Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“Even though we’re in uniform, this isn’t an official visit,” said Captain Silva, making a courtly bow that swelled his belly and wrinkled the khaki shirt of his uniform. “It’s a friendly visit, señora.”

“Sure, all right,” said Mabel, opening the door. She looked at the police in surprise and fear, blinking. “Come in, come in, please.”

The captain and sergeant had arrived unexpectedly, just as she was thinking to herself once again that she had been moved by the old man’s demonstrations of affection. She’d always been fond of Felícito Yanaqué or, at least, even though she’d been his mistress for eight years, she’d never felt an aversion toward him, the physical and moral dislike that in the past had led her to break off abruptly with transitory lovers and benefactors who gave her headaches because of their jealousies, demands, and whims, their resentment and spite. Some breakups had meant a serious economic loss for her. But the feeling was stronger than she was. When she became sick of a man, she couldn’t keep sleeping with him. She’d get allergies, headaches, chills, she’d start thinking about her stepfather; she could barely control the urge to vomit each time she had to undress for him and cater to his desires in bed. That’s why, she told herself, though she’d gone to bed with a lot of men since she was a kid — she ran away from home at the age of thirteen and went to live with an aunt and uncle after that thing happened with her stepfather — she wasn’t and never would be what’s called a whore. Because whores knew how to pretend when it was time to go to bed with their clients and she didn’t. Mabel, in order to make love, had to feel at least some affection for the man, and also had to get the goods, as the vulgar Piuran saying went; he had to follow the particular forms — invitations, dates, little gifts, gestures, manners — that made their going to bed decent and gave it the appearance of a sentimental relationship.

“Thank you, señora,” said Captain Silva, raising his hand to his visor in imitation of a military salute. “We’ll do our best not to take up too much of your time.”

“Thank you, señora,” Sergeant Lituma echoed.

Mabel had them sit in the living room and brought in two cold bottles of Inca Kola. To hide her nervousness, she tried not to speak; she only smiled at them and waited. The police removed their kepis, settled into the armchairs, and Mabel noticed that their foreheads and hair were soaked in perspiration. She thought she ought to turn on the fan but didn’t; she was afraid that if she got up from her seat, the captain and sergeant would notice the trembling that had begun in her legs and hands. What explanation would she give if her teeth began to chatter too? “I don’t feel very well and have a little fever because, well because of that thing we women have, you know what I mean.” Would they believe her?

“What we’d like, señora”—Captain Silva sweetened his voice a little—“is not to question you but to have a friendly conversation. They’re very different things, you understand. I said friendly, and I’ll repeat it.”

In these eight years she’d never felt disgusted by Felícito. No doubt because the old man was so decent. If, on the day he visited, she didn’t feel well because she had her period or simply because she didn’t want to spread her legs for him, the owner of Narihualá Transport didn’t insist. Just the opposite; he was concerned, wanted to take her to the doctor, go to the pharmacy to buy her medicine, hand her the thermometer. Was he really in love with her? Mabel had thought a thousand times that he was. In any case, the old man made the monthly payments on the house and gave her a few thousand soles a month just to go to bed with her once or twice a week. And in addition to all that, he always gave her presents, on her birthday and at Christmas, and also on the holidays when nobody gave anybody anything, like the national holidays or in October during Piura Week. Even in the way he went to bed with her, he always showed it wasn’t only sex that mattered to him. He whispered a lover’s words in her ear, kissed her tenderly, looked at her in ecstasy, as if he were a boy wet behind the ears. Wasn’t that love? Mabel often thought that if she insisted, she could get Felícito to leave his wife, that shapeless chola who looked more like a bogeyman than a human being, and marry her. It would be very easy. All she had to do was get pregnant, for example, turn on the tears, and drive him to distraction: “You wouldn’t want your child to be a bastard, right, old man?” But she’d never tried it, and wouldn’t try it, because Mabel valued her freedom, her independence, too much. She wasn’t going to sacrifice them in exchange for relative security; besides, she didn’t particularly like the idea of becoming, in just a few years, a nurse and caretaker for a very old man whose dribble she’d have to wipe away and whose sheets she’d have to wash because he peed in his sleep.

