The Discreet Hero

XIV

The winter Tuesday in Lima, which Don Rigoberto and Doña Lucrecia would consider the worst day of their lives, dawned, paradoxically, with a cloudless sky and the promise of sun. After two weeks of persistent fog and damp and an intermittent drizzle that barely wet anything but penetrated down to one’s bones, this kind of beginning seemed a good omen.

Rigoberto’s appointment in the office of the examining magistrate was for ten that morning. Dr. Claudio Arnillas, with his invariable gaudy suspenders and crooked-leg walk, picked him up at nine, as previously arranged. Rigoberto thought this new proceeding before the judge would, like the earlier ones, be a sheer waste of time — stupid questions about his duties and responsibilities as manager of the insurance company, to which he would reply with obvious explanations and equivalent foolishness. But this time he discovered that the twins had escalated their judicial harassment; in addition to paralyzing his retirement process under the pretext of examining his responsibilities and personal income during his years of service at the company, they’d opened a new judicial investigation into an alleged fraudulent action to the detriment of the insurance company in which he had supposedly been an accessory after the fact, a beneficiary, and an accomplice.

Don Rigoberto barely remembered the episode, which had occurred three years before. The client, a Mexican residing in Lima, owner of a small farm and a factory that produced dairy products in the Chillón valley, had been the victim of a fire that destroyed his property. Following the police investigation and the judge’s decision, he was compensated according to his policy for the losses he’d suffered. When, after a partner’s accusations, he was charged with contriving to set the fire himself in order to fraudulently collect the insurance, the individual had already left the country, leaving no trace of his new location, and the company had been unable to recoup its losses from the swindle. Now the twins said they had proof that Rigoberto, manager of the company, had acted negligently and suspiciously throughout the entire affair. The proof consisted of the testimony of a former employee of the company who’d been fired for incompetence and who claimed he could prove the manager had been in cahoots with the swindler. It was a preposterous situation, and Dr. Arnillas, who’d already filed a judicial rejoinder against the twins and their false witness for libel and slander, assured him the accusation would collapse like a house of cards; Miki and Escobita would have to pay fines for offenses to his honor, false testimony, and intent to defraud justice.

The process took the entire morning. The narrow, suffocating office was simmering with heat and flies, and the walls were marred by tacked-up forms. Sitting in a small, rickety chair that barely held half his buttocks and, to make matters even worse, that rocked back and forth, Rigoberto was constantly balancing to avoid falling to the floor as he responded to the judge’s questions, which were so arbitrary and absurd that, he said to himself, they had no purpose other than to waste his time and make him lose his temper and his patience. Had this judge also been bribed by Ismael’s sons? Every day that dissolute pair piled on another annoyance intended to force him into testifying that their father wasn’t in his right mind when he married his servant. Not only holding up his retirement but now this. The twins knew very well that this accusation might be counterproductive for them. Why were they making it? Was it simply blind hatred, a desire for bullheaded revenge because of his complicity in that marriage? A Freudian transference, perhaps. They were furious, out for his blood because they couldn’t do anything to Ismael and Armida, who were having the time of their lives in Europe. They were wrong. He wouldn’t give in. We’d see who laughed last in the war they’d declared on him.

The judge was a small, thin, badly dressed man who spoke without looking into the eyes of his interlocutor in a voice so low and indecisive that Don Rigoberto’s irritation increased by the minute. Was anyone recording the interrogation? Apparently not. A secretary sat hunched between the judge and the wall, his head buried in an enormous file, but there was no tape recorder visible. For his part, the magistrate had a small notebook in which, from time to time, he scrawled something so rapidly it couldn’t have been even a very brief synthesis of his statement. Which meant this entire interrogation was a farce intended only to harass him. Rigoberto was so annoyed that he had to make a huge effort to take part in the ridiculous pantomime and not explode in a fit of rage. When they left, Dr. Arnillas said he ought to be happy: By showing so little enthusiasm, the investigative magistrate had made it clear he didn’t take the hyenas’ accusation seriously. He’d declare it null and void, Dr. Arnillas was absolutely certain of that.

Rigoberto returned home tired, in a bad mood, and with no desire for lunch. It was enough for him to see Doña Lucrecia’s contorted face to realize that more bad news was waiting for him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as he took off his jacket and hung it in the bedroom closet. Since his wife didn’t answer right away, he turned to look at her. “What’s the bad news, my love?”

