Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“Are you sure all the transport companies are making payments?” he repeated, trying to look into his friend’s eyes. “Aren’t you exaggerating?”

“If you don’t believe me, ask them. As true as my name’s Vignolo, if not all, then most. This isn’t the time to play the hero, Felícito my friend. The important thing is to be able to work and have your business run smoothly. If the only way is to make payments, you make them and that’s the end of it. Do what I do and don’t stick your neck out, compadre. You might be sorry. Don’t risk what you’ve built up with so much sacrifice. I wouldn’t like to attend your funeral Mass.”

After that conversation, Felícito couldn’t shake his depression. He felt sorrow, pity, irritation, astonishment. Not even in the nighttime solitude of his living room, when he played the songs of Cecilia Barraza, could he think about anything else. How could his colleagues let themselves be squeezed this way? Didn’t they realize that by giving in they were tying their own hands and feet and compromising their own futures? The extortionists would demand more and more money until the businessmen were bankrupt. It seemed that all of Piura was out to get him, that even the people who stopped him on the street to embrace and congratulate him were hypocrites involved in the plot to take what he’d achieved after so many years of hard work. “Whatever happens, don’t you worry, Father. Your son won’t let those cowards — or anybody else — walk all over him.”

The fame the little notice in El Tiempo brought him didn’t change Felícito Yanaqué’s orderly, diligent life, though he never got used to being recognized on the street. He felt embarrassed and didn’t know how to respond to the praise and expressions of solidarity from passersby. He always got up very early, did qigong exercises, and arrived at Narihualá Transport before eight o’clock. He was concerned that the number of passengers had gone down but understood it; after the fire at his business, it was to be expected that some clients would be frightened, afraid the crooks would seek reprisals against the vehicles and attack and burn them on the road. The buses to Ayabaca, which had to climb more than two hundred kilometers on a narrow, zigzagging route along the edges of deep Andean precipices, lost something like half their customers. Until the problem with the insurance company was resolved, he couldn’t rebuild the offices. But Felícito didn’t care that he had to work on a board and barrels in a corner of the depot. He spent hours on end with Señora Josefita, going over the surviving account books, bills, contracts, receipts, and correspondence. Fortunately, they hadn’t lost too many important papers. The one who couldn’t be consoled was his secretary. Josefita tried to hide it, but Felícito saw how tense and unhappy she was at having to work in the open, in plain view of the drivers and mechanics, the passengers who arrived and departed, the people who lined up to send packages. She confessed as much, her somnolent face pouting like a little girl’s.

“Having to work in front of everybody makes me feel, I don’t know, like I’m doing a striptease. You don’t feel like that, Don Felícito?”

“A lot of those guys would be happy if you did strip for them, Josefita. You’ve heard all the compliments Captain Silva pays you whenever he sees you.”

“I don’t like that cop’s comments at all.” Josefita blushed, delighted. “And even less the way he looks at me you know where, Don Felícito. Do you think he’s a pervert? That’s what I hear. That the captain only looks at that on women, as if we didn’t have anything else on our body, hey waddya think.”

On the day the notice came out in El Tiempo , Miguel and Tiburcio asked to see him. Both of his sons worked as drivers and inspectors on the company’s buses, trucks, and jitneys. Felícito took them to the restaurant in the Hotel Oro Verde in El Chipe for shellfish ceviche and a Piuran dried-beef stew. A radio was playing and the music forced them to speak in loud voices. From the table they could see a family swimming in the pool under the palm trees. Felícito ordered soft drinks instead of beers. From his sons’ faces he suspected what was on their minds. Miguel, the older one, spoke first. Strong, athletic, white-skinned, with light eyes and hair, he always dressed with some care, unlike Tiburcio, who rarely changed out of jeans, polo shirts, and basketball sneakers. At the moment Miguel wore loafers, corduroy trousers, and a light blue shirt with a racing-car print. A hopeless flirt, he had the vocation and manners of a snob. When Felícito had forced him to do his military service, he thought that in the army Miguel would lose his rich-kid affectations, but he didn’t — he came out of the barracks just as he’d gone in. As he had more than once in his lifetime, the trucker thought: “Can he be my son?”

The boy wore a watch with a leather band that he kept stroking as he said, “We’ve thought about something, Father, and talked it over with Mama.” He was blushing, as he always did whenever he spoke to his father.

“Oh, so you two are thinking,” Felícito joked. “I’m glad to know it, that’s good news. May I ask what brilliant idea you’ve had? You’re not going to consult the witch doctors of Huancabamba about the spider extortionists, I hope. Because I already consulted with Adelaida, and not even she, who can foretell everything, has any idea who they can be.”

“This is serious, Father,” Tiburcio interjected. Felícito’s blood ran in this one’s veins, no doubt about it. Tiburcio looked like him, with the brown skin, straight black hair, and thin, slight build of his progenitor. “Don’t kid around, Father, please. Listen to us. It’s for your own good.”

“All right, agreed, I’m listening. What’s this about, boys?”

“After that notice you published in El Tiempo , you’re in a lot of danger,” said Miguel.

“I don’t know if you realize how much, Father,” added Tiburcio. “You might as well have put the noose around your own neck.”

“I was in danger before that,” Felícito corrected them. “We all are. Gertrudis and you too. Ever since the first letter from those sons of bitches arrived, trying to extort money from me. Don’t you know that? This isn’t just about me but about the whole family. Or aren’t you the ones who’ll inherit Narihualá Transport?”

“But now you’re more exposed than you were before, Father, because you defied them publicly,” Miguel said. “They’re going to react, they have to do something in the face of this kind of challenge. They’ll try to get back at you because you made them look ridiculous. Everybody in Piura says so—”

“People stop us on the street to warn us,” Tiburcio interrupted. “‘Take care of your father, boys, they won’t forgive his rash act.’ That’s what they tell us everywhere we go.”

“In other words, I’m the one provoking them, poor things,” Felícito interjected, indignant. “They threaten me, they burn down my offices, and I’m provoking them because I let them know I won’t be extorted like those asshole colleagues of mine.”

“We’re not criticizing you, Father, just the opposite,” Miguel insisted. “We support you, it makes us proud that you placed that notice in El Tiempo . You’ve given the family a very good name.”

“But we don’t want them to kill you, listen to us, please,” Tiburcio added. “It would be a good idea to hire a bodyguard. We’ve already looked into it, there’s a very reliable company. It protects all the big shots in Piura. People in banking, farming, mining. And it’s not too expensive, we have the rates here.”

“A bodyguard?” Felícito started to laugh, a forced, mocking little laugh. “A guy who follows me around like my shadow with his pistol in his pocket? If I hire protection, I’d be giving those thieves just what they want. Do you have brains in your heads or sawdust? I’d be confessing I’m scared, that I’m spending my dough on that because they scared me. It would be the same as paying them. We won’t talk about this anymore. Go on, eat, your stew’s getting cold. And let’s change the subject.”