitude and silence, over many years. Rigoberto learned afterward that Pepín had faced many problems with his parents, that his family tried everything to dissuade him from entering the seminary.
“Yes, man, of course,” said Father O’Donovan. “If I can give you a hand, I’d be happy to, Rigoberto, that goes without saying.”
Pepín had never been one of those overly pious boys who took communion at every Mass at school, the ones the priests flattered and tried to convince that they had a vocation, that God had chosen them for the priesthood. He was the most normal boy in the world, athletic, fond of parties, mischievous, and for a time he’d even had a girlfriend, Julieta Mayer, a freckled volleyball player who studied at the Academy of Santa Úrsula. He fulfilled his obligations by going to Mass, like all the students at La Recoleta, and he’d been a fairly diligent member of Acción Católica, but as far as Rigoberto could recall, no more devout than the others and not especially interested in the talks dedicated to religious vocations. He didn’t even attend the retreats the priests organized from time to time at a country house they had in Chosica. No, it wasn’t a joke but an irreversible decision. He’d felt the call from the time he was a boy a
“It’s not about me,” Rigoberto explained, “it’s Fonchito. Lucrecia and I don’t know what to do with the boy, Pepín. He’s turning our hair gray, honestly.”
They’d continued to see each other with some frequency. Father O’Donovan married Rigoberto and Eloísa, his first wife, Fonchito’s late mother, and after he was widowed, Father O’Donovan also married him and Lucrecia in a small ceremony with only a handful of friends attending. He’d baptized Fonchito and occasionally visited the Barranco apartment, where he was received with great affection, to have lunch and listen to music. Rigoberto had helped him a few times with donations (his own and from the insurance company) for charitable work in the parish. When they saw each other, they tended to speak for the most part about music, which Pepín O’Donovan had always liked a great deal. From time to time Rigoberto and Lucrecia invited him to the concerts sponsored by the Philharmonic Society of Lima in the Santa Úrsula auditorium.
“Don’t worry, man, it’s probably nothing,” said Father O’Donovan. “At the age of fifteen, all the young people in the world have and make problems. And if they don’t, they’re fools. It’s normal.”
“The normal thing would be for him to get drunk, go out with easy girls, smoke some marijuana, do all the stupid things you and I did when we were teenagers,” said Rigoberto, in distress. “No, old man, that isn’t the route Fonchito’s taken. Instead, well, I know you’re going to laugh, but for some time now he’s gotten it into his head that he sees the devil.”
Father O’Donovan tried to control himself but couldn’t and burst into resounding laughter.
“I’m not laughing at Fonchito but at you,” he explained between gales of laughter. “At you, Ears, talking about the devil. That word sounds very strange in your mouth. It sounds dissonant.”
“I don’t know if he’s the devil, I never told you he is, I never used that word, I don’t know why you do, Papa,” Fonchito protested in a voice so faint that his father, in order not to miss a word he was saying, had to bend forward and bring his head close to the boy’s.
“All right, forgive me, son,” he apologized. “Just tell me one thing. I’m speaking to you very seriously, Fonchito. Do you feel cold each time Edilberto Torres appears? As if he’d brought an icy gust?”
“What silly things you’re saying, Papa.” Fonchito opened his eyes very wide, not sure whether to laugh or remain serious. “Are you kidding me or what?”
“Does he appear to him as the devil appeared to the famous Father Urraca, in the shape of a naked woman?” Father O’Donovan started to laugh again. “I suppose you’ve read that story by Ricardo Palma, Ears, it’s one of his most amusing.”
“Okay, it’s okay,” Rigoberto apologized again. “You’re right, you never told me this Edilberto Torres was the devil. I beg your pardon, I know I shouldn’t joke about this. The thing about the cold comes from a novel by Thomas Mann, where the devil appears to the main character, a composer. Forget my question. It’s just that I don’t know what to call this person, son. Someone who appears to you and disappears, who materializes in the most unexpected places, can’t be flesh and blood like you and me. Isn’t that so? I swear I’m not making fun of you. I’m speaking to you from the bottom of my heart. If he isn’t the devil, then he must be an angel.”
“Of course you’re making fun of me, Papa, don’t you see?” Fonchito protested. “I didn’t say he’s the devil or an angel either. I think he’s a person like you and me, flesh and blood, of course, and very normal. If you like, we can end this conversation now and never talk again about Señor Edilberto Torres.”
“It’s not a game, it doesn’t seem to be one,” said Rigoberto very seriously. Father O’Donovan had stopped laughing and now was listening attentively. “The boy, though he doesn’t say so, is completely changed by this. He’s another person, Pepín. He always had a healthy appetite, he was never a fussy eater, and now he barely takes a mouthful. He’s stopped playing sports, his friends come by for him and he invents excuses. Lucrecia and I have to push him to go outside. He’s become taciturn, introverted, reticent, and he was always so sociable and talkative. He’s constantly withdrawn, as if a great worry were eating him up inside. I no longer recognize my son. We took him to a psychologist who did all kinds of tests. And the diagnosis was that nothing’s wrong, that he’s the most normal child in the world. I swear to you we don’t know what else to do, Pepín.”
