Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“We have to justify the police, damn it,” the ill-tempered Rascachucha bellowed from behind his enormous mustache, his eyes like red-hot coals. “A couple of hicks can’t laugh at us like this. Either you hunt them down ipso facto, or I swear by San Martín de Porres and by God Himself that you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”

Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva analyzed with a magnifying glass the statements of all the witnesses, made file cards, compared and cross-referenced data, shuffled through hypotheses and rejected them one after the other. From time to time, taking a breather, the captain would burst into praise, charged with sexual fever, of the curves of Señora Josefita, with whom he’d fallen in love. Very seriously, and with salacious gestures, he explained to his subordinate that those gluteals were not only large, round, and symmetrical but also “gave a little jiggle when she walked,” something that aroused his heart and his testicles in unison. For that reason, he maintained, “in spite of her age, her moon face, and her slightly bowed legs, Josefita is the goddamnedest woman.

“Hotter than gorgeous Mabel, if I’m forced to make comparisons, Lituma,” he went on, his eyes popping as if he had the backsides of the two ladies right in front of him and were hefting them both. “I acknowledge that Don Felícito’s girlfriend has a nice figure, aggressive tits, and well-formed, fleshy legs and arms, but her ass, as you must have noticed, leaves much to be desired. It’s not very touchable. It didn’t finish developing, it didn’t blossom, at some point it went into decline. According to my classification system, hers is a timid ass, if you know what I mean.”

“Why don’t you concentrate on the investigation instead, Captain?” Lituma asked him. “You saw how furious Colonel Ríos Pardo is. At this rate we won’t ever get rid of this case or be promoted again.”

“I’ve noticed that you have absolutely no interest in women’s asses, Lituma,” was the captain’s judgment, pretending to commiserate with him and putting on a grief-stricken face. But immediately afterward he smiled and licked his lips like a cat. “A defect in your manly formation, I’m telling you. A good ass is the most divine gift God gave to female bodies for the pleasure of males. I’ve been told that even the Bible recognizes this.”

“Of course I have an interest, Captain. But with all due respect, in you there’s not only interest but obsession and depravity too. Let’s get back to the spiders now.”

They spent many hours reading, rereading, and examining word by word, letter by letter, stroke by stroke the extortionists’ letters and drawings. They’d requested a handwriting analysis of the anonymous letters from the central office, but the specialist, in the hospital following hemorrhoid surgery, was on a two-week leave. It was on one of those days, as they were comparing the letters to the signatures and writing samples of criminals on file in the office of the public prosecutor, that a suspicion sprouted in Lituma’s mind. A memory, an association. Captain Silva noticed that something had happened to his colleague.

“You look like you’re in a trance all of a sudden. What’s up, Lituma?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing, Captain.” The sergeant shrugged. “It’s silly. I just remembered a guy I met. He was always drawing spiders, as I recall. Just bullshit, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” the captain repeated, staring at him. He brought his face up close to Lituma’s and changed his tone. “But since we don’t have anything, bullshit is better than nothing. Who was this guy? Go on, tell me.”

“A pretty old story, Captain.” The police chief noticed that Lituma’s voice and eyes were fraught with discomfort, as if it bothered him to root through those memories, though he couldn’t avoid it. “I imagine it doesn’t have anything to do with this. But, yes, I remember clearly, that motherfucker was always drawing, scribbling things that could have been spiders. On papers, on newspapers. Sometimes even on the ground in chicha bars, with a stick.”

“And who was this so-called motherfucker, Lituma? Tell me right now and don’t keep beating around the fucking bush.”

“Let’s go have some juice and get out of this oven for a while, Captain,” the sergeant suggested. “It’s a long story, and if you don’t get bored, I’ll tell it to you. My treat, don’t worry.”

They went to La Perla del Chira, a little bar on Calle Libertad next to a lot where, Lituma told his boss, in his youth there used to be a cockpit that had pretty heavy betting. He’d gone a few times but didn’t like cockfights; it made him sad to see how the poor animals were destroyed by pecking beaks and slashing razors. The place had no air-conditioning, but fans helped to cool it down. It was deserted. They ordered two eggfruit juices with lots of ice, and then lit their cigarettes.

“The motherfucker’s name was Josefino Rojas and he was the son of Carlos Rojas, the bargeman who used to carry cattle from the ranches to the slaughterhouse on the river during the flood months,” said Lituma. “I met him when I was very young, still wet behind the ears. We had our little gang. We liked binges, guitars, beers, and broads. Somebody nicknamed us ‘the Unconquerables,’ or maybe we did it ourselves. We wrote our anthem.”

And in a low, rasping voice, Lituma sang, in tune and happily:

We’re the Unconquerables,

for us working has no class:

only guzzling!

only gambling!

only girls fucked up the ass!

The captain congratulated him, bursting into laughter and applauding. “Nice, Lituma. I mean, at least when you were young you paid attention.”

“There were three of us Unconquerables at first,” the sergeant continued nostalgically, lost in his memories. “My cousins, the León brothers — José and Mono — and yours truly. Three guys from Mangachería. I don’t know how Josefino hooked up with us. He wasn’t from Mangachería, he came from Gallinacera, near the old market and slaughterhouse. I don’t know why we let him in the group. Back then there was a terrible rivalry between the two neighborhoods. Fistfights and knife fights. A war that made a lot of blood flow in Piura, I can tell you.”

“Come on, you’re talking about the prehistory of this city,” said the captain. “I know where Mangachería was, in the north, from Avenida Sánchez Cerro down, near the old San Teodoro cemetery. But Gallinacera?”

“Right there, close to the Plaza de Armas, beside the river, toward the south,” Lituma said, pointing. “It was called Gallinacera because of all the gallinazos , the turkey buzzards the slaughterhouse attracted when they were killing cattle. We Mangaches were Sanchezcerristas and the Gallinazos were Apristas. The motherfucker Josefino was a Gallinazo and told us that when he was a kid he’d been a butcher’s apprentice.”

“So you were gang members.”

“Just street kids, Captain. We made mischief, nothing very serious. It never got past fistfights. But then Josefino became a pimp. He’d seduce girls and put them to work as whores in the Green House. That was the name of the brothel as you left Catacaos, when Castilla wasn’t named Castilla yet but was still Tacalá. Did you know that whorehouse? It was really fancy.”

“No, but I’ve heard a lot about the famous Green House. A legend in Piura. But getting back to the pimp. Was he the one who drew the spiders?”

“The same, Captain. I think they were spiders, but maybe my memory’s playing tricks on me. I’m not really sure.”

“And may I ask why you hate this pimp so much, Lituma?”

“Lots of reasons.” The sergeant’s heavy face darkened and his eyes grew red with anger; he’d begun to rub his double chin very quickly. “Mainly for what he did to me when I was in jail. You know the story, they ran me in for playing Russian roulette with a local landowner. In the Green House, to be exact. A white guy, a drunk whose last name was Seminario and who blew his brains out during the game. Taking advantage of the fact that I was in jail, Josefino stole my girl. He started her whoring for him in the Green House. Her name was Bonifacia. I brought her here from Alto Marañón, in Santa María de Nieva, in Amazonia. When she started in the life, they called her ‘Selvática,’ Jungle Girl.”