Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“That’s what I thought at first, señora, though now I’m not so sure,” Dr. Arnillas explained. “Armida’s disappearance isn’t to their advantage at all, especially right now. The talks at Nuñez Notary were heading in the right direction. An agreement was being worked out so they could receive a little more money. It all depends on Armida. Ismael didn’t leave any loose ends. The bulk of the inheritance is sheltered in offshore foundations in the safest fiscal paradises on earth. If the widow disappears, nobody will receive a penny of the fortune. Not the hyenas, not the servants, not anybody. I wouldn’t even be able to collect my fees. So things are looking pretty bleak.”

His sad, helpless expression was so ridiculous that Rigoberto couldn’t control his laughter.

“May I ask what you’re laughing at, Rigoberto?” Doña Lucrecia looked at him in annoyance. “Do you think there’s something funny in this tragedy?”

“I know why you’re laughing, Rigoberto,” said Dr. Arnillas. “Because now you feel free. In fact, the lawsuit over Ismael’s marriage isn’t going forward. It’ll be dismissed. In any case, it wouldn’t have had the slightest effect on the inheritance, which, as I told you, is beyond the reach of Peruvian law. Nothing can be done. The money belongs to Armida. She and the kidnappers will divide it up. Do you realize that? Of course it’s laughable.”

“You mean the Swiss and Singaporean bankers will have it,” added Rigoberto, serious again. “I’m laughing at what a stupid ending to this story that would be if it really happens, Dr. Arnillas.”

“In other words, we, at least, are free of the nightmare?” asked Doña Lucrecia.

“In principle, yes,” Arnillas concurred. “Unless you’re the ones who have kidnapped or killed the multimillionaire widow.”

And suddenly he laughed too, hysterical, noisy laughter, laughter devoid of any joy. He removed his glasses, wiped them with a flannel cloth, tried to straighten out his clothes, and becoming very serious again murmured, “Laughing to keep from crying, as the saying goes.” He stood and took his leave, promising to keep them informed. If they heard any news — he didn’t discount the possibility that the kidnappers might call them — they could reach him on his cell phone any time, day or night. Control Risk, a specialized firm in New York, would be negotiating the ransom.

As soon as Dr. Arnillas left, a disconsolate Lucrecia began to cry. Rigoberto tried in vain to comfort her. She was shaken by sobs, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Poor thing, poor thing,” she whispered. “They’ve killed her, it was those dogs, who else could it be. Or they had her abducted to rob her of everything Ismael left her.” Justiniana brought her a glass of water with a few drops of paregoric, which finally calmed her down. She stayed in the living room, quiet and dejected. Rigoberto was moved, seeing his wife so despondent. Lucrecia was right. It was very possible the twins were behind this; they had the most to lose and must be going crazy at the idea that the entire inheritance would slip away from them. My God, what stories ordinary life devised; not masterpieces to be sure, they were doubtless closer to Venezuelan, Brazilian, Colombian, and Mexican soap operas than to Cervantes and Tolstoy. But then again not so far from Alexandre Dumas, Émile Zola, Charles Dickens, or Benito Pérez Galdós.

He felt confused and demoralized. Of course, it was good to have shaken off that damn lawsuit. As soon as it was confirmed, he’d update the tickets to Europe. Right. Put an ocean between them and this melodrama. Paintings, museums, operas, concerts, first-rate theater, exquisite restaurants. Right. Poor Armida, she got out of hell, had a taste of heaven, and was right back in the flames again. Kidnapped or murdered. Which was worse?

Justiniana came into the dining room, her expression very serious. She looked disconcerted.

“What is it now?” asked Rigoberto, and Lucrecia, as if emerging from a centuries-long sleep, opened her eyes, still wet from crying, very wide.

“I think Narciso’s lost his mind,” said Justiniana, putting a finger to her temple. “He’s acting very strange. He wouldn’t give his name, but I recognized his voice right away. He seems very frightened. He wants to talk to you, señor.”

“I’ll take the call in my study, Justiniana.”

He hurried out of the dining room, heading for his study. He was sure this call would bring bad news.

“Hello, hello,” he said into the receiver, prepared for the worst.

“You know who you’re talking to, don’t you?” answered a voice he recognized right away. “Please don’t say my name.”

“All right, agreed,” said Rigoberto. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s urgent I see you,” said a frightened and perturbed Narciso. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s very important, señor.”

“Yes, of course, certainly.” He tried to think where they could meet. “Do you remember where we had lunch the last time with your employer?”

“I remember it very well,” said the driver after a brief pause.

“Wait for me there in exactly an hour. I’ll pick you up in the car. See you soon.”

When he returned to the dining room to tell Lucrecia about Narciso’s call, Rigoberto found his wife and Justiniana glued to the television set. They were hypnotized by Raúl Vargas, the star reporter for news channel RPP, who was giving details and speculating about the mysterious disappearance yesterday of Doña Armida de Carrera, the widow of the well-known businessman Don Ismael Carrera, recently deceased. The orders of the minister of the interior not to divulge the news had been useless. Now all Peru, like them, would be aware of this new development. Limeños would have their entertainment for a while, listening to Raúl Vargas. He said more or less what they already knew: She’d disappeared yesterday, early in the afternoon, after an appearance at Nuñez Notary related to the opening of the deceased’s will. The meeting was scheduled to resume in the afternoon. The disappearance occurred during the break. The police had detained all the servants in the house, as well as the widow’s four bodyguards, for questioning. There was no confirmation of an abduction, but that was the assumption. The police had announced a number to call if anyone had seen her or knew of her whereabouts. He showed photographs of Armida and of Ismael’s burial, recalled the scandal of the marriage of the wealthy entrepreneur to his former maid. And he announced that the dead man’s two sons had issued a communiqué expressing their sorrow at what had happened and their hope that the señora would reappear safe and sound. They offered a reward to anyone helping to find her.

“The whole pack of reporters will want to interview me now,” Rigoberto said, cursing.

“They’ve already begun,” Justiniana said, administering the final blow. “So far two radio stations and a newspaper have called.”

“The best thing is to disconnect the phone,” Rigoberto ordered.

“Right away,” said Justiniana.

“What did Narciso want?” asked Doña Lucrecia.

“I don’t know, but he was very frightened,” he explained. “The hyenas must have done something to him. I’m going to see him now. We made a plan like they do in the movies, without saying where. Probably we’ll never find each other.”

He showered and went straight down to the garage. As he was leaving, he saw reporters with cameras at the entrance to his building. Before driving to La Rosa Náutica, where he’d had lunch for the last time with Ismael Carrera, he drove around the streets of Miraflores to make certain no one was following him. Narciso probably had money problems, but that was no reason to take so many precautions and hide his identity. Or maybe it was. Well, he’d find out soon enough what was wrong. He drove into the parking lot of La Rosa Náutica and saw Narciso emerge from between the cars. He opened the door for him, and the black man climbed in and sat down beside him.