Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

During the seven days she was held captive she didn’t have a single conversation with her kidnappers. They never took her out of that room. She never saw the light again because they never removed her blindfold. There was a container or bucket where she could take care of her needs, in the dark, twice a day. Somebody took it away and brought it back clean, never saying a word to her. Twice a day, the same person or somebody else, always mute, brought her a plate of rice and vegetables and some soup, a lukewarm soda or a small bottle of mineral water. They removed the hood and untied her hands so she could eat, but they never took off the blindfold. Each time Mabel begged them, implored them to tell her what they were going to do with her, why they had abducted her, the same strong, commanding voice always replied: “Be quiet! You’re risking your life by asking questions.” She wasn’t allowed to bathe, or even wash herself. That’s why the first thing she did when she was free was take a long shower and scrub herself with the sponge until she had welts. And then get rid of all the clothes, even the shoes, that she’d been wearing for those horrible seven days. She would make up a parcel and give it to the poor of San Juan de Dios.

This morning, without warning, several of them, to judge by their footsteps, had come into her room-prison. Without a word, they lifted her, made her walk, climb some steps, and lie down again in a vehicle that must have been the same van, car, or truck they’d used to kidnap her. They kept driving and driving for a very long time, and the shaking bruised all the bones in her body until the vehicle finally stopped. They untied her hands and ordered: “Count to a hundred before you take off the blindfold. If you take it off before then, we’ll shoot you.” When she removed the blindfold, she discovered that they’d left her in the middle of the sandy tract, near La Legua. She’d walked for more than an hour before reaching the first houses in Castilla, where she caught a taxi that took her home.

As Mabel recounted her odyssey, Lituma continued to pay careful attention to her story but couldn’t ignore Don Felícito’s demonstrations of affection to his mistress. There was something childish, adolescent, angelic in the way the trucker smoothed her forehead with his hand, looking at her with a religious devotion, murmuring, “Poor thing, poor thing, my love.” At times the way he fawned over her made Lituma uncomfortable — it seemed exaggerated and a little ridiculous at the trucker’s age. “He must be thirty years older than she is,” he thought. “This girl could be his daughter.” The old guy was head over heels in love. Was Mabelita one of the fiery ones or was she cold? Fiery, no doubt about it.

“I told her she should go away from here for a while,” Felícito Yanaqué said to the policemen. “To Chiclayo, Trujillo, Lima, anywhere. Until this case is closed. I don’t want anything to happen to her again. Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Captain?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t think anything will happen to her if she stays here,” he said, mulling it over. “The bandits know she’s protected now and wouldn’t be crazy enough to come near her, knowing the chance they’d be taking. I’m very grateful for your statement, señora. It will be very useful to us, I assure you. Would you mind my asking you just a few more questions?”

“She’s very tired,” Don Felícito protested. “Why don’t you leave her alone for now, Captain? Question her tomorrow, or the day after. I want to take her to the doctor and have her spend the day in the hospital so she can have a complete checkup.”

“Don’t worry, old man, I’ll rest later,” Mabel interjected. “Go ahead and ask me whatever you’d like, señor.”

Ten minutes later, Lituma said to himself that his superior had gone too far. The trucker was right; the poor woman had suffered a terrible experience, had expected to die; those seven days had been a calvary for her. How could the captain expect Mabel to remember all the insignificant, stupid details he was harassing her with? He didn’t understand. Why did his boss want to know whether from her prison she’d heard roosters crowing, hens cackling, cats meowing, or dogs barking? And how could Mabel estimate by their voices how many kidnappers there were and if they were all Piurans or whether one of them talked like he was from Lima, the sierra, or the jungle? Mabel did what she could, she wrung her hands, hesitated, it was only normal that sometimes she became confused or seemed astonished. She didn’t remember that, señor, she hadn’t paid attention to that, oh what a shame. And she apologized, shrugging, wringing her hands: “I was so stupid, I should have thought about those things, tried to be aware and remember. But I was so confused, señor.”

“Don’t worry, it’s only natural that you weren’t thinking straight, impossible to keep everything in your memory,” Captain Silva said encouragingly. “But still, make one final little effort. Everything you can remember will be very useful to us, señora. Some of my questions may seem unnecessary, but believe me, sometimes the thread that leads us to our goal can come from one of those unimportant little trifles.”

What seemed even stranger to Lituma was that Captain Silva was so insistent that Mabel recall the circumstances and details of the night she was kidnapped. Was she sure that none of her neighbors was out on the street, enjoying the cool air? Not a single woman leaning half out the window listening to a serenade or chatting with her boyfriend? Mabel didn’t think so, but maybe there was; no, no, nobody was on that end of the street when she came home from the Marists’ concert. Well, maybe there was somebody, it was possible, it’s just that she didn’t pay attention, didn’t realize, how stupid. Lituma and the captain knew all too well there was no witness to the kidnapping because they’d questioned the entire neighborhood. No one saw anything, no one heard anything unusual that night. Maybe it was true or, perhaps, as the captain had said, nobody wanted to get involved. “Everybody’s scared to death at the thought of the gangs. That’s why they’d rather not see or know anything, that’s how this useless scum is.”

Finally the chief gave the trucker’s girlfriend a breather and moved on to a trivial question.

“Señora, what do you think the kidnappers would have done to you if Don Felícito hadn’t let them know he’d pay the ransom?”

Mabel opened her eyes very wide, and instead of answering the officer she turned to her lover.

“They asked you for a ransom for me? You didn’t tell me, old man.”

“They didn’t ask for a ransom for you,” he clarified, kissing her hand again. “They kidnapped you to force me to pay protection money for Narihualá Transport. They let you go because I made them think I agreed to their demands for money. I had to put a notice in El Tiempo , thanking the Captive Lord of Ayabaca for a miracle. It was the sign they were waiting for. That’s why they let you go.”

Lituma saw that Mabel turned very pale. She was trembling again and her teeth were chattering.

“Does this mean you’re going to pay protection?” she stammered.

“Not on your life, baby,” Don Felícito bellowed, emphatically shaking his head and hands. “Not that, not ever.”

“They’ll kill me, then,” Mabel whispered. “And you too, old man. What’s going to happen to us now, señor? Will they kill us both?” She sobbed and raised her hands to her face.

“Don’t worry, señora. You’ll have twenty-four-hour protection. But not for very long, it won’t be necessary, you’ll see. I swear to you, these thugs’ days are numbered.”

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, baby,” Don Felícito comforted her, caressing and embracing her. “I swear nothing bad will happen to you again. Never again, I swear, dearest, you have to believe me. The best thing would be for you to leave the city for a little while like I’ve asked you to, please listen to me.”