“If I were to tell you the number of people who believe they see visions, Rigoberto, you’d be flabbergasted,” said Father O’Donovan, attempting to reassure him. “Generally they’re old women. It’s more unusual among children. They have bad thoughts more than anything else.”
“Couldn’t you talk to him, old man?” Rigoberto was in no mood for jokes. “Counsel him? I mean, I don’t know. It was Lucrecia’s idea, not mine. She thinks maybe with you he could be more open than he is with us.”
“The last time was at the Larcomar Cineplex, Papa.” Fonchito had lowered his eyes and hesitated when he spoke. “Friday night, when Chato Pezzuolo and I went to see the new James Bond. I was caught up in the movie, having a terrific time, and suddenly, suddenly…”
“Suddenly what?” urged Don Rigoberto.
“Suddenly I saw him, sitting next to me,” said Fonchito, his head lowered and breathing deeply. “It was him, no doubt about it. I swear, Papa, there he was. Señor Edilberto Torres. His eyes were shining, and then I saw tears running down his cheeks. It couldn’t have been the movie, Papa, nothing sad was on the screen, everything was fighting, kissing, adventures. I mean, he was crying over something else. And then, I don’t know how to tell you this, but it occurred to me that he was so sad because of me. I mean, that he was crying because of me.”
“Because of you?” Rigoberto spoke with difficulty. “Why would that man cry for you, Fonchito? What in you could he feel sorry about?”
“I don’t know, Papa, I’m just guessing. But otherwise, why do you think he’d cry, sitting there beside me?”
“And when the movie was over and the lights went on, was Edilberto Torres still in the seat next to yours?” Rigoberto asked, knowing perfectly well what the answer would be.
“No, Papa. He was gone. I don’t know exactly when he got up and left. I didn’t see.”
“All right, fine, of course,” said Father O’Donovan. “I’ll talk to him as long as Fonchito wants to talk to me. But don’t try to force him. Don’t even think about obliging him to come here. Nothing like that. Let him come willingly, if he feels like it. So the two of us can talk like a couple of friends, present it to him like that. Don’t take this too seriously, Rigoberto. I’ll bet it’s just some kid’s nonsense.”
“I didn’t, at first,” Rigoberto said. “Lucrecia and I thought that since he’s a boy with a lot of imagination, he was inventing the story to make himself important, to keep us hanging on his words.”
“But does this Edilberto Torres exist or is he an invention?” asked Father O’Donovan.
“That’s what I’d like to know, Pepín, that’s why I’ve come to see you. So far I haven’t been able to find out. One day I think he does exist and the next day I think he doesn’t. Sometimes I think the boy’s telling me the truth, and other times I think he’s playing with us, foo
Rigoberto had never understood why Father O’Donovan, instead of pursuing teaching and an intellectual career as a scholar and theologian within the Church—he was erudite and sensitive, loved ideas and the arts, and read a great deal—had stubbornly confined himself to pastoral work in a very modest parish in Bajo el Puente, where the residents were uneducated as a rule, a world in which his talent seemed wasted. Once he had dared to ask him about it. “Why didn’t you write or give lectures, Pepín? Why didn’t you teach at the university, for example?” If there was anyone among his acquaintances who seemed to have a clear intellectual vocation, a passion for ideas, it was Pepín.
“Because I’m needed more in my parish in Bajo el Puente.” Pepín O’Donovan only shrugged. “Pastors are needed; there are more than enough intellectuals, Ears. You’re mistaken if you think it’s difficult for me to do what I do. Parish work interests me a great deal, it plunges me headfirst into real life. In libraries, one sometimes becomes too isolated from the everyday world, from ordinary people. I don’t believe in your spaces of civilization that set you apart from others and turn you into an anchorite, but we’ve already discussed this.”
He didn’t seem like a priest because he never touched on religious subjects with his old schoolmate; he knew that Rigoberto had stopped believing when he was in the university, but being friends with an agnostic didn’t seem to discomfit him in the least. On the few occasions he had lunch in the house in Barranco, after getting up from the table, he and Rigoberto would usually go into the study and play a CD, generally something by Bach, whose organ music Pepín O’Donovan loved.
“I was convinced he was making up all those appearances,” Rigoberto explained. “But this psychologist who saw Fonchito, Dr. Augusta Delmira Céspedes, you’ve heard of her, haven’t you? It seems she’s very well known. She made me doubt again. She told me and Lucrecia in no uncertain terms that Fonchito wasn’t lying, that he was telling the truth. That Edilberto Torres exists. She left us very confused, as you can imagine.”