Agitated, her voice trembling, Doña Lucrecia murmured, “Edilberto Torres, imagine.” Half a moan escaped her, and she added: “He appeared in a jitney. Again, Rigoberto, my God, again!”

“Where? When?”

“On the Lima — Chorrillos jitney, Stepmother,” Fonchito said, very calm, his eyes begging her not to give the matter any importance. “I got on at the Paseo de la República, near Plaza Grau. He got on at the next stop, on the Zanjón.”

“He did? Was it really him? Was it?” she exclaimed, bringing her face close, examining him. “Are you sure about what you’re telling me, Fonchito?”

“Hello, young friend,” Señor Edilberto Torres greeted him, making one of his customary bows. “What a coincidence, look where we’ve met. I’m happy to see you, Fonchito.”

“Dressed in gray, with a jacket and tie and his garnet-colored sweater,” the boy explained. “Nicely combed and shaved, very pleasant. Of course it was him, Stepmother. And this time, fortunately, he didn’t cry.”

“Since the last time we saw each other, I think you’ve grown a little,” said Edilberto Torres, looking him over from head to toe. “Not only physically. Now you have a more serene, a more definite gaze. Almost the gaze of an adult, Fonchito.”

“My papa has forbidden me to talk to you, señor. I’m sorry, but I have to obey him.”

“Has he told you the reason for this prohibition?” Señor Torres asked, not at all perturbed. He observed him with curiosity, smiling slightly.

“My papa and stepmother think you’re the devil, señor.”

Edilberto Torres didn’t seem very surprised, but the jitney driver was. He stepped lightly on the brakes and turned to look at the two passengers in the backseat. When he saw their faces, he calmed down. Señor Torres’s smile broadened, but he didn’t laugh out loud. He nodded, taking the matter as a joke.

“In our day everything’s possible,” he remarked in his perfect announcer’s diction, and shrugged. “The devil even wanders the streets of Lima and mobilizes his recruits on jitneys. Speaking of the devil, I’ve learned that you’ve become friends with Father O’Donovan, Fonchito. Yes, the one with a Bajo el Puente parish, who else. Do you get on well with him?”

“He was kidding you, don’t you see that, Lucrecia?” stated Don Rigoberto. “It’s a joke that he’d appear again in a jitney. And more than impossible that he’d mention Pepín. He was simply deceiving you. He’s been deceiving us from the very beginning, and that’s the truth.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen his face, Rigoberto. I think I know him well enough to know when he’s lying and when he’s not.”

“Do you know Father O’Donovan, señor?”

“On some Sundays I go to hear his Mass, even though his parish is fairly far from where I live,” replied Edilberto Torres. “I walk there because I like his sermons. They’re those of an educated, intelligent man who speaks to everybody, not just to believers. Didn’t he give you that impression when you chatted with him?”

“I’ve never heard his sermons,” Fonchito explained. “But yes, he seemed very intelligent. Experienced in life and especially in religion.”

“You ought to hear him when he speaks from the pulpit,” advised Edilberto Torres. “Especially now that you’re interested in spiritual matters. He’s eloquent, elegant, and his words are full of wisdom. He must be one of the last good orators the Church has. Because sacred oratory, so important in the past, entered its decadence a long time ago.”

“But he doesn’t know you, señor,” Fonchito dared to say. “I spoke about you to Father O’Donovan, and he didn’t even know who you were.”

“For him I’m just another face among the faithful in his church,” replied Edilberto Torres, very calmly. “A face lost among many others. How good that you’re interested in religion now, Fonchito. I’ve heard that you’re part of a group that meets once a week to read the Bible. Do you enjoy doing that?”

“You’re lying to me, darling,” Señora Lucrecia reprimanded him lovingly, trying to conceal her surprise. “He couldn’t have said that to you. It isn’t possible for Señor Torres to know about your study group.”

“He even knew that last week we finished reading Genesis and began Exodus.” Now the boy’s face was very worried. He too seemed disturbed. “He even knew that detail, I swear. It surprised me so much I told him it did, Stepmother.”

