Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“Adelaida, Adelaida,” he moaned as he wiped his eyes. “I had to let this out somehow. I couldn’t control myself. I’m sorry, I swear I don’t usually cry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Felícito.” The holy woman smiled, patting him affectionately on his hand. “It does us all good to let the tears flow once in a while. I start wailing too sometimes.”

“Go ahead and talk, Captain, I’m ready,” the trucker declared. “Loud and clear, please.”

“Let’s take it slow,” Captain Silva said hoarsely, playing for time. He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth, took a sip, and continued: “The best thing is for you to hear about the plot the way we did, from the beginning. Lituma, what’s the name of the officer who was guarding Señora Mabel?”

Candelario Velando, twenty-three years old, from Tumbes. Two years on the force, and this was the first time his superiors had him in plain clothes for a job. They stationed him across from the señora’s house on that dead-end street in the Castilla district, near the river and the Salesian fathers’ Don Juan Bosco Academy, and ordered him to make sure nothing happened to the lady who lived there. He was supposed to come to her aid if necessary, write down who came to visit her, follow her without being seen, take notes on whom she met, whom she visited, what she did or stopped doing. They gave him a service weapon with ammunition for twenty shots, a camera, a notebook, a pencil, and a cell phone to use only in case of an emergency, never for personal calls.

“Mabel?” The holy woman’s half-mad eyes opened very wide. “Your girlfriend? It was her?”

Felícito nodded. The glass of water was empty, but he didn’t seem to realize it, because from time to time he brought it up to his mouth and moved his lips and throat as if he were taking a sip.

“It was her, Adelaida.” He moved his head several times. “Yes, Mabel. I still can’t believe it.”

He was a good policeman, reliable and punctual. He liked the profession and so far had refused to take bribes. But that night he was very tired, he’d been following the señora on the street and guarding her house for fourteen hours, and as soon as he sat down in that corner where there was no light and leaned his back against the wall, he fell asleep. He didn’t know for how long; it must have been a while, because when he woke with a start, the street was quiet, the kids spinning tops had disappeared, and in the houses the lights had been turned off and the doors locked. Even the dogs had stopped running around and barking. The entire neighborhood seemed to be asleep. He stood up in a daze, and, keeping to the shadows, approached the señora’s house. He heard voices. He put his ear to one of the windows. It seemed to be an argument. He couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying but he had no doubt it was a man and a woman, and they were fighting. He ran to crouch at another window and from there he could hear better. They were insulting each other and cursing but there were no blows, not yet. Only long silences, and then voices again, quieter. She seemed to be consenting. She’d had a visitor, and apparently the visitor was fucking her. Candelario Velando knew right away it wasn’t Señor Felícito Yanaqué. Did the señora have another lover, then? Finally, the house was completely silent.

Candelario went back to the corner where he’d fallen asleep. He sat down again, lit a cigarette, and waited, leaning his back against the wall. This time he didn’t nod off or become distracted. He was sure the visitor would reappear at some point. And in fact, he did reappear after a long time, taking the precautions that gave him away: barely opening the door, putting only his head out, looking to the right and the left, and only when he was sure no one would see him, beginning to walk. Candelario saw the full length of his body, and his silhouette and movements confirmed it couldn’t be the very short old man who owned Narihualá Transport. This was a young man. Candelario couldn’t make out his face, it was too dark. When he saw him heading toward the Puente Colgante, he went after him, walking slowly, trying not to be seen, keeping a fair distance without losing sight of him. He moved a little closer as they crossed the Puente Colgante because night owls were on the bridge and he could hide among them. Candelario saw him take one of the paths on the Plaza de Armas and disappear into the bar of the Hotel Los Portales. He waited a moment and then went in too. He was at the bar — young, white, good-looking, with an Elvis Presley pompadour — gulping down what must have been a small bottle of pisco. Then Candelario recognized him. He’d seen him when he came to the station on Avenida Sánchez Cerro to make his statement.

“Are you sure it was him, Candelario?” Sergeant Lituma asked, looking doubtful.

“It was Miguel, absolutely, positively, definitely,” Captain Silva said drily, bringing the cup of coffee up to his lips again. He seemed very uncomfortable saying what he was saying. “Yes, Señor Yanaqué. I’m very sorry. But it was Miguel.”

“My son Miguel?” the trucker repeated very rapidly, blinking constantly, waving one of his hands; he’d suddenly turned pale. “At midnight? At Mabel’s?”

“They were having an argument, Sergeant,” the guard Candelario Velando explained to Lituma. “They were really fighting, using curse words like ‘whore,’ ‘motherfucker,’ and worse. After that it was quiet for a long time. I imagined then what you must be imagining now: They made up and went to bed. And why else but to fuck, though I didn’t hear or see any of that. That’s only a guess.”

“You shouldn’t tell me those things,” Adelaida said, uncomfortable and lowering her eyes. Her lashes were long and silky and she was upset. She gave the trucker an affectionate pat on the knee. “Unless you think it will help you to tell me about them. Whatever you like, Felícito. Whatever you say. That’s what friends are for, hey waddya think.”

“A guess that reveals what a filthy mind you have, Candelario.” Lituma smiled at him. “Okay, boy. You passed. Since there are asses involved, the captain will like your story.”

“Finally, the end of the thread. We began to pull on it and undo the knot. I already suspected something when I questioned her after the kidnapping. There were too many contradictions, she didn’t know how to lie. That’s how it was, Señor Yanaqué,” the chief added. “Don’t think this is easy for us. I mean, giving you this awful news. I know it feels like a knife in the back. But it’s our duty, I hope you’ll forgive us.”

“No chance there’s been a mistake?” he murmured in a voice that was hollow now, and somewhat pleading. “No chance at all?”

“None at all,” stated Captain Silva pitilessly. “It’s been proved ad nauseam. Señora Mabel and your son Miguel have been pulling the wool over your eyes for a long time now. That’s where the spider story begins. We’re really sorry, Señor Yanaqué.”

“It’s more your son Miguel’s fault than Señora Mabel’s,” Lituma said, then immediately apologized for adding his two cents: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Felícito Yanaqué no longer seemed to be listening to the two police officers. His pallor had intensified; he looked at empty space as if a ghost had just materialized. His chin trembled.

“I really know what you’re feeling and my heart goes out to you, Felícito.” The holy woman had placed a hand on her chest. “Well, yes, you’re right. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest. Nothing you tell me will leave here, baby, you know that.”

She hit her chest and Felícito thought, “How strange, it sounded hollow.” Ashamed, he felt his eyes filling with tears again.