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Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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drink, didn’t you guess what was coming?” murmured Salvador. The young man detected the grief flooding through his friend’s words.
“That it would be hard and ugly, yes, Turk,” he replied, trembling. “But never what was going to happen.”
The colonel poured another round. The three men had begun to smoke, and the head of the SIM spoke of how important it was not to allow the enemy within to raise his head, to crush him every time he attempted to act.
“Because as long as the enemy within is weak and disunited, it doesn’t matter what the foreign enemy does. Let the United States holler, let the OAS kick, let Venezuela and Costa Rica howl, they can’t do us any harm. In fact, they unite Dominicans like a fist around the Chief.”
He had a thin drawling voice, and he avoided the eyes of the person he was talking to. His eyes were small, dark, rapid, evasive, moving constantly as if seeing things hidden from other people. From time to time he wiped away sweat with a large red handkerchief.
“Especially the military.” He paused to flick the ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “And especially the military elite, Lieutenant García Guerrero. To which you now belong. The Chief wanted you to hear this.”
He paused again, drew deeply on his cigarette, took a drink of whiskey. Only then did he seem to discover that Major Figueroa Carrión existed:
“Does the lieutenant know what the Chief expects of him?”
“He doesn’t need anybody to tell him, he has more brains than any officer in his class.” The major had the face of a toad, and alcohol had accentuated and reddened his swollen features. Amadito had the impression that their conversation was a rehearsed play. “I imagine he knows; if not, he doesn’t deserve his new stripe.”
There was another pause while the colonel filled their glasses a third time. He put in the ice cubes with his hands. “ Salud ” and he drank and they drank. Amadito told himself he liked rum and Coca-Cola a thousand times more than whiskey, it was so bitter. And not until that moment did he understand the joke about Juanito Caminante. “How dumb not to get it,” he thought. The cololnel’s red handkerchief was so strange! He had seen white, blue, gray handkerchiefs. But red ones! What an idea.
“You’re going to have greater and greater responsibilities,” said the colonel, with a solemn air. “The Chief wants to be sure you’re up to the job.”
“What am I supposed to do, Colonel, sir?” All this preamble irritated Amadito. “I’ve always obeyed the orders of my superiors. I’ll never disappoint the Chief. This is a test of loyalty, right?”
The colonel, his head lowered, was staring at the table. When he looked up, the lieutenant noticed a gleam of satisfaction in those furtive eyes.
“It’s true, for officers with balls, Trujillistas down to the marrow of their bones, you don’t have to sweeten the pill.” He stood up. “You’re right, Lieutenant. We’ll finish our little piece of business and celebrate your new stripe at Puchita Brazobán’s place.”
“What did you have to do?” It was a struggle for Salvador to speak; his throat was raw, his expression morose.
“Kill a traitor with my own hands. That’s how he said it: ‘And without your hands trembling, Lieutenant.’ ”
When they went out to the courtyard of La Cuarenta, Amadito felt his temples throbbing. Beside a large bamboo tree, next to the chalet that had been converted into a prison and torture center for the SIM, near the jeep they had come in, was another, almost identical jeep, its headlights turned off. In the back seat, two guards with rifles flanked a man whose hands were tied and whose mouth was covered by a towel.
“Come with me, Lieutenant,” said Johnny Abbes, getting behind the wheel of the jeep where the guards were sitting. “Follow us, Roberto.”
As the two vehicles left the prison and took the coastal highway, a storm broke, filling the night with
“That it would be hard and ugly, yes, Turk,” he replied, trembling. “But never what was going to happen.”
The colonel poured another round. The three men had begun to smoke, and the head of the SIM spoke of how important it was not to allow the enemy within to raise his head, to crush him every time he attempted to act.
“Because as long as the enemy within is weak and disunited, it doesn’t matter what the foreign enemy does. Let the United States holler, let the OAS kick, let Venezuela and Costa Rica howl, they can’t do us any harm. In fact, they unite Dominicans like a fist around the Chief.”
He had a thin drawling voice, and he avoided the eyes of the person he was talking to. His eyes were small, dark, rapid, evasive, moving constantly as if seeing things hidden from other people. From time to time he wiped away sweat with a large red handkerchief.
“Especially the military.” He paused to flick the ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “And especially the military elite, Lieutenant García Guerrero. To which you now belong. The Chief wanted you to hear this.”
He paused again, drew deeply on his cigarette, took a drink of whiskey. Only then did he seem to discover that Major Figueroa Carrión existed:
“Does the lieutenant know what the Chief expects of him?”
“He doesn’t need anybody to tell him, he has more brains than any officer in his class.” The major had the face of a toad, and alcohol had accentuated and reddened his swollen features. Amadito had the impression that their conversation was a rehearsed play. “I imagine he knows; if not, he doesn’t deserve his new stripe.”
There was another pause while the colonel filled their glasses a third time. He put in the ice cubes with his hands. “ Salud ” and he drank and they drank. Amadito told himself he liked rum and Coca-Cola a thousand times more than whiskey, it was so bitter. And not until that moment did he understand the joke about Juanito Caminante. “How dumb not to get it,” he thought. The cololnel’s red handkerchief was so strange! He had seen white, blue, gray handkerchiefs. But red ones! What an idea.
“You’re going to have greater and greater responsibilities,” said the colonel, with a solemn air. “The Chief wants to be sure you’re up to the job.”
“What am I supposed to do, Colonel, sir?” All this preamble irritated Amadito. “I’ve always obeyed the orders of my superiors. I’ll never disappoint the Chief. This is a test of loyalty, right?”
The colonel, his head lowered, was staring at the table. When he looked up, the lieutenant noticed a gleam of satisfaction in those furtive eyes.
“It’s true, for officers with balls, Trujillistas down to the marrow of their bones, you don’t have to sweeten the pill.” He stood up. “You’re right, Lieutenant. We’ll finish our little piece of business and celebrate your new stripe at Puchita Brazobán’s place.”
“What did you have to do?” It was a struggle for Salvador to speak; his throat was raw, his expression morose.
“Kill a traitor with my own hands. That’s how he said it: ‘And without your hands trembling, Lieutenant.’ ”
When they went out to the courtyard of La Cuarenta, Amadito felt his temples throbbing. Beside a large bamboo tree, next to the chalet that had been converted into a prison and torture center for the SIM, near the jeep they had come in, was another, almost identical jeep, its headlights turned off. In the back seat, two guards with rifles flanked a man whose hands were tied and whose mouth was covered by a towel.
“Come with me, Lieutenant,” said Johnny Abbes, getting behind the wheel of the jeep where the guards were sitting. “Follow us, Roberto.”
As the two vehicles left the prison and took the coastal highway, a storm broke, filling the night with
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