“There’s no reason for you to be surprised, Fonchito,” Edilberto Torres replied with a smile. “I think very highly of you, and I’m interested in knowing how things are going for you in school, in your family, in life. That’s why I do my best to find out what you’re doing and whom you see. It’s an expression of affection for you, nothing more. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Do you know that saying?”

“He’ll hear from me when he gets home from school,” said Don Rigoberto, suddenly enraged. “Fonchito can’t keep toying with us this way. I’m sick and tired of his trying to make us swallow so many lies.”

In a bad mood, he went to the bathroom and washed his face with cold water. He sensed something unsettling, had a premonition of new unpleasantness. He’d never believed that human destiny was written, that life was a script that human beings acted in without knowing it, but ever since Ismael’s ill-fated marriage and the alleged appearances of Edilberto Torres, he’d had the feeling he’d glimpsed predestination. Could his days be a sequence predetermined by a supernatural power, as the Calvinists believed? The worst thing on that ominous Tuesday was that the family’s headaches had only just begun.

They sat down at the table. Rigoberto and Lucrecia were silent; they wore funereal faces, and reluctantly picked at a salad, totally without appetite. Then Justiniana burst into the dining room without knocking.

“You’re wanted on the phone, señor.” She was very excited, her eyes sparkling as they did on important occasions. “It’s Señor Ismael Carrera, no less!”

Rigoberto jumped up. Almost stumbling, he went to take the call in his study.

“Ismael?” he asked eagerly. “Is that you, Ismael? Where are you calling from?”

“From here, Lima, where else,” his friend and former boss replied in the same unconcerned, jovial tone he’d used in his last call. “We arrived last night and are impatient to see you both, Rigoberto. But since you and I have so much to talk about, why don’t just the two of us get together right away. Have you had lunch? All right, then come and have coffee with me. Yes, right now, I’ll expect you here at my house.”

“I’ll be right there.” Rigoberto said goodbye like an automaton. “What a day, what a day.”

He didn’t taste another mouthful and rushed out, promising Lucrecia he’d come back immediately and tell her all about his conversation with Ismael. The arrival of his friend, the source of all the conflicts in which he found himself entangled with the twins, made him forget about his interview with the investigating magistrate and the reappearance of Edilberto Torres on a Lima — Chorrillos jitney.

The silly old man and his brand-new wife had finally returned from their honeymoon. Had he been kept up to date by Claudio Arnillas about all the problems the hyenas’ persecution was causing him? He’d speak to Ismael frankly, tell him enough was enough, that ever since he’d agreed to be his witness, his life had turned into a judicial and police nightmare, that he had to do something immediately to make his sons stop their harassment.

But when he reached the neocolonial mansion in San Isidro, almost squashed by the buildings around it, Ismael and Armida received him with so many demonstrations of friendship that his intention to speak clearly and forcefully collapsed. He marveled at how serene, happy, and elegant the couple looked. Ismael was in casual clothes, a silk ascot around his neck, and sandals that must have felt like gloves on his feet; his leather jacket matched the soft-collared shirt, from which rose his smiling face, recently shaved and scented with a delicate anise fragrance. Even more extraordinary was the transformation in Armida. She seemed to have recently emerged from the hands of expert hairdressers, makeup artists, and manicurists. Her formerly black tresses were now chestnut, and a charming wave had replaced her straight hair. She wore a light print dress, with a lilac shawl over her shoulders, and medium-heeled shoes of the same color. Everything about her, her cared-for hands, the pale red nails, her earrings, her fine gold chain, the brooch on her chest, even her confident manner — she greeted Rigoberto, offering her cheek for him to kiss — was that of a lady who’d spent her life among well-mannered, rich, worldly people and was devoted to caring for her body and wardrobe. To the naked eye, there was no trace left in her of the former domestic employee. Had she dedicated the months of her European honeymoon to receiving lessons in deportment?

As soon as the greetings were concluded they led him into the room next to the dining room. Through the large window one could see the garden filled with crotons, bougainvillea, geraniums, and floripondios. Rigoberto noticed that beside the table, where the cups, coffeepot, and a serving dish of cookies and pastries were arranged, were several packages, large and small boxes beautifully wrapped in fancy paper and ribbons. Were they gifts? Yes. Ismael and Armida had brought them for Rigoberto, Lucrecia, Fonchito, and even Justiniana in gratitude for the kindness they’d shown the bride and groom: shirts and silk pajamas for Rigoberto, blouses and shawls for Lucrecia, athletic clothes and sneakers for Fonchito, a dustcoat and sandals for Justiniana, in addition to sashes, belts, cuff links, datebooks, handmade notebooks, engravings, chocolates, art books, and an erotic drawing to hang in the bathroom in the privacy of one’s own home.

