Read Online The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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thunder and lightning. The violent downpour kept them from speaking.
“Just as well it’s raining, even if we get wet,” the colonel remarked. “It’ll break the heat. The campesinos were praying for a little rain.”
He didn’t remember how long they drove, but it couldn’t have been very long, because he did remember that when he went into Pucha Vittini’s brothel after parking the jeep on Calle Juana Saltitopa, the clock on the wall of the foyer was striking ten. Everything, from the time he picked up Major Figueroa Carrión at his house, had taken less than two hours. Abbes García drove off the highway, and the jeep bucked and shook as if it were going to fall apart as they crossed a field of tall weeds and stones, followed closely by the major’s jeep, whose headlights lit the way. It was dark, but the lieutenant knew they were moving parallel to the ocean: the sound of the waves had grown so loud that it filled his ears. He thought they were near the small port of La Caleta. As soon as the jeep stopped, so did the rain. The colonel jumped down, followed by Amadito. The two guards were well trained: without waiting for orders they pushed out the prisoner. In a flash of lightning the lieutenant saw that the gagged man wore no shoes. During the drive he had been absolutely docile, but as soon as he touched the ground, as if finally aware of what was going to happen, he began to twist, to roar, trying to loosen the ropes and gag. Amadito, who until then had avoided looking at him, observed the convulsive movements of his head as he attempted to free his mouth, say something, perhaps plead for mercy, perhaps curse them. “Suppose I take out my revolver and shoot the colonel, the major, the two guards, and let him run away?” he thought.
“Instead of one dead man on the rocks, there’d be two,” said Salvador.
“Good thing it stopped raining,” Major Figueroa Carrión complained as he climbed out. “I’m soaked, damn it.”
“Do you have your weapon?” asked Colonel Abbes García. “Don’t make the poor bastard suffer any more.”
Amadito nodded, not saying a word. He took a few steps until he stood next to the prisoner. The soldiers released him and moved away. The man did not start to run, as Amadito thought he would. His legs would not obey him, fear kept him nailed to the weeds and mud in the field, where a strong wind blew. But though he did not attempt to escape, he continued moving his head, desperately, right and left, up and down, in a useless effort to get rid of the gag. He continued his choked roaring. Lieutenant García Guerrero put the barrel of his pistol to the man’s temple and fired. The shot deafened him and made him close his eyes for a second.
“Again,” said Abbes García. “You never know.”
Amadito, bending over, touched the head of the man sprawled on the ground—he was still and silent—and shot again at point-blank range.
“That’s it,” said the colonel, taking his arm and pushing him toward the jeep of Major Figueroa Carrión. “The guards know what they have to do. Let’s go to Puchita’s and warm things up.”
In the jeep, driven by Roberto, Lieutenant García Guerrero was silent, half listening to the conversation between the colonel and the major. He remembered something they said:
“They’ll bury him there?”
“They’ll throw him in the ocean,” explained the head of the SIM. “It’s the advantage of these rocks. On top, they’re sharp as knives. Down below, there’s an entrance to the sea, very deep, like a well. Full of sharks, waiting. They eat them in seconds. It’s really something to see. They leave no trace. Sure, rapid, and clean, too.”
“Would you recognize the rocks?” Salvador asked.
No. All he remembered is that before they got there, they had passed that small bay, La Caleta. But he could not reconstruct the entire route from La Cuarenta.
“I’ll give you a sleeping pill.” Salvador put his hand back on his knee.
“Just as well it’s raining, even if we get wet,” the colonel remarked. “It’ll break the heat. The campesinos were praying for a little rain.”
He didn’t remember how long they drove, but it couldn’t have been very long, because he did remember that when he went into Pucha Vittini’s brothel after parking the jeep on Calle Juana Saltitopa, the clock on the wall of the foyer was striking ten. Everything, from the time he picked up Major Figueroa Carrión at his house, had taken less than two hours. Abbes García drove off the highway, and the jeep bucked and shook as if it were going to fall apart as they crossed a field of tall weeds and stones, followed closely by the major’s jeep, whose headlights lit the way. It was dark, but the lieutenant knew they were moving parallel to the ocean: the sound of the waves had grown so loud that it filled his ears. He thought they were near the small port of La Caleta. As soon as the jeep stopped, so did the rain. The colonel jumped down, followed by Amadito. The two guards were well trained: without waiting for orders they pushed out the prisoner. In a flash of lightning the lieutenant saw that the gagged man wore no shoes. During the drive he had been absolutely docile, but as soon as he touched the ground, as if finally aware of what was going to happen, he began to twist, to roar, trying to loosen the ropes and gag. Amadito, who until then had avoided looking at him, observed the convulsive movements of his head as he attempted to free his mouth, say something, perhaps plead for mercy, perhaps curse them. “Suppose I take out my revolver and shoot the colonel, the major, the two guards, and let him run away?” he thought.
“Instead of one dead man on the rocks, there’d be two,” said Salvador.
“Good thing it stopped raining,” Major Figueroa Carrión complained as he climbed out. “I’m soaked, damn it.”
“Do you have your weapon?” asked Colonel Abbes García. “Don’t make the poor bastard suffer any more.”
Amadito nodded, not saying a word. He took a few steps until he stood next to the prisoner. The soldiers released him and moved away. The man did not start to run, as Amadito thought he would. His legs would not obey him, fear kept him nailed to the weeds and mud in the field, where a strong wind blew. But though he did not attempt to escape, he continued moving his head, desperately, right and left, up and down, in a useless effort to get rid of the gag. He continued his choked roaring. Lieutenant García Guerrero put the barrel of his pistol to the man’s temple and fired. The shot deafened him and made him close his eyes for a second.
“Again,” said Abbes García. “You never know.”
Amadito, bending over, touched the head of the man sprawled on the ground—he was still and silent—and shot again at point-blank range.
“That’s it,” said the colonel, taking his arm and pushing him toward the jeep of Major Figueroa Carrión. “The guards know what they have to do. Let’s go to Puchita’s and warm things up.”
In the jeep, driven by Roberto, Lieutenant García Guerrero was silent, half listening to the conversation between the colonel and the major. He remembered something they said:
“They’ll bury him there?”
“They’ll throw him in the ocean,” explained the head of the SIM. “It’s the advantage of these rocks. On top, they’re sharp as knives. Down below, there’s an entrance to the sea, very deep, like a well. Full of sharks, waiting. They eat them in seconds. It’s really something to see. They leave no trace. Sure, rapid, and clean, too.”
“Would you recognize the rocks?” Salvador asked.
No. All he remembered is that before they got there, they had passed that small bay, La Caleta. But he could not reconstruct the entire route from La Cuarenta.
“I’ll give you a sleeping pill.” Salvador put his hand back on his knee.
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