Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

Finally, Captain Silva took a clipping of the El Tiempo notice out of his pocket.

“You must have been crazy when you published this, Don Felícito,” he said, half in jest, half seriously. “Didn’t it occur to you that this kind of hotheaded act could get your throat slit or put a bullet in the back of your neck?”

“It wasn’t a hotheaded act, I thought about it a lot before I did it,” the trucker explained gently. “I wanted those sons of bitches to know once and for all that they won’t get a cent out of me. They can burn down this house, all my trucks, buses, and jitneys. Even knock off my wife and children if they want. Not one fuckin’ cent!”

Small and steadfast, he said this without exaggeration or anger, his hands quiet, his glance firm, his determination serene.

“I believe you, Don Felícito,” the distressed captain agreed. And he got to the point: “The thing is, without wanting to, without realizing it, you’ve gotten us into one enormous jam. Colonel Rascachucha, our regional chief, called the station this morning about the notice. Do you know why? Tell him, Lituma.”

“To tell us to go to hell and call us morons and losers, sir,” the sergeant explained sorrowfully.

Felícito Yanaqué laughed. For the first time since he’d begun to receive the spider letters, he was in a good mood.

“That’s what the two of you are, Captain,” he murmured with a smile. “I’m so glad your boss told you off. Is that word really his name? Cuntscratcher?”

Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva laughed too, uneasily.

“Of course not, that’s his nickname,” the chief explained. “His real name is Colonel Asundino Ríos Pardo. I don’t know how he got that moniker or who gave it to him. He’s a good officer, but he swears a lot. He doesn’t put up with any nonsense, he’ll curse out anybody for the least little thing.”

“You’re wrong to think we haven’t taken your complaint seriously, Señor Yanaqué,” Sergeant Lituma interjected.

“We had to wait until the crooks revealed themselves before we could act,” the captain went on with sudden energy. “Now that they have, we’re taking care of business.”

“That’s cold comfort to me,” said Felícito Yanaqué, frowning annoyance. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but as far as I’m concerned, nobody’s going to give me back the business they burned down.”

“Doesn’t your insurance take care of damages?”

“It ought to, but they’re giving me a hard time. They claim that only the vehicles were insured, not the premises. Dr. Castro Pozo, my lawyer, says maybe we’ll have to go to court. Which means I lose either way. And that’s that.”

“Don’t you worry, Don Felícito,” the captain said, calming him with a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll catch them. Sooner or later, we’ll catch them. Word of honor. We’ll keep you up to date. We’ll say goodbye now. And please give my best to Señora Josefita, that beautiful secretary of yours.”

It was true that from that day on, the police began to show signs of diligence. They questioned all the drivers and clerks at Narihualá Transport. They kept Miguel and Tiburcio, Felícito’s two sons, at the station for several hours, subjecting them to a barrage of questions the boys couldn’t always answer. And they even hounded Lucindo to identify the voice of the person who asked him to tell Don Felícito his business was on fire. The blind man swore he’d never heard the voice before. But in spite of all this activity by the police, the trucker felt depressed and skeptical. Deep down he had the feeling they’d never catch the extortionists. They’d keep after him, and then it would suddenly end in tragedy. Still, these gloomy thoughts didn’t make him yield an inch in his resolve not to give in to their threats or attacks.

What depressed him most was the conversation with Colorado Vignolo, his compadre, colleague, and competitor, who came looking for him one morning at Narihualá Transport, where Felícito had set up an improvised office — a board on two oil barrels — in a corner of the garage. From there he could see the shambles of scorched corrugated iron, walls, and furniture the fire had turned his old office into. The flames had even destroyed part of the roof. Through the open space a piece of high, blue sky was visible. Just as well it rarely rained in Piura, except in El Niño years. Colorado Vignolo was very troubled.

“You shouldn’t have done this, compadre,” he said as he embraced him and showed him a clipping from El Tiempo . “How could you risk your life like this? You’re always so calm about everything, Felícito. What got into you this time? What are friends for, hey waddya think? If you’d consulted me, I wouldn’t have let you do anything so dumb.”

“That’s why I didn’t consult you, compadre. I figured you’d tell me not to place the notice.” Felícito pointed at the ruins of his old office. “I had to respond somehow to the people who did this to me.”

They went to have coffee in a dive that had recently opened at the corner of Plaza Merino and Calle Tacna, next to a Chinese restaurant. It was dark, and numerous flies circled in the gloom. From there you could see the dusty almond trees in the little square and the weathered façade of the Church of the Virgen del Carmen. There were no other customers, and they could talk openly.

“It’s never happened to you, compadre?” Felícito asked. “You never had one of those letters, demanding money?”

He was surprised to see that Colorado Vignolo had a strange expression on his face; he seemed to be in a daze and for a moment didn’t know how to answer. There was a guilty gleam in his hooded eyes; he blinked incessantly and avoided looking at his friend.

“Compadre, don’t tell me you…” Felícito stammered, squeezing his friend’s arm.

“I’m no hero and don’t want to be one,” Colorado Vignolo replied in a quiet voice. “So yes, I am telling you. I pay them a small amount every month. And though I can’t prove it, I can tell you that all or almost all the transport companies in Piura make those payments too. It’s what you should have done instead of being reckless and confronting them. We all thought you were paying too, Felícito. What a foolish thing you’ve done. I can’t understand it and none of our colleagues can either. Have you lost your mind? My friend, you don’t get into fights you can’t win.”

“It’s hard to believe you’d bend over for those sons of bitches,” Felícito said sadly. “I swear I can’t wrap my mind around it. You always seemed like such a tough guy.”

“It’s not much, a small sum that’s included in general expenses.” Colorado shrugged, embarrassed, not knowing what to do with his hands, moving them as if they were in the way. “It’s not worth risking your life over something so minor, Felícito. That five hundred they asked for would’ve been cut in half if you’d just been willing to negotiate with them, I can tell you that. Don’t you see what they’ve done to your business? And on top of that, you put that notice in El Tiempo . You’re risking your life and your family’s life. And even poor Mabel’s, don’t you realize that? You won’t ever be able to stand up to them, as sure as my name’s Vignolo. The earth is round, not square. Accept it and don’t try to straighten out the crooked world we live in. The gang’s very powerful, it’s infiltrated everywhere, beginning with the government and the judges. You’re really naïve to trust the police. It wouldn’t surprise me if the cops were in on it. Don’t you know what country we’re living in, compadre?”

Felícito Yanaqué barely listened to him. It was true, it was hard for him to believe what he’d heard: Colorado Vignolo making monthly payments to those crooks. He’d known him for twenty years and always thought he was an upstanding guy. Fuck, what a world this was.