They looked rejuvenated, sure of themselves, happy, and so supremely peaceful that Rigoberto felt infected by the newlyweds’ serenity and good humor. Ismael must have been very sure of what he was doing, perfectly safe from the machinations of his children. Just as he’d predicted at that lunch at La Rosa Náutica, he was probably spending more than they were to undo their plots. He probably had everything under control. Just as well. Why was Rigoberto worrying, then? With Ismael in Lima, the trouble caused by the hyenas would be resolved, perhaps with a reconciliation if his ex-boss could resign himself to letting the fools have a little more money. All the traps that had overwhelmed him would be undone in a few days and he’d recover his secret life, his civilized space. “My sovereignty and my freedom,” he thought.

After coffee, Rigoberto listened to a few anecdotes of the couple’s travels through Italy. Armida, whose voice he barely remembered having heard before, had recovered the gift of speech. She expressed herself with assurance, few mistakes in syntax, and excellent humor. After a while she withdrew, “so that the two gentlemen can discuss important matters.” She explained that she’d never taken a siesta in her life, but now Ismael had taught her to lie down for fifteen minutes with her eyes closed after lunch, and in fact, in the evening she felt very well thanks to that short rest.

“Don’t worry about anything, my dear Rigoberto,” said Ismael, patting him on the back, as soon as they were alone. “Another cup of coffee? A glass of cognac?”

“I’m delighted to see you so happy and looking so well, Ismael,” Rigoberto answered, shaking his head. “I’m delighted to see both of you so well. The truth is, you and Armida are radiant. Clear proof that the marriage is going wonderfully. I’m very glad, naturally. But, but—”

“But those two devils are driving you crazy, I’m well aware of that,” Ismael finished the sentence, patting him on the back again, still smiling at him and at life. “Don’t worry, Rigoberto, listen to me. I’m here now and I’ll take care of everything. I know how to confront these problems and resolve them. A thousand pardons for all the trouble your generosity toward me has brought you. I’ll work on this matter all day tomorrow with Claudio Arnillas and the other lawyers in his firm. I’ll get the judgments and all these difficulties off your back. Now, sit down and listen. I have news that concerns you. Shall we have that cognac now, old man?”

He quickly poured two drinks and raised his glass. They toasted and wet their lips and tongues; the drink shone with bright red reflections at the bottom of the crystal and had an aroma reminiscent of oak casks. Rigoberto noticed that Ismael was watching him roguishly. A mischievous, mocking smile animated his wrinkled eyes. Did he have his denture adjusted on his honeymoon? It had moved around before, but now it seemed to rest very firmly on his gums.

“Rigoberto, I’ve sold all my shares in the company to Assicurazioni Generali, the best and biggest underwriter in Italy,” he exclaimed, spreading his arms and laughing out loud. “You’re very familiar with them, aren’t you? We’ve worked with them quite often. Their headquarters are in Trieste but they’re all over the world. They’ve wanted to expand into Peru for some time and I took advantage of the opportunity. An excellent deal. You see, my honeymoon wasn’t only a pleasure trip. It was for work too.”

He was enjoying himself, as amused and happy as a child opening presents from Santa Claus. Don Rigoberto hadn’t really taken in the news. He vaguely recalled reading in The Economist a few weeks ago that Assicurazioni Generali had plans to venture into South America.

“You’ve sold the company your father founded and where you’ve worked your whole life?” he finally asked, disconcerted. “To an Italian transnational? How long have you been negotiating with them, Ismael?”

“Just about six months,” his friend explained, slowly moving his glass of cognac back and forth. “It was a quick negotiation, there weren’t any complications. And, I repeat, a very good deal. I’ve made an excellent deal. Make yourself comfortable and listen. For obvious reasons, before it was successfully concluded, this had to be confidential. That was the reason for the audit I authorized them to make and that surprised you so much last year. Now you know what was behind it: They wanted to examine the state of the company with a magnifying glass. I wasn’t in charge of it and didn’t pay for it; Assicurazioni Generali did. Now that the transfer is a fact, I can tell you everything.”

