Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

Soul to conquer you,

heart to love you,

and life to live it

beside you!

He felt vanquished, moved, bewitched, loved. From that time on, at night before he went to sleep, or at dawn before he got up, he sometimes imagined himself living among arpeggios, cadences, skylights, and yearnings beside the singer named Cecilia Barraza. Without telling anyone, least of all Mabel, of course, he’d lived platonically in love with that smiling face, those expressive eyes, that seductive smile. He assembled a fine collection of photographs of her that had appeared in newspapers and magazines, which he jealously guarded under lock and key in a desk drawer. The fire had made short work of them, but not of his collection of Cecilia Barraza records, which was divided between his house on Calle Arequipa and Mabel’s house in Castilla. He believed he owned every CD made by the artist who, in his modest opinion, had raised Peruvian music— valses, marineras, tonderos, pregones —to new heights. He listened to them almost every day — generally at night after supper, when Gertrudis had gone to bed — sitting in the living room, where they kept the television set and stereo. The songs made his imagination soar; sometimes he was so moved his eyes grew wet at the sweet, caressing voice that saturated the night. And so, when it was announced she would come to Piura to sing at the Club Grau, and the event would be open to the public, he was one of the first to buy a ticket. He invited Mabel, and Colorado Vignolo had them sit at his table, where they had a sumptuous meal with both white and red wine before the show. Seeing the singer in person, even if she was at some distance, put Felícito into an ecstatic trance. She seemed prettier, more charming, and more elegant than in photographs. He applauded so enthusiastically after each song that Mabel said to Vignolo, pointing at him, “Look, Colorado, at the state this dirty old man is in.”

“Don’t be evil-minded, Mabelita,” he said, dissembling, “what I’m applauding is Cecilia Barraza’s art, just her art.”

The third spider letter arrived some time after the second, just when Felícito was wondering whether after the fire, the notice in El Tiempo , and the uproar it had caused, the crooks hadn’t resigned themselves to leaving him in peace. It had been three weeks since the fire, and the dispute with the insurance company still hadn’t been resolved, when one morning, at the improvised desk in the garage, Señora Josefita, who was opening the mail, exclaimed, “How strange, Don Felícito, a letter with no return address.”

The trucker snatched it from her hands. It was what he’d feared.

Dear Mr. Yanaqué:

We’re glad you’re now so popular and well-respected a man in our beloved city of Piura. We hope this popularity is beneficial to Narihualá Transport, especially after the mishap the business suffered because you’re so stubborn. It would be better for you to accept the lessons of reality and be pragmatic instead of remaining as obstinate as a mule. We wouldn’t want you to suffer another loss even more serious than the last. That’s why we invite you to be flexible and attend to our requirements.

Like the rest of Piura, we’re aware of the notice you published in El Tiempo . We feel no rancor toward you. What is more, we understand your decision to place the notice, giving in to a temperamental fit of rage, in view of the fire that destroyed your offices. We’ve forgotten it, you forget it too, and we’ll start again from zero.

We’re giving you two weeks — fourteen days, counting from today — to use your reason and reconsider, so that we can resolve the matter that concerns us. If you don’t, you can be certain of the consequences. They’ll be more serious than anything you’ve suffered so far. A word to the wise, as the saying goes, Señor Yanaqué.

May God keep you.

This time the letter was typed, but the signature was the same drawing in blue ink found in the two earlier ones: a spider with five long legs and a dot in the center that represented the head.

“Do you feel sick, Don Felícito? Don’t tell me it’s another of those letters,” his secretary said.

Her boss had lowered his arms and seemed to have collapsed into his chair, very pale, his eyes staring at the piece of paper. Finally he nodded and brought his finger to his mouth, indicating that she should be silent. The people in the garage didn’t need to know. He asked for a glass of water and drank it slowly, making an effort to control the anxiety that had overwhelmed him. His heart felt agitated and it was difficult to breathe. Naturally those bastards hadn’t stopped, naturally they hadn’t changed their tune. But they were wrong if they thought Felícito Yanaqué would give in. He felt rage, hatred, a fury that made him tremble. Perhaps Miguel and Tiburcio were right. Not about the bodyguard, of course, he’d never throw his dough away on something like that. But maybe about the revolver. Nothing in this life would give him as much pleasure as shooting them, if those shits ever came within range. Riddle them with bullets and even spit on their corpses.

When he’d calmed down a little, he walked very quickly to the police station, but Captain Silva and Sergeant Lituma weren’t there. They’d gone out to lunch and would be back at about four. He sat in a cafeteria on Avenida Sánchez Cerro and ordered an ice-cold soda. Two women approached to shake his hand. They admired him, he was an example and an inspiration for all Piurans. They said goodbye and gave him their blessing. He thanked them with a smile. “The truth is, right now I don’t feel like a hero at all,” he thought. “More like a prick. A real asshole, that’s what I am. They’re playing with me, having their fun, and I can’t find my way out of this damn mess.”

He was returning to his office, walking slowly along the high sidewalks of the avenue, surrounded by noisy mototaxis, cyclists, and pedestrians, when in the midst of his dejection he felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to see Mabel. See her, talk to her, maybe feel his desire gradually waking, a disturbance that for a few moments would make him dizzy, make him forget about the fire, and Dr. Castro Pozo’s ongoing quarrels with the insurance company, and the latest spider letter. And maybe, after taking his pleasure, he might be able to sleep for a while, peacefully and contentedly. As far as he could remember, not once in these years had he dropped in on Mabel unannounced, in the middle of the day; he’d always come after dark and on days decided with her in advance. But these were extraordinary times and he could change the routine. He was tired, it was hot, and instead of walking he took a cab. When he got out in Castilla, he saw Mabel at the door of her house. Was she going out or coming back? She stood looking at him in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she said in greeting. “Today? At this hour?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” Felícito apologized. “If you have an engagement, I’ll go.”

“I do, but I can cancel it.” Mabel smiled at him, recovering from her surprise. “Come in, come in. Wait for me, I’ll take care of it and be right back.”

In spite of her friendly words, Felícito noted her irritation. He’d come at a bad time. Maybe she was going shopping. No, no. She was probably meeting a girlfriend for a stroll and then lunch. Or maybe a young man was waiting for her, young like her, one she liked and maybe they were seeing each other in secret. He felt a pang of jealousy imagining that Mabel was going to meet a lover. Some guy who’d undress her and make her cry out. He’d ruined their plans. He felt a current of desire, a tingling in his groin, the beginning of an erection. Well, after how many days. Mabel looked nice this morning in a white dress that left her arms and shoulders bare, spike-heeled sandals, her hair arranged, her eyes and lips made up. Could she have a boyfriend? He’d gone inside, taken off his jacket and tie. When Mabel came back, she found him reading the spider letter again. Her irritation had vanished. Now she was as smiling and affectionate as always.