The Neighborhood by Mario Vargas Llosa
How many tape recordings have you handed over to the Office of the Prosecutor and the investigative judge?
Thirty-seven. All the ones I recorded, including those where the recording is poor, almost inaudible. Of course, first I took on the responsibility for making a careful copy of those thirty-seven tapes, in case the ones I turned over to the Judicial Branch were lost.
Do you believe the judges will dare to make proper use of those recordings? Aren’t you afraid they might allege that testimony taped secretly, that is, illicitly, cannot be used to accuse the head of the Intelligence Service of murder?
That, of course, will be the argument the Doctor will use in his defense to impede being charged and sentenced for the murder of Rolando Garro. But he would have no basis for doing so. I have consulted with well-known attorneys in this regard, and all of them have said there is no juridical or moral basis for utilizing a shyster’s trick like that. Public opinion would be totally scandalized and the country wouldn’t permit it. In any case, if something like that did occur, it would demonstrate that the independence of the Judicial Branch doesn’t exist, and that the judges, like so many journalists, are nothing more than tools of the masters of Peru’s bodies and minds, which is what Fujimori and the Doctor have become.
When you went to see him, didn’t the soldiers or police who protected the Doctor search you first?
They searched me, very superficially, only the first time. But without touching my breasts, which was where I had hidden the small tape recorder. The other times, they let me pass without any checking. Otherwise, I was forbidden to see him if he hadn’t called me. Each time I saw him, except the first time in the bunker he constructed on the southern beaches, it was in his office at the Intelligence Service.
Aren’t you afraid of suffering an opportune accident, for example being run over by a car or truck, or having your food poisoned, or having them pick a fight with you on the street and knifing you, et cetera?
I take every precaution I can, of course. But you shouldn’t forget that at this moment, the regime of Fujimori and the Doctor no longer has all of Peru on its knees. Opposition to the dictatorship has gained strength, every day there are meetings against Fujimori’s insistence on having himself elected for the third time, and it’s obvious he would achieve this only by means of a monstrous fraud. The defenders of human rights are going to wash the Peruvian flag every day at the doors of Government Palace. In general, because of these new circumstances, the media are less servile and submissive, and some dare to criticize the regime openly—Fujimori and especially the Doctor, head of repression, censorship, and assassinations. Let us hope that this context of opposition increases and sends the Doctor to the dock, and then to prison. For me, the great danger is that he’ll flee first to another country, where he and Fujimori keep all the millions they have stolen.
Do you think that Exposed will survive this latest scandal or will the Doctor take charge of closing it down forever?
I hope it continues to live, now on its own responsibility and risk, without gifts from the regime. I’ll do the impossible, with the help of my valiant collaborators, to keep the killers of Rolando Garro from also killing our weekly. In our defense, we count on public opinion, and the longing for justice and freedom. We have confidence in our readers.
(See the inside pages for the photographs that Ceferino Argüello, the photographer for Exposed, took of our editor, Julieta Leguizamón, and the recorder hidden between her breasts, helping to hold it in place with her bra, which bears witness to the crime ordered by the Intelligence Service.)
(See the inside pages for the biography of the notable journalist Rolando Garro; all that is known of the adventurist and criminal life of the Doctor, the head of the Intelligence Service; and the shameful dictatorship suffered by Peru.)
(Also see, in the center pages, a summary of “The Scandal of the Photos of the Orgy in Chosica” and the sad history of the well-known bard and reciter Juan Peineta, forced by those responsible for the Rolando Garro crime to declare himself guilty, and then sent to an old-age home where, because of his senile dementia, he has been able to live all this time without even being aware of the drama of which he has been the innocent, unconscious victim. Also see the survey carried out by our weekly in which 90 percent of those consulted believe that Juan Peineta should be pardoned, because they doubt that in his physical and mental state he could have committed the crime for which he was condemned.)
22
Happy Ending?
“I can’t get it out of my head that Luciano knows, darling,” Quique said suddenly, and Marisa, who was beside him in bed, leafing through the latest Caretas, gave a little start.
“He doesn’t know, Quique,” she declared, sitting up against the pillows and turning toward her husband. “Get that damn idea out of your head once and for all.”
Quique, who had been reading a book by Antony Beevor about the Second World War, placed the heavy volume on the night table and looked at his wife with a worried face that he hadn’t had until that instant.
It was a sunny Sunday morning, and summer had finally really begun in Lima. They had woken early with the idea of spending the day in the little beach house they had in La Honda and having lunch there with friends, but after breakfast they had decided suddenly to go back to bed to read and have a quiet morning. Perhaps they’d go to a good restaurant later for lunch.
“It’s just that he isn’t the same, Marisa,” Quique insisted. “I’ve been observing him for some time. He’s changed, I assure you. He keeps up appearances, of course, as a gentleman should. Because that’s how he is. Would you like to know how long it’s been since we’ve had lunch or dinner together? Two months. Has so much time ever gone by without the four of us going out for dinner or lunch?”