Ismael Carrera spoke for close to an hour; Rigoberto interrupted him only a handful of times to request a few explanations. He listened to his friend, amazed at his memory, for without the slightest hesitation he was unfolding for him, as if they were the layers of a palimpsest, months of offers and counteroffers. Rigoberto was stunned. It seemed incredible that so delicate a negotiation could have been carried out so secretly that not even he, the general manager of the company, knew anything about it. The negotiators’ meetings had taken place in Lima, Trieste, New York, and Milan; those who took part were lawyers, principal shareholders, authorized personnel, advisers, and bankers from several countries, but practically all of Ismael Carreras’s Peruvian employees had been excluded, as were Miki and Escobita, of course. Those two, who’d received their inheritance in advance when Don Ismael removed them from the company, had already sold a good part of their shares, and only now did Rigoberto learn that the person who’d bought them through intermediaries was Ismael himself. The hyenas still held a small parcel of shares and would become minor (the smallest, in fact) partners in the Peruvian branch of Assicurazioni Generali. How would they react? A disdainful Ismael shrugged. “Badly, of course. And so what?” Let them holler. The sale had been made in compliance with all national and foreign regulations. The administrative entities of Italy, Peru, and the United States had given the transaction their approval. They’d paid all relevant taxes to the last penny and complied with every rule and law.

“What do you think, Rigoberto?” Ismael Carrera concluded his exposition. He opened his arms again like an actor greeting the audience and waiting for applause. “Am I still sharp, still acting like a businessman?”

Rigoberto nodded. He was disoriented and didn’t know what to think. His friend looked at him, smiling and pleased with himself.

“The truth is, you never cease to amaze me, Ismael,” he finally said. “You’re enjoying a second youth, I can see that. Has Armida rejuvenated you? I still can’t wrap my mind around your having let go so easily of the business your father created and that you built up, investing blood, sweat, and tears in it for half a century. You’ll think it’s absurd, but I feel sad, as if I’d lost something of mine. And you’re as happy as a drunken sailor.”

“It wasn’t all that easy,” Ismael corrected him, serious now. “I had plenty of doubts at first. It made me sad, too. But given the situation, it was the only solution. If I’d had different heirs — but then, why talk about depressing things. You and I know very well what would happen if my children had control of the company. They’d sink it in the blink of an eye. Best-case scenario, they’d sell it at a loss. In the hands of the Italians, it will continue to exist and prosper. You can collect your retirement without any kind of cuts and with a bonus besides, old man. It’s all arranged.”

It seemed to Rigoberto that his friend’s smile had become melancholy. Ismael sighed, and a shadow crossed his eyes.

“What are you going to do with so much money, Ismael?”

“Spend my final years calm and happy,” he replied immediately. “And I hope healthy too. Enjoying life a little, with my wife at my side. Better late than never, Rigoberto. You know better than anyone that until now I lived only to work.”

“Hedonism’s a good philosophy, Ismael,” Rigoberto agreed. “Aside from everything else, it’s mine, too. Until now I’ve been able to follow it only in part. But I hope to imitate you when the twins leave me in peace and Lucrecia and I can set off on the trip to Europe we organized. She was very disappointed when we had to cancel our plans because of your sons’ demands.”

“I’ve already told you, I’ll take care of that tomorrow. It’s at the top of my agenda, Rigoberto,” said Ismael, standing up. “I’ll call you after our meeting in Arnillas’s office. And let’s set a date to have lunch or dinner together, with Armida and Lucrecia.”

As he returned home, leaning on the steering wheel of his car, all kinds of ideas whirled around in Don Rigoberto’s head like the water in a fountain. How much money could Ismael have gotten from the sale of his shares? Many millions. A fortune, in any case. Even though Ismael’s company had been doing only so-so recently, it was a solid institution with a magnificent portfolio and a first-rate reputation in Peru and abroad. True, an octogenarian like Ismael could no longer keep up with managerial responsibilities. He must have put his capital into safe investments, debenture bonds, pension funds, businesses in the safest fiscal paradises: Lichtenstein, Guernsey, or Jersey, or perhaps Singapore or Dubai. The interest alone would allow him and Armida to live like royalty anywhere in the world. What would the twins do? Fight with the new owners? They were such idiots that this couldn’t be discounted. They’d be squashed like cockroaches. It couldn’t happen too soon. No, probably they’d try to nibble away at some of the money from the sale. Ismael probably had it safely tucked away. No doubt they’d resign themselves if their father softened and threw them a few crumbs to get them to stop fucking around. Then everything would settle down. If only it would happen soon. Then his plans for a joyful retirement rich in material, intellectual, and artistic pleasures could finally materialize.

