Mario Vargas Llosa - The Discreet Hero

“It must be because I don’t feel very well,” an uncomfortable Felícito apologized. “Maybe I’m getting a cold. I’ve had a headache all day and I keep getting the shivers.”

“I’ll fix you a nice hot cup of tea with lemon and then I’ll give you some loving and see if we can wake up this sleepyhead.” Mabel jumped out of bed and put on her robe again. “Don’t you fall asleep on me too, old man.”

But when she came back from the kitchen holding a steaming cup of tea and a Panadol, Felícito had dressed. He was waiting for her in the living room with its crimson flowered furniture, withdrawn and serious beneath the illuminated image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

“You have something more than a cold,” said Mabel, curling up beside him and scrutinizing him in an exaggerated way. “Maybe you don’t like me anymore. Maybe you’ve fallen in love with some cute little Piuran out there.”

Felícito shook his head, took her hand, and kissed it.

“I love you more than anybody in the world, Mabelita,” he said tenderly. “I’ll never fall in love with anyone else, I know I’d never find another woman like you anywhere.”

He sighed and took the letter with the spider out of his pocket.

“I received this letter and I’m very worried,” he said, handing it to her. “I trust you, Mabel. Read it and see what you think.”

Mabel read it and reread it, very slowly. The little smile that always fluttered around her lips was fading. Her eyes filled with uneasiness.

“You’ll have to go to the police, right?” she said at last, hesitatingly. She seemed disconcerted. “This is a shakedown and I guess you have to file a complaint.”

“I already went to the police station. But they didn’t take it very seriously. The truth is, sweetheart, I don’t know what to do. The police sergeant I talked to said something that’s true all of a sudden. Since there’s so much progress now in Piura, crime is increasing too. Gangs are demanding money from merchants and businesses. I’d heard about it but never thought it could touch me. I confess I’m a little nervous, Mabelita. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re not going to give them the money they’re asking for, are you, old man?”

“Not a cent, absolutely not. I don’t let anybody walk all over me, you can be sure about that.”

He told her that Adelaida had advised him to give in to the extortionists.

“I think this is the first time in my life I’m not going to follow the inspiration of my friend the holy woman.”

“You’re so naïve, Felícito,” was Mabel’s irritated response. “Talking about something so important with that witch. I don’t know how you can swallow all the fairy tales that hustler feeds you.”

“With me she’s never been wrong.” Felícito regretted having mentioned Adelaida; he knew Mabel detested her. “Don’t worry, this time I won’t follow her advice. I can’t. I won’t do it. That must be what’s making me upset. It feels like something awful is bearing down on me.”

Mabel had become very serious. Felícito saw those pretty red lips pursing nervously. She raised a hand and slowly smoothed his hair.

“I wish I could help you, old man, but I don’t know how.”

Felícito smiled at her, nodding. He stood, indicating that he’d decided to leave.

“Don’t you want me to get dressed so we can go to the movies? It’ll take your mind off this for a while, come on.”

“No, sweetheart, I don’t feel like the movies. Another day. Forgive me. I’m going to bed instead, because what I said about a cold is true.”

Mabel walked with him to the door and opened it so he could go out. And then, with a start, Felícito saw the envelope attached beside the doorbell. It was white, not blue like the first one, and smaller. He guessed instantly what it was. A few steps away some boys were spinning tops on the sidewalk. Before opening the envelope, Felícito went to ask them if they’d seen who put it there. The kids looked at one another in surprise and shrugged. Naturally nobody had seen anything. When he went back to the house, Mabel was very pale, and a gleam of distress flickered deep in her eyes.

“Do you think that…?” she murmured, biting her lips. She looked at the unopened white envelope in his hand as if she could make it disappear.

Felícito went inside, turned on the light in the small hallway, and with Mabel hanging from his arm and craning her neck to read what he was reading, he recognized the capital letters in the same blue ink.

Señor Yanaqué:

You made a mistake going to the police station in spite of the recommendation made by the organization. We want this matter to be resolved privately, through dialogue. But you’re declaring war on us. You’ll have it, if that’s what you prefer. And if that’s the case, we can promise you’ll lose. And you’ll be sorry. You’ll have proof very soon that we’re capable of responding to your provocations. Don’t be obstinate, we’re telling you this for your own good. Don’t risk what you’ve achieved after so many years of hard work, Señor Yanaqué. And above all, don’t bring your complaints to the police again, because you’ll regret it. Think of the consequences.

May God keep you.

The drawing of the spider that substituted for a signature was identical to the one in the first letter.

“But why did they put it here, on my house?” Mabel stammered, clutching tightly at his arm. He felt her trembling from head to toe. She’d turned pale.

“To let me know they know about my private life, what else could it be?” Felícito put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her. She shuddered, and it made him sad. He kissed her hair. “You don’t know how sorry I am that you’ve become mixed up in this because of me, Mabelita. Be very careful, sweetheart. Don’t open the door without checking the peephole first. Better yet, don’t go out alone at night until this is straightened out. Who knows what these guys are capable of?”

He kissed her hair again and whispered in her ear before he left: “I swear on the memory of my father, the holiest thing I have, that nobody will ever hurt you, love.”

In the few minutes that had passed since he’d gone out to talk to the boys spinning tops, it had grown dark. The old-fashioned lights in the area barely lit the sidewalks that were filled with large cracks and potholes. He heard barking and obsessive music, the same note over and over again, as if someone were tuning a guitar. Even though he kept tripping, he walked quickly. He almost ran across the narrow Puente Colgante, now a pedestrian walkway, and recalled that when he was a boy, the nocturnal lights reflected in the Piura River frightened him, made him think of a whole world of devils and ghosts in the depths of the water. He didn’t respond to the greeting of a couple coming toward him. It took him almost half an hour to reach the police station on Avenida Sánchez Cerro. He was sweating and so agitated he could barely speak.

“We don’t usually see the public this late,” said the very young police officer at the entrance, “unless it’s a very urgent matter, señor.”

“It’s urgent, extremely urgent,” Felícito said in a rush. “Can I speak to Sergeant Lituma?”

“What name shall I give him?”

“Felícito Yanaqué, Narihualá Transport. I was here a few days ago to file a complaint. Tell him something very serious has happened.”

He had to wait a long time out on the street, listening to the sound of male voices speaking obscenities inside the station. He saw a waning moon rise over the surrounding roofs. His entire body was burning, as if he were being consumed by fever. He recalled his father’s fits of shaking when he suffered attacks of tertian fever back in Chulucanas, and the cure was to sweat it out, wrapped in a heap of burlap. But it was fury, not fever, that made him tremble. At last the very young, beardless policeman returned and had him go in. The light inside the station was as dim and sad as on the streets of Castilla. This time the officer didn’t show him to Sergeant Lituma’s tiny cubicle but to a larger office. The sergeant was there with a higher-ranking officer — a captain, judging by the three stripes on the epaulets of his shirt — short, fat, and with a mustache. He looked at Felícito without joy. His open mouth revealed yellow teeth. Apparently Felícito had interrupted a game of checkers. He was about to speak, but the captain cut him short with a gesture.