“You have my word we won’t take very long, señora,” the captain repeated, procrastinating, unwilling to explain clearly the reason for this unexpected visit. He looked at her in a way that gave the lie to his good manners, Mabel thought. “Besides, as soon as you grow tired of us, just say the word and we’ll clear out.”

Why was the captain exaggerating his courtesy to such a ridiculous extent? What was he up to? He wanted to reassure her, of course, but his affectations and syrupy manners and false smiles increased Mabel’s mistrust. What did this pair want? Unlike the captain, the sergeant, his assistant, couldn’t hide the fact that he was jumpy. He was watching her in a strange way, uneasy and cautious, as if he were a little frightened of what might happen, and he couldn’t stop kneading his double chin with fingers that seemed almost frantic.

“As you can see with your own eyes, we didn’t bring a tape recorder,” Captain Silva added, opening his hands and patting his pockets in a theatrical way. “Not even paper and pencil. So rest assured, there won’t be any record at all of what we say here. It will be confidential. Between you and us. And nobody else.”

After the week of her abduction, Felícito had been so incredibly affectionate and solicitous that Mabel felt overwhelmed. She’d received a large bouquet of red roses wrapped in cellophane with a card in his own hand that said: “With all my love and sorrow for the hard trial I’ve put you through, my dear Mabelita, the man who adores you sends you these flowers: your Felícito.” It was the biggest bouquet she’d ever seen. When she read the card her eyes filled with tears that fell on her hands and wet them, something that happened only when she had nightmares. Would she accept the old man’s offer that she leave Piura until all this was over? She wasn’t sure. More than an offer, it was a demand. Felícito was frightened, he thought they could hurt her, and he pleaded with her to go to Trujillo, Chiclayo, Lima, even Cusco if she preferred, wherever she liked, as long as she got far away from the damn spider extortionists. He promised her the moon: She’d lack for nothing and enjoy every comfort for as long as her trip lasted. But she hadn’t made up her mind. It’s not that she wasn’t afraid, nothing like that. Unlike the many fearful people she knew, Mabel had felt fear only once before, when she was a kid and her stepfather, taking advantage of the fact that her mother was at the market, came into her room, pushed her onto the bed, and tried to undress her. She had defended herself, scratched him, and ran out into the street, half undressed and screaming. That was when she learned what fear really was. She never experienced anything like it again. Until now. Because over the past days, fear, a great, deep, constant fear, was back in her life. Twenty-four hours a day. Night and day, afternoon and morning, asleep and awake. Mabel thought she’d never be rid of it until she died. When she went out, she had the unpleasant sensation of being watched; even in the house, with the doors and windows locked, she’d have sudden frights that chilled her body and took her breath away. Then she’d imagine that her blood had stopped circulating in her veins. In spite of knowing she was protected, and perhaps for that very reason. Was she protected? Felícito had assured her she was after he’d talked to Captain Silva. True, there was a guard in front of her house, and when she went out two plainclothes police, a man and a woman, followed her at a certain distance, discreetly. But it was precisely this twenty-four-hour-a-day vigilance that increased her nervousness, as did Captain Silva’s assurance that the kidnappers wouldn’t be imprudent or stupid enough to attempt another attack on her, knowing the police were guarding her day and night. In spite of that, the old man didn’t think she was out of danger. According to him, when the kidnappers realized he’d lied to them, that he’d placed the notice in El Tiempo thanking the Captive Lord of Ayabaca for the miracle only so they’d free her, and that he didn’t intend to pay protection, they’d be furious and would try to take their revenge on someone he loved. And since they knew so much about him, they’d also know that the person Felícito loved most in the world was Mabel. She had to leave Piura, disappear for a while, he’d never forgive himself if those bastards hurt her again.