But in his heart of hearts he couldn’t convince himself that everything would work out so well for Ismael. He was haunted by the suspicion that instead of being settled, matters would become even more complicated, and instead of escaping the legal and judicial tangle in which Miki and Escobita had caught him, he’d find himself even more thoroughly trapped until the end of his days. Or was that pessimism due to the abrupt reappearance of Edilberto Torres?

As soon as he reached his house in Barranco, he gave his wife a detailed account of the latest events. She shouldn’t worry about the sale of the company to an Italian insurer, because as far as the two of them were concerned, the transfer would probably help to resolve things if Ismael, along with the new owners, would agree to placate the twins with some money so they’d leave them alone. What made the greatest impression on Lucrecia was that Armida had returned from her honeymoon transformed into an elegant, sociable, and worldly lady. “I’ll call her to welcome her home and arrange that lunch or dinner very soon, my love. I’m dying to see her transformation into a respectable matron.”

Rigoberto went into his study and on the computer looked up everything he could about Assicurazioni Generali S.p.A. The largest insurer in Italy. He’d been in touch with the company and its subsidiaries on several occasions. Recently, it had expanded significantly into Eastern Europe, the Middle and Far East, and in a more limited way, Latin America, where it had centralized its operations in Panama. This was a good opportunity for the company to move into South America, using Peru as a springboard. The country was doing well, its laws were stable, and investments were growing.

He was still immersed in research when he heard Fonchito come home from school. He closed the computer and waited impatiently for his son to come in and say hello. When the boy entered the study and approached to kiss him, still with his Markham Academy backpack on his shoulders, Rigoberto decided to bring up the subject immediately.

“So it seems Edilberto Torres has appeared again,” he said sadly. “I thought we’d gotten rid of him forever, Fonchito.”

“So did I, Papa,” his son replied with disarming sincerity. He removed the backpack, placed it on the floor, and sat down facing his father’s desk. “We had a very brief conversation. Didn’t my stepmother tell you about it? Just until the jitney reached Miraflores. He got off at the Diagonal, near the park. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Of course she told me, but I’d like it if you told me too.” He noticed that Fonchito had ink stains on his fingers and that his tie was unknotted. “What did he say to you? What did you talk about?”

“The devil,” Fonchito said with a laugh. “Yes, yes, don’t laugh. It’s true, Papa. And this time he didn’t cry, fortunately. I told him you and my stepmother thought he was the devil incarnate.”

He spoke with such evident naturalness, there was something so fresh and authentic in him, Rigoberto thought, how could he not believe him.

“They still believe in the devil?” Edilberto was surprised. He spoke to him in a whisper. “It seems there aren’t many people in our day who believe in that gentleman. Have your parents told you why they have so low an opinion of me?”

“Because of how you appear and disappear so mysteriously, señor,” explained Fonchito, lowering his voice too, because the subject seemed to interest the other passengers on the jitney, who’d started to look at them sideways. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. I already told you I’ve been forbidden to.”

“You tell them I told you that they can forget their fears and rest easy,” Edilberto Torres assured him in a barely audible voice. “I’m not the devil or anything like it, just a normal, ordinary person like you and like them. And like all the people on this jitney. Besides, you’re wrong, I don’t appear and disappear in a miraculous way. Our meetings are the result of chance. Sheer coincidence.”

“I’m going to speak to you frankly, Fonchito.” Rigoberto continued looking into the boy’s eyes for a long time, and he looked back without blinking. “I want to believe you. I know you’re not a liar and never have been. I know very well you’ve always told me the truth, even when it might have gone against your own interests. But in this case, I mean, the damned case of Edilberto Torres—”

“Why ‘damned,’ Papa?” Fonchito interrupted. “What has that man done to you to make you use such a terrible word about him?”

