Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“Do you feel better after that little snooze, Don Felícito?” asked Captain Silva, giving him an affectionate pat on the arm.

“I nodded off for a minute, I’m sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. “Forgive me. So many emotions at the same time.”

“Sure, of course,” the officer reassured him. “Do you want to keep going or leave the rest for later, Don Felícito?”

He nodded, murmuring: “Let’s go on.” During the few minutes he’d had his eyes closed, the bar had filled with people, most of them men. They smoked, ordered sandwiches, sodas, beers, cups of coffee. The captain lowered his voice so he wouldn’t be overheard at the next table.

“Miguel and Mabel have been detained since last night and the investigating judge is up to date on everything. We have a meeting with the press at the station at six tonight. I don’t think you want to be present for that, do you, Don Felícito?”

“No way,” exclaimed the trucker, horrified. “Of course not!”

“You don’t have to come,” the captain assured him. “But prepare yourself. The reporters are going to drive you crazy.”

“Miguel confessed to all the charges?” Felícito asked.

“At first he denied them, but when he found out that Mabel had turned on him and would testify at the hearing, he had to accept reality. As I said, her testimony is devastating.”

“Thanks to Señora Mabel, in the end he confessed to everything,” Sergeant Lituma added. “She’s made our work easier. We’re writing up the report. It’ll be in the hands of the investigating judge tomorrow at the latest.”

“Will I have to see him?” Felícito spoke so quietly, the policemen had to lean their heads in to hear him. “Miguel, I mean.”

“At the trial, absolutely,” the captain said. “You’ll be the star witness. You’re the victim, remember.”

“And before the trial?” the trucker insisted.

“The investigating judge or the prosecutor may ask for a face-to-face meeting,” the captain explained. “In that case, yes. We don’t need to do that because, as Lituma said, Miguel confessed to all the charges. His lawyer may decide on another strategy and deny everything, claim that his confession is invalid because it was forced out of him through illegal means. You know, the usual story. But I don’t think he has any out. As long as Mabel cooperates, he’s a goner.”

“How much time will they give him?” the trucker asked.

“That will depend on the lawyer who represents him and how much he can spend on his defense,” said the chief, looking somewhat skeptical. “It won’t be much. The only act of violence was the small fire at your office. Extortion, false abduction, and conspiracy to commit a crime aren’t all that serious under the circumstances. Because they didn’t result in anything, they were all faked. Two or three years at most, I doubt he’ll get any longer. And since he’s a first-time offender and has no record, he might even avoid jail altogether.”

“What about her?” the trucker asked, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“Since she’s cooperating with the law, the sentence will be very light, Don Felícito. Maybe nothing will happen to her. After all, she was the white guy’s victim too. That’s what her lawyer might argue, and he wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Do you see, Adelaida?” Felícito Yanaqué said with a sigh. “They put me through weeks of torture, they burned my place on Avenida Sánchez Cerro — the losses have been big: A lot of customers left because they were afraid the extortionists would throw a bomb at my buses. And those two crooks will probably go home free and live the good life. Do you see what justice is in this country?”

He stopped talking because he saw that something had changed in the holy woman’s eyes. She was staring at him, her eyes wide, very serious and concentrated, as if she saw something unsettling inside or through him. She grasped one of his hands between her large, callused hands with their dirty nails. She squeezed it with great strength. Felícito shuddered, dying of fear.

“An inspiration, Adelaida?” he stammered, trying to free his hand. “What do you see, what’s going on? Please, dear friend.”

“Something’s about to happen to you, Felícito,” she said, squeezing his hand even harder, staring at him insistently with her deep, now feverish eyes. “I don’t know what, maybe what happened to you this morning with the cops, maybe something else. Worse or better, I don’t know. Something tremendous, very strong, a jolt that will change your whole life.”

“Do you mean, something different from everything that’s already happening to me? Even worse things, Adelaida? Isn’t my cross heavy enough?”

She moved her head like a madwoman and didn’t seem to hear him. She raised her voice.

“I don’t know if it’ll be better or worse, Felícito,” she shouted, terrified. “But I do know it’s more important than anything that’s happened to you so far. A revolution in your life, that’s what I see.”

“Even worse?” he repeated. “Can’t you tell me anything concrete, Adelaida?”

“No, no I can’t.” The holy woman freed his hand and slowly began to recover her usual appearance and manner. He saw her sigh and pass her hand over her face as if she were brushing away an insect. “I only tell you what I feel, what the inspiration makes me feel. I know it’s confusing. For me too, Felícito. It’s not my fault, it’s what God wants me to feel. He’s the one in charge. That’s all I can tell you. Be prepared, something’s going to happen. Something that will surprise you. I only hope it isn’t for the worse, baby.”

“For the worse?” the trucker exclaimed. “The only thing worse that could happen to me now would be to die, run over by a car, bitten by a rabid dog. Maybe that would be the best thing for me, Adelaida. Dying.”

“You’re not going to die yet, I can promise you that. Your death isn’t something the inspiration told me about.”

The holy woman looked exhausted. She was still on the floor, sitting on her heels and rubbing her hands and arms slowly, as if brushing away dust. Felícito decided to leave. Half the afternoon was over. He hadn’t eaten a thing at midday but wasn’t hungry. The mere idea of sitting down to eat filled him with disgust. With an effort he got up from the rocker and took out his wallet.

“You don’t need to give me anything,” said the holy woman from the floor. “Not today, Felícito.”

“Yes, I do,” said the trucker, leaving fifty soles on the nearest counter. “Not for that confused inspiration but for having comforted and advised me with so much kindness. You’re my best friend, Adelaida. That’s why I’ve always trusted you.”

He went out, buttoning his vest, adjusting his tie, his hat. He felt very hot again. The presence of so many people crowding the streets in the center of Piura oppressed him. Some recognized and greeted him with nods and bows while others were more secretive, merely pointing him out. Still others took pictures of him with their cell phones. He decided to stop by Narihualá Transport in case there were new developments. He looked at his watch: five o’clock. The press conference at the police station was at six. An hour until the news went off like gunpowder. It would explode on the radio and the Internet, to be spread by blogs and televised reports. He’d be the most popular man in Piura again. “Deceived by son and mistress,” “Son and mistress tried to extort him,” “The spiders were his son and his girlfriend, and on top of everything, they were lovers too!” He felt nauseated imagining the headlines, the caricatures that would show him in embarrassing poses, wearing horns that stretched to the clouds. What dogs they were! Ungrateful, thankless dogs! What Miguel had done angered him less. Because, thanks to the spider extortion, he’d confirmed his suspicion that Miguel wasn’t his son. Who could his real father be? Did Gertrudis even know? Back then, any patron at the inn fucked her, so there were plenty of candidates. Should he leave her? Get a divorce? He’d never loved her, but now, after so long, he couldn’t even feel rancor toward her. She hadn’t been a bad wife; in all these years her conduct had been exemplary, she’d lived only for her home and her religion. The news would shake her, naturally. A photograph of Miguel in handcuffs, behind bars for having tried to extort his father, the father he shared a mistress with, wasn’t something a mother would easily accept. She’d cry and hurry to the cathedral so the priests could console her.