Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“Excuse me, Doctor, I know this isn’t the right time,” Rigoberto interrupted. “But you know better than anybody everything that’s been left hanging with Ismael’s death. Do you have any idea of what’s going to happen now?”

Arnillas nodded. He’d asked for coffee and held the cup to his mouth. He blew on it slowly. In his lean, bony face, his steely, astute eyes looked doubtful.

“It all depends on those two gentlemen,” he said with a sigh, expanding his chest. “Tomorrow the will is opened at Nuñez Notary. I more or less know its contents. We’ll see how the hyenas react. Their lawyer is a shyster who advises them to threaten and make war. I don’t know how far they’ll want to take this. Señor Carrera has left practically his entire fortune to Armida, so we’ll have to be prepared for the worst.”

He shrugged, resigning himself to the inevitable. Rigoberto assumed that the inevitable was the twins screaming bloody murder. And he thought about the extraordinary paradoxes in life: one of the humblest women in Peru transformed overnight into one of the richest.

“But didn’t Ismael give them their inheritance in advance?” he recalled. “He did that when he had to throw them out of the company because of all the trouble they were making, I remember that very clearly. He gave them each a large amount of money.”

“But he did it informally, with a simple letter.” Dr. Arnillas shrugged again and frowned as he adjusted his glasses. “There was no public document of any kind, and no formal acceptance on their part. The matter can be legally contested, and undoubtedly will be. I doubt very much that the twins will give up so easily. I’m afraid the battle will go on for some time.”

“Let Armida settle and give them something so they’ll leave her in peace,” Don Rigoberto suggested. “The worst thing for her would be a prolonged lawsuit. It would last for years and the lawyers would keep three-quarters of the money. Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t mean you, it was a joke.”

“Thanks for my share,” Dr. Arnillas said with a laugh and stood up. “I certainly agree. A settlement is always best. We’ll soon see where this is heading. I’ll keep you informed, of course.”

“Will I still be involved in this?” Rigoberto asked, standing up as well.

“Naturally we’ll try to prevent that,” the lawyer halfheartedly reassured him. “Judicial action against you now makes no sense since Don Ismael has died. But you never know with our judges. I’ll call you immediately as soon as I have any news.”

For the three days following the burial of Ismael Carrera, Rigoberto was paralyzed by uncertainty. Lucrecia called Armida several times, but she never came to the phone. A woman’s voice would answer, someone who sounded more like a secretary than a domestic servant. Señora Carrera was resting, and for the moment, for obvious reasons, she preferred not to receive visitors; she’d give her the message, naturally. Rigoberto couldn’t communicate with Dr. Arnillas either. He was never in his office or his house; he’d just gone out or hadn’t returned yet, he had urgent meetings, he’d return the call as soon as he had a free moment.

What was going on? What could be going on? Had the will already been opened? What would the twins’ reaction be when they learned that Ismael had declared Armida his sole heir? They’d contest the will and argue it was null and void because it violated Peruvian laws that stipulated an obligatory third for the children. The law wouldn’t recognize the advance payment of their inheritance that Ismael had made to the twins. Would Rigoberto still be implicated in the hyenas’ lawsuit? Would they persist? Would he be summoned again to appear before that horrible judge in that claustrophobic office? Would he be obliged to stay in Peru until the suit was settled?

He devoured the papers and listened to all the radio and television reports, but the matter wasn’t news yet, it was still confined to the offices of executors, notaries, and lawyers. In his study, Rigoberto racked his brains trying to guess what was happening in those stuffy offices. He had no desire to listen to music — even his beloved Mahler got on his nerves — or concentrate on a book, or look at his prints, losing himself in fantasy. He could barely eat. He hadn’t said much more than good morning and good night to Fonchito and Doña Lucrecia. He didn’t go out for fear he’d be surrounded by reporters and not know how to answer their questions. In spite of all his prejudices, he had to use the sleeping pills he hated.

Finally, very early on the fourth day, when Fonchito had just left for school and Rigoberto and Lucrecia, still in their bathrobes, were sitting down to breakfast, Dr. Claudio Arnillas came to the penthouse in Barranco. He looked as if he’d survived a disaster. The dark circles under his eyes indicated sleepless nights, the stubble on his face made it seem as if he’d forgotten to shave for the past three days, and his clothing — a crooked tie, very wrinkled shirt collar, one of the psychedelic suspenders unfastened, his shoes unpolished — displayed a carelessness that was surprising, for he always was very well dressed and groomed. He shook their hands, apologized for showing up unexpectedly and so early, and accepted a cup of coffee. Immediately after sitting down at the table, he explained what had brought him.

“Have you seen Armida? Have you spoken to her? Do you know where she is? I need you to be very frank with me. For her sake and your own.”

Don Rigoberto and Doña Lucrecia shook their heads and looked at him, mouths agape. Dr. Arnillas realized his questions had stunned them and seemed to become even more depressed.

“I can see you have no clue, like me,” he said. “Yes, Armida’s disappeared.”

“The hyenas…” murmured Rigoberto, who’d turned pale. He imagined the poor widow abducted and perhaps murdered, her corpse thrown to the sharks in the ocean or onto some garbage dump outside the city for the turkey buzzards and stray dogs to finish off.

“Nobody knows where she is.” Dr. Arnillas, despondent, slumped in his chair. “The two of you were my last hope.”

Armida had disappeared twenty-four hours earlier in a very strange way, after spending the entire morning at Nuñez Notary, summoned there along with Miki and Escobita, their shyster lawyer, Arnillas, and two or three attorneys from his office. The meeting was interrupted at one, for lunch, and was supposed to reconvene at four. Armida, with her chauffeur and four bodyguards, returned to her house in San Isidro. She said she had no desire to eat and would take a short nap in order to be rested for the afternoon appearance. She went to her room, and at a quarter to four, when the maid knocked on her door and went in, the bedroom was empty. No one had seen her leave the room or the house. The bedroom was in perfect order — the bed was made — and there was no indication of violence. The bodyguards, the butler, the chauffeur, the two maids who were in the house — no one had seen her or noticed any stranger lurking outside. Dr. Arnillas immediately called the twins, convinced they were responsible for her disappearance. But Miki and Escobita, terrified by what had happened, raised a huge fuss and in turn accused Arnillas of trying to ambush them. Finally, all three went together to file a complaint with the police. The minister of the interior had intervened, giving instructions to everyone to say nothing about it for the moment. No information was to be given to the press until the kidnappers contacted the family. There had been a general mobilization but so far no trace of either Armida or her abductors.

“It was them, the hyenas,” Doña Lucrecia declared. “They bought off the bodyguards, the chauffeur, and the servants. Of course it was them.”