“What has he done to me?” Don Rigoberto exclaimed. “He’s made me doubt my son for the first time in my life, made me incapable of believing you’re still telling the truth. Do you understand, Fonchito? It’s a fact. Each time I hear you telling me about your meetings with Edilberto Torres, no matter how hard I try I can’t believe that what you’re saying is true. I’m not reprimanding you, try to understand. What’s happening to me now because of you makes me sad, it depresses me very much. Wait, wait, let me finish. I’m not saying that you want to lie to me or deceive me. I know you’d never do that. No, at least not in a deliberate, intentional way. But I’m begging you to think a moment about what I’m going to say, with all the love I feel for you. Reflect on it. Isn’t it possible that what you’re telling me and Lucrecia about Edilberto Torres is only a fantasy, a kind of waking dream, Fonchito? These kinds of things happen to people sometimes.”

He stopped speaking because he saw that his son had turned pale. His face had become filled with an invincible sadness. Rigoberto regretted speaking.

“You mean I’ve gone crazy and see visions, things that don’t exist. Is that what you’re telling me, Papa?”

“I didn’t say you were crazy, of course not,” Rigoberto apologized. “I didn’t even think it. But Fonchito, it isn’t impossible that this individual is an obsession, a fixed idea, a waking nightmare. Don’t look at me so incredulously. It could be true, trust me. I’m going to tell you why. In real life, in the world we live in, it’s impossible for a person to appear this way, suddenly, in the most unlikely places — on the soccer field at school, in the bathroom of a discotheque, on a Lima — Chorrillos jitney. And for that person to know everything about you, your family, what you do and don’t do. It just isn’t possible, do you see?”

“What will I do if you don’t believe me, Papa,” said the boy, crestfallen. “I don’t want to make you sad either. But how can I agree with you that I’m hallucinating when I’m certain that Señor Torres is flesh and blood and not a phantom. Maybe the best thing would be for me not to tell you about him anymore.”

“No, no, Fonchito, I want you always to tell me about these meetings,” Rigoberto insisted. “Though it’s hard for me to accept what you’re saying about him, I’m sure you believe you’re telling me the truth. You can be certain about that. If you’re lying to me, you’re doing it without meaning to or realizing it. Well, you must have homework to do, don’t you? Go ahead then, if you want to. We’ll talk more later.”

Fonchito picked up his backpack from the floor and took a couple of steps toward the study door. But before opening it, as if he’d just remembered something, he turned to his father.

“You dislike him so much, yet Señor Torres thinks very highly of you, Papa.”

“Why do you say that, Fonchito?”

“Because I think I know your papa has problems with the police, with the law, you must know about it already,” said Edilberto Torres in farewell, after he’d already signaled the driver that he was getting off at the next stop. “It’s obvious to me that Rigoberto is an irreproachable man and I’m sure what’s happening to him is very unjust. If I can do anything for him, I’d be delighted to lend a hand. Tell him that for me, Fonchito.”

Don Rigoberto didn’t know what to say. In silence he contemplated the boy, who remained where he stood, looking at him calmly, waiting for his response.

“He said that to you?” he stammered after a moment. “In other words, he sent me a message. He knows about my legal problems and wants to help me. Is that it?”

“Exactly, Papa. You see, he has a very high opinion of you.”

“Tell him I accept with pleasure.” Rigoberto finally regained control of himself. “Of course. The next time he shows up, thank him and tell him I’d be delighted to talk to him. Wherever he likes. Have him call me. Maybe he can help me out, let’s hope so. What I want most in the world, son, is to see and talk to Edilberto Torres in person.”

“Okay, Papa, I’ll tell him if I see him again. I promise. You’ll see he isn’t a spirit but flesh and blood. I’m going to do my homework. I have a lot to get through.”

When Fonchito left the study, Rigoberto tried to open the computer again but closed it almost immediately. He’d lost all interest in Assicurazioni Generali S.p.A. and in Ismael’s serpentine financial dealings. Was it possible that Edilberto Torres had said that to Fonchito? Was it possible he knew about his legal troubles? Of course not. Once again the boy had set a trap for him and he’d fallen into it like a simpleton. And if Edilberto Torres scheduled a meeting with him? “Then