Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“You’re offending us,” said Miki. “Don’t make a mistake, uncle. We respect your gray hairs, but only so far.”

“We won’t let this stand,” declared Escobita, banging the table. “You have everything to lose, just so you know. Even your retirement is on the table.”

“Don’t forget who’s going to own the company as soon as the crazy old coot kicks the bucket,” Miki threatened.

“I asked you to leave,” said Rigoberto, standing and pointing at the door. “And above all, don’t show up here again. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“Do you think you’re going to throw us out of your house just like that, you lousy hustler?” said Escobita, standing as well and clenching his fists.

“Shut up,” his brother cut him off, holding him by the arm. “Things can’t degenerate into a fight. Apologize to Uncle Rigoberto for insulting him, Escobita.”

“It’s not necessary. It’s enough if the two of you leave and don’t come back,” said Rigoberto.

“He’s the one who’s offended us, Miki. He’s throwing us out of his house like two mangy dogs. Or maybe you didn’t hear him.”

“Apologize, damn it,” ordered Miki, getting to his feet as well. “Right now. Beg his pardon.”

“All right.” Escobita gave in, trembling like a leaf. “I beg your pardon for what I said to you, uncle.”

“You’re forgiven,” Rigoberto agreed. “This conversation is over. Thank you for your visit, boys. Goodbye.”

“We’ll talk again when we’re calmer,” said Miki in farewell. “I’m sorry it ended this way, Uncle Rigoberto. We wanted to reach a friendly understanding with you. In view of your inflexibility, we’ll have to take this to court.”

“This won’t end well for you, and I tell you that from the heart because you’ll be sorry,” said Escobita. “So you’d better think it over.”

“Let’s go, brother, and just shut up.” Miki took his brother’s arm and dragged him to the front door.

As soon as the twins left the house, Rigoberto saw Lucrecia and Justiniana come into the room, alarmed expressions on their faces. The maid held a rolling pin like a deadly weapon.

“We heard everything,” said Lucrecia, grasping her husband’s arm. “If they’d done anything, we were ready to burst in and attack those hyenas.”

“Ah, is that what the rolling pin’s for?” Rigoberto asked, and Justiniana nodded, very seriously, swinging her improvised cudgel in the air.

“I had the poker from the fireplace in my hand,” said Lucrecia. “We would have scratched out those hoodlums’ eyes, I swear it, love.”

“I behaved rather well, didn’t I?” Rigoberto threw out his chest. “I didn’t let that pair of morons intimidate me for a moment.”

“You behaved like a great man,” said Lucrecia. “And this time, at least, intelligence defeated brute force.”

“Like a real man, señor,” Justiniana echoed Lucrecia.

“Not a word about any of this to Fonchito,” Rigoberto ordered. “The boy has enough headaches already.”

The women agreed and suddenly, at the same time, all three burst into laughter.

Six days after El Tiempo published Don Felícito Yanaqué’s second notice (anonymous, unlike his first), the kidnappers still hadn’t given any signs of life. And Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva, in spite of all their efforts, had found no trace of Mabel. The kidnapping hadn’t yet reached the press, and Captain Silva said this kind of miracle couldn’t last; given the interest that the case of the owner of Narihualá Transport had awakened all over Piura, it was impossible for an event this important not to soon be front-page news in the papers and all over radio and television. Any day now, everything would become public knowledge, and Colonel Rascachucha would have another extraordinary temper tantrum complete with violent shouting, cursing, and foot-stamping.

Lituma knew his boss well enough to know how upset the chief was, even though he didn’t talk about it, simulated certainty, and continued to make his usual cynical, vulgar comments. No doubt he was wondering, as Lituma was, whether the spider gang hadn’t gone too far and Don Felícito’s mistress, that cute little brunette, wasn’t dead and buried in some garbage dump on the outskirts of town. Each time they met with the trucker, who was being consumed by this misfortune, the sergeant and captain were affected by the dark circles under his eyes, the tremor in his hands, and how his voice would break off in the middle of a phrase; he’d sit there dazed and mute, looking in terror at nothing, his watery eyes subject to fits of frantic blinking. “He could have a heart attack at any time and we’d have a stiff on our hands,” Lituma thought fearfully. His boss was smoking twice as many cigarettes as usual, clenching the butts between his teeth and biting them, something he did only in times of extreme stress.

“What do we do if Señora Mabel doesn’t show up, Captain? I’m telling you, this mess keeps me awake every night.”

“We kill ourselves, Lituma,” said the chief, trying to joke. “We’ll play Russian roulette and leave this world with our balls intact, like Seminario in your bet. But she’ll show up, don’t be so pessimistic. They know from the notice in El Tiempo , or they think they know, that they’ve finally broken Yanaqué. Now they’re making him suffer a little more just to clinch the deal. That isn’t what really worries me, Lituma. Do you know what does? That Don Felícito will lose his head and suddenly decide to publish another notice, do an about-face and ruin our plan.”

It hadn’t been easy to convince him. It had taken the captain several hours to make him give in, presenting every possible argument for his taking the notice to El Tiempo that same day. He spoke to him first in the police station and then in El Pie Ajeno, a bar he and Lituma had to all but drag him to. They watched him drink half a dozen carob-bean cocktails, one after the other, even though, as he repeated several times, he never drank. Alcohol wasn’t good for him, it upset his stomach and gave him diarrhea. But now it was different. He’d suffered a terrible blow, the most painful of his life, and alcohol would control his longing to have another crying fit.

“I beg you to believe me, Don Felícito,” said the chief, making a show of his patience. “Understand, I’m not asking you to surrender to the gang. I’d never think of advising you to pay the extortion they’re demanding.”

“That’s something I’d never do,” the trucker repeated, shaking and adamant. “Even if they kill Mabel and I had to kill myself so I wouldn’t have to live with that remorse on my conscience.”

“I’m only asking you to pretend, that’s all. Make them think you accept their conditions,” the captain insisted. “You won’t have to cough up a penny for them, I swear on my mother. And on Josefita, that gorgeous woman. We need them to release the girl, that will put us right on their trail. I know what I’m talking about, believe me. This is my profession and I know for a fact how these shits act. Don’t be stubborn, Don Felícito.”

“I’m not doing this out of stubbornness, Captain.” The trucker had calmed down and now his expression was tragicomic because a lock of hair had fallen over his forehead and covered part of his right eye; he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m really fond of Mabel, I love her. It breaks my heart that someone like her, who has nothing to do with this, is the victim of those greedy, vicious criminals. But I can’t give them the satisfaction. Understand, Captain, it’s not for my own sake. I can’t insult my father’s memory.”