Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“Hello, Don Rigoberto. Please excuse me for bothering you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Narciso. Let’s take a ride and we’ll be able to talk quietly.”

The driver wore a blue cap pulled down to his eyes and seemed thinner than the last time they’d seen each other. Rigoberto drove along the Costa Verde toward Barranco and Chorrillos, joining an already dense line of vehicles.

“You’ve probably seen that Ismael’s problems don’t end even after he’s dead,” Rigoberto finally remarked. “You must know by now that Armida’s disappeared, don’t you? It seems she’s been kidnapped.”

Since he received no answer and heard only the driver’s anxious breathing, he glanced over at him. Narciso was looking straight ahead, his lips pursed and an alarmed look in his eyes. His hands were interlaced and he was squeezing them hard.

“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about, Don Rigoberto,” he mumbled, turning to look at him and then immediately looking away.

“Do you mean Armida’s disappearance?” Don Rigoberto turned toward him again.

Ismael’s driver kept looking straight ahead, but he nodded with conviction two or three times.

“I’m going to turn into the Regatas and park there so we can talk in peace. Otherwise, I’ll have an accident.”

He drove into the Club Regatas lot and parked in the first row facing the ocean. It was a gray, cloudy morning, and many gulls, cormorants, and pelicans were flying around and screeching. A very thin girl in a blue sweat suit was doing yoga on the deserted beach.

“Don’t tell me you know who kidnapped Armida, Narciso.”

This time, the driver turned to look him in the eye and smiled, opening his mouth. His white teeth gleamed.

“Nobody’s kidnapped her, Don Rigoberto,” he said, becoming very serious. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, because it’s making me a little nervous. I just wanted to do Armida — I mean, Señora Armida — a favor. She and I were good friends when she was only Don Ismael’s servant. I always got along with her better than with the other employees. She didn’t put on airs and was very unaffected. And if she asked me for a favor for the sake of our old friendship, how could I say no? Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

“I’m going to ask you for one thing, Narciso,” Rigoberto interrupted. “Just tell me everything from the beginning. Don’t leave out the smallest detail. Please. But first tell me, is she alive?”

“As alive as you and me, Don Rigoberto. At least she was yesterday.”

In spite of Rigoberto’s request, Narciso didn’t get directly to the point. He liked, or couldn’t avoid, preambles, interpolations, uncontrolled digressions, circumlocutions, long parentheses. And it wasn’t always easy to lead him back to the chronological order that was the backbone of the narrative. Narciso quickly became lost in extraneous clarifications and comments. And yet, in a complicated and convoluted way, Rigoberto did learn that on the afternoon of the day he’d seen Ismael for the last time in his house in San Isidro, as it was growing dark, Narciso had been there too, called by Ismael Carrera himself. Both he and Armida thanked him profusely for his help and loyalty and tipped him very generously. That was why, when he learned a day later of the sudden death of his former employer, he hurried to offer his condolences to the señora. He also brought along a note, since he was sure she wouldn’t receive him. But Armida had him come in and exchanged a few words with him. The poor woman was shattered by the misfortune God had just sent to test her fortitude. As he was leaving, she asked to his surprise whether he had a cell phone where she could call him. He gave her the number, wondering in astonishment why she’d ever want to contact him.

And two days later, that is, the day before yesterday, Señora Armida called him late at night, when Narciso was about to get into bed after watching Magaly’s program on TV.

“What a surprise, what a surprise,” the driver said when he recognized her voice.

“Before, I always used the familiar tú with her,” Narciso explained to Don Rigoberto. “But after she married Don Ismael, I couldn’t anymore. Except I couldn’t say usted either. So I tried to talk to her in an impersonal way, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand perfectly, Narciso,” Rigoberto said, trying to get him to focus. “Go on, go on. What did Armida want?”

“I want you to do me a big favor, Narciso. Another favor, a huge one. I’m asking again for the sake of our old friendship.”

“Of course, sure, happy to,” said the driver. “And what is the favor exactly?”

“I want you to take me to a certain place tomorrow afternoon. Without anybody knowing. Could you do that?”

“And where did she want you to take her?” Don Rigoberto urged him along.

“It was the most mysterious thing,” Narciso digressed once again. “I don’t know if you remember, but behind the indoor garden, near the servants’ room, in Don Ismael’s house there’s a little service door that’s almost never used. It goes to the alley where they pick up the trash at night.”

“I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t get sidetracked, Narciso,” Rigoberto insisted. “Could you just tell me what Armida wanted?”

“For me to wait for her there, in my old jalopy, all afternoon. Until she came out. And without anybody seeing me. Isn’t that strange?”

It had seemed very strange to Narciso. But he did what she asked without any more questions. Early yesterday afternoon, he parked his car in the alley across from the service door of Don Ismael’s house. He waited close to two hours, dying of boredom, dozing sometimes, sometimes listening to funny remarks on the radio, watching stray dogs rooting through the garbage bags, asking himself over and over again what it all meant. Why was Armida taking so many precautions to leave her house? Why didn’t she go through the main door, in her Mercedes-Benz, with her new uniformed chauffeur and muscle-bound bodyguards? Why in secret and in Narciso’s old car? Finally the small door opened and Armida appeared, holding an overnight bag.

“Well, well, I was beginning to lose it,” said Narciso in greeting, opening the car door for her.

“Drive away fast, Narciso, before anybody sees us,” she ordered. “I mean fly.”

“She was really in a hurry, Don Rigoberto,” the driver explained. “That’s when I began to worry.”

“Why so many secrets, Armida, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Good, you’re calling me Armida again and using tú ,” she said with a laugh. “Seems like old times. Good call, Narciso.”

“A thousand pardons,” said the driver. “I know I have to use usted now that you’re a great señora.”

“Cut the bullshit and just call me tú , because I’m the same person I always was,” she said. “You’re not my driver, you’re my friend and my pal. Do you know what Ismael said about you? ‘That man is worth his weight in gold.’ That’s the truth, Narciso. You are.”

“At least tell me where you want me to take you,” he said.

“To the Cruz de Chalpón Terminal?” Don Rigoberto was amazed. “She was taking a trip? Armida was going to take a bus, Narciso?”

“I don’t know if she actually did it, but that’s where I drove her,” the driver agreed. “To that terminal. I told you she had an overnight bag. I guess she was taking a trip. She told me not to ask any questions and I didn’t.”

“The best thing would be for you to forget all about this, Narciso,” Armida repeated, shaking his hand. “For my sake and yours. There are bad people who want to hurt me. You know who they are. And all my friends too. You haven’t seen me, or brought me here, you don’t know anything about me. I’ll never be able to repay all I owe you, Narciso.”