Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“That’s true, he was drawn to crime, like a fly to honey,” said Lituma. “The fucker was born to be a crook. I don’t understand why we hooked up with him, cousin. Besides, he was a Gallinazo and we were Mangaches.”

And at that moment Lituma, who’d been looking at without really seeing the movements of one of his cousin’s hands on the table, saw that José was drawing lines with his thumbnail on the rough wooden surface covered with carved-in words, burns, and stains. Barely able to breathe, he focused his eyes and repeated to himself that he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t obsessed because what his cousin was doing, without realizing it, was tracing spiders with his nail. Yes, spiders, like the ones on the threatening anonymous letters Felícito Yanaqué had received. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t seeing things, damn it. Spiders, spiders. Fuck, fuck.

“Now we have one hell of a problem,” he murmured, hiding his agitation and indicating Avenida Sánchez Cerro. “You must know about it. You must have read the letter in El Tiempo from Felícito Yanaqué, the owner of Narihualá Transport to the guys who are trying to extort him.”

“The biggest balls in Piura,” his cousin exclaimed. His eyes shone with admiration. “I not only read that letter, like every other Piuran, but I cut it out, had it framed, and have it hanging on the wall in my office, cousin. Felícito Yanaqué is an example for all the asshole executives and business owners in Piura who bend over for the gangs and pay them protection money. I’ve known Don Felícito a long time. In the shop we do the repairs and tune-ups for Narihualá Transport’s buses and trucks. I wrote him a few lines congratulating him for his letter in El Tiempo .”

He poked Lituma with his elbow, pointing to the braid on his epaulets.

“You cops have an obligation to protect that guy, cousin. It would be a tragedy if the gangs sent a killer to take care of Don Felícito. You know they already burned down his place.”

The sergeant looked at him, nodding. So much indignation and admiration couldn’t be an act; he’d made a mistake, José hadn’t been drawing spiders with his nail, only lines. A coincidence, a fluke, like so many others. But at that moment his memory struck another blow; lighting everything so he could see it in the clearest, most obvious way, it reminded him, with a lucidity that made him tremble, that in fact, ever since they were kids, the one who was always drawing stars that looked like spiders, with a pencil, a twig, or a knife, was his cousin José, not Josefino the pimp. Of course, of course. It was José. Long before they even knew Josefino, José was always drawing. He and Mono often teased him about his obsession. Fuck, fuck.

“Let’s have lunch or dinner together soon and you’ll have a chance to see Mono, Lituma. What a kick he’ll get out of seeing you!”

“Me too, José. My best memories are Piuran, why deny it. When we hung out together, when we were the Unconquerables. The best time of my life, I think. Back then I was happy. The hard times came later. Besides, as far as I know, you and Mono are the only family I have left in the world. Whenever you want, you two tell me the date and I’ll be there.”

“Then lunch is better than dinner,” said José. “Rita, my sister-in-law, is incredibly jealous, she keeps an eye on Mono like you wouldn’t believe. She makes big scenes whenever he goes out at night. I even think she hits him.”

“Lunch, then, no problem.” Lituma felt so agitated that, afraid José might suspect what was whirling around in his head, he looked for an excuse to say goodbye.

He went back to the station distracted, confused, dazed, paying so little attention to where he was stepping that a fruit vendor’s tricycle almost knocked him down as he crossed at a corner. When he reached the station, Captain Silva understood his state of mind as soon as he saw him.

“Don’t add to the headaches I already have, Lituma,” he warned, standing up at his desk so violently that the cubicle shook. “What the hell’s wrong with you now? Who died?”

“What’s died is the suspicion that it was Josefino Rojas who drew the spiders,” Lituma stammered, taking off his kepi and wiping away sweat with his handkerchief. “Now it turns out that the suspect isn’t the pimp but my cousin José León. One of the Unconquerables I told you about, Captain.”

“Are you kidding me, Lituma?” the disconcerted captain exclaimed. “Just explain to me how I’m supposed to swallow that shit you just said.”

The sergeant sat down, trying to make the breeze from the fan blow directly into his face. In complete detail he recounted everything that had happened to him that morning.

“In other words, now it’s your cousin José who draws spiders with his fingernails.” The captain was angry. “And on top of that, he’s so hopelessly dumb he betrays himself in front of a police sergeant, knowing very well that all of Piura is talking about the spiders of Felícito Yanaqué and Narihualá Transport. I can see your brains have been completely fried, Lituma.”

“I’m not sure he was drawing spiders with his nails,” his subordinate apologized, filled with remorse. “I might be wrong about that too. Please forgive me. I’m not sure about anything anymore, Captain, not even the ground I walk on. Yes, you’re right. It’s bedlam in my head, like a stewpot full of crickets.”

“A stewpot full of spiders, you mean.” The captain laughed. “And now, look who’s here. The only piece missing. Good morning, Señor Yanaqué. Come in, come in.”

Lituma knew right away from the trucker’s face that something serious had happened: Another letter from the gang? Felícito was ashen, dark circles under his eyes, his mouth half open in an idiotic expression, his eyes dilated with fear. He’d just removed his hat and his hair was messy, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. He, who was always so elegantly dressed, had buttoned the first button of his vest into the second buttonhole. His appearance was ridiculous, careless, clownish. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t respond to the greeting but took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the captain, his hand trembling. He looked smaller and more fragile than ever, almost like a midget.

“Fuck,” muttered the chief, taking the letter and beginning to read aloud:

Dear Señor Yanaqué:

We told you your obstinacy and your challenge in El Tiempo would have unpleasant consequences. We told you you’d regret your refusal to be reasonable and reach an understanding with those who wish only to provide protection for your business and security for your family. We’re as good as our word. We have one of your loved ones and will keep that individual until you relent and come to an agreement with us.

Even though we know you have the bad habit of going to the police with your complaints, as if that would be of any use, we assume that this time, for your own good, you’ll be more discreet. It’s in no one’s interest for it to be known that we have this person, above all if you’re interested in her not suffering as the result of another of your imprudent acts. This matter should remain between us and be resolved quietly and quickly.

Since you like to make use of the press, place a notice in El Tiempo , giving thanks to the Captive Lord of Ayabaca for performing the miracle you asked for. Then we’ll know you’ve agreed to the conditions we proposed to you. And the person in question will immediately return safe and sound to her house. Otherwise, you may never hear from her again.

May God keep you.

Though he hadn’t seen it, Lituma could guess at the spider signature on the letter.

“Who have they kidnapped, Señor Yanaqué?” Captain Silva asked.