“If Luciano knew, he would have stopped speaking to us, Quique. As conservative as he is, he’s capable of challenging you to a duel,” said Marisa. “And he would have left Chabela immediately. Do you think he would stay with her after finding out that his wife made love to both you and me?”
Marisa had an attack of laughter, blushed like a girl, and, turning on her side, curled up against her husband. His hands caressed her naked body, going under her light silk nightgown.
“Yes, yes, it’s what I tell myself, too, to reassure myself, darling,” Quique whispered in her ear, slowly nibbling her lobe. “The way he is, Luciano would have fought us to the death and no doubt would have divorced Chabela. And taken the girls away from her as well.”
Suddenly Quique felt that Marisa was holding his penis. But not with love; she was squeezing it, as if she wanted to hurt him.
“Listen, listen, that hurts, darling.”
“If I found out that you saw Chabela alone, that you fucked her behind my back, I swear I’d cut this off the way Lorena Bobbitt cut off her husband’s,” said Marisa, pretending to be furious; her blue eyes were flashing. “You remember the story of Lorena Bobbitt, don’t you? That Ecuadorean who castrated her gringo husband with a knife and became a heroine to Hispanics in the United States.”
“Are you really thinking about that?” Quique said with a laugh, taking her hand and moving it away. “That I could be seeing Chabela behind your back? You’re crazy, darling. I like what the three of us do together. It excites me to see the two of you make love. And afterward to fall on you like a heavy rain.”
“Well, the last time you fell only on Chabela, you wretch, and left me high and dry.”
Quique turned and embraced Marisa. He gave her a long kiss on the mouth, pressing her against his body:
“Are you making a scene with me over Chabela?” he murmured happily, trying to take off her nightgown. “You’ve gotten me all excited, Blondie.”
She moved him away, laughing. Her blond hair was tousled, and to Quique her long neck seemed even softer and whiter than her cheeks and forehead.
“I don’t know if it’s jealousy, Quique,” she said, curling up against him again. “It??
“Yes, yes, just the same,” said Quique, putting his arm around Marisa’s shoulders. “Especially when I see the two of you entangled, sucking each other. I feel as if suddenly you had expelled me and I’m left an orphan. It makes me angry, too. But the truth is, Marisa, ever since this story began, our sex life has been greatly enriched, hasn’t it? Don’t you agree?”
“That’s absolutely true,” Marisa agreed. “Soon it will be three years since that first time the three of us were together, there in Miami. Do you remember? We have to celebrate. The other day Chabela and I were talking about it. She was insisting that we do it right there, in her apartment on Brickell Avenue.”
“Three years,” Quique recalled, moved. “Everything that’s happened since then, right, darling? Of all the things that have happened to us, do you know the only one that matters to me? That since then, I love you more than ever. Now our marriage has really become unbreakable. Thanks to everything we went through, now I live madly in love with the marvelous woman I was lucky enough to marry.”
He turned and kissed Marisa on her lips.
“It’s incredible,” she said. “Who could have imagined that terrorism would disappear, that Fujimori and the Doctor would be in prison, that Abimael Guzmán and the other one, the one from the other group, what’s that man’s name—”
“Víctor Polay, of the MRTA,” said Quique. “They’re the ones who kidnapped and killed poor Cachito. I hope that gang rots in jail for that savage piece of cruelty. By the way, don’t be so optimistic. Terrorism hasn’t disappeared completely. There are still groups at large in the jungle. And the army can’t manage to finish them off.”
“And what if Chabela had told Luciano everything and he’d gotten excited over the story too?” Marisa laughed to see how what she’d said made Quique turn pale and filled his eyes with fear. “I’m joking, silly, don’t be afraid.”
“It’s just that sometimes I get the same idea,” said Quique. “It’s impossible, isn’t it? With Luciano, absolutely impossible. But always, deep down, the doubt remains. Sometimes he looks at me in a way that makes me start to tremble, Marisa. And I say to myself: ‘He knows. Of course he knows.’”
“Chabela has sworn he doesn’t even have the slightest suspicion,” said Marisa. “Luciano is so pure, so much a gentleman, he can’t even imagine that anyone could do what you and I do with Chabela.”
They were interrupted by the telephone vibrating on Marisa’s night table. She picked up the speaker. “Hello?” Quique saw her smile from ear to ear. “Hello, Luciano. What a surprise. Fine, fine, but missing you, we haven’t seen you for so long, Lucianito. Yes, of course, always so busy, just like Quique. Life can’t be all work, Luciano. We have to have a little fun, too, don’t we? Lunch? Today?” (Quique signaled yes.) “The four of us? Great idea, Luciano. Quique’s right here, he says he’d love to. Terrific, let’s go there, then. How’s two o’clock, what do you think? Fantastic. And afterward we could see a movie in that little private cinema you’ve built yourself. All right? Great! Kiss Chabela for me, and see you soon.”
Marisa hung up the phone and turned to her husband with a triumphant expression; her blue eyes were flashing.
“You see, you were just being apprehensive, Quique,” she exclaimed. “Luciano was very loving. He thought about our having lunch together because they ordered some very fresh corvina and are going to make a ceviche. And we never see one another and that can’t be…”
“Just as well, just as well,” Quique said gaily. “Just my foolish ideas. I must have a bad conscience over what we’re doing, that’s the explanation. What good news, darling. I’m very fond of Luciano. He’s my best friend and I’ve always admired him, as you know. What’s happened with Chabela hasn’t lessened the affection I feel for him at all.”
“Do you know what you are, Quique?” Marisa said with a laugh. “An out-and-out cynic, my dear husband. The most cunning man the world has ever seen. You’re very fond of him and he’s your best friend, but you don’t hesitate a second to deceive him with his wife.”
“It’s your fault, not mine,” he said, embracing Marisa and lying on top of her. He spoke into her ear while he caressed her body and rubbed against her. “You corrupted me, darling. Weren’t you the one who invented all this?”
“I was never in a partouze like that one in Chosica,” she said into his ear. “So we’ll have to decide who corrupted whom.”
“I’ve asked you so often not to talk anymore about what happened in Chosica.” His voice changed as he moved away from his wife, and turned his back on her again. “You see, I was hot, I was going to make love to you, and with that joke about Chosica you left me as cold as an iceberg. A stab in the back, Marisita.”
“I was joking, silly, don’t be sad, this morning you were nicer than other days.”
“I beg you, Marisa,” he repeated, very seriously. “One more time. Let’s never talk again about that damn story. I implore you.”
“All right, darling, forgive me. Never again, I swear.” Marisa brought her face close to his and kissed him on the cheek. She tousled his hair, playing. “Do you know you’re the most contradictory person in the world, Quique?”
“Why?” he asked. “How am I contradictory?”
“You don’t want me to remind you even in a joke about Chosica, and every night you watch that ridiculous program with that vulgar little woman.”
Quique broke into laughter.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re jealous of Julieta Leguizamón and Shorty’s Hour.”
“Jealous of that awful midget? Of course not,” Marisa protested. “But you, you must hate her. Didn’t she accuse you of having had Rolando Garro murdered? Wasn’t it because of her that you had to spend those horrible days in prison with bandits and degenerates? How can you see her and listen every night to all her revolting gossip? You should be ashamed, Quique.”
“Shorty’s Hour is the most popular program on Peruvian television.” Her husband shrugged. “Yes, yes, I know, it’s gossip and pretensions, you’re right. I wouldn’t know how to explain it, I don’t have a convincing answer for you. To me there’s something fascinating in that woman in spite of what she did to me.”
“That midget, who’s as ugly as a bogeyman, is fascinating?” Marisa said, mocking him.
“Fascinating, yes, Blondie,” said Quique. “She accused me because, like practically everybody else, she believed I’d had Rolando Garro killed because of the scandal he got me involved in. But afterward, when she found out that the real murderer was Fujimori’s right arm, she denounced him, too, risking her life. And don’t forget, that accusation was key in the downfall of the dictatorship. Fujimori, the Doctor, and company will rot in prison for who knows how many years because of that woman. They didn’t have her killed, as many of us thought they would. She’s still here. She was nobody and now she’s a real star of Peruvian television. She must be making a fortune, in spite of being, as you say, an ugly little midget. Don’t you think it’s a fascinating story?”
“I’ve never been able to stand the pretensions of her program for even five minutes.” Marisa made a gesture of disgust. “All that gossip about poor people. Can you imagine if she found out what we do? She’d dedicate an entire program to us: ‘The happy, perverse trio,’ I can see it now. Just thinking about it makes my hair stand on end. Well, let’s not be late. I’m going to shower and get dressed for lunch.”
Quique watched her jump out of bed and go into the bathroom. He passed his eyes over the painting by Szyszlo: What did that room, that totem mean? At certain times it seemed to shoot out flames. Sometimes it frightened him a little to look at it. On the other hand, Tilsa??
Quique brushed his teeth, shaved, and showered. After soaping himself, when he was rinsing off under the stream of water, he realized that he was humming a song by John Lennon. He remembered: the tune had been very popular when he was studying in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at MIT. “You, singing in the shower?” he asked himself. “That’s a first, Enrique Cárdenas.” He was happy. The invitation from Luciano had put him in a good humor. He was very fond of him, really, he’d always had great affection for him. And the truth was that in these three years, he’d often felt remorse whenever he and Marisa went to bed with Chabela. In spite of that, it never occurred to him to cut off that relationship. He derived immense pleasure from their making love together. “A strange story,” he kept thinking as he chose from the large closet the sports clothes he would wear to Luciano’s house: loafers, linen trousers, the Texan red-and-white checked polo shirt that Marisa had bought him on her last trip to the United States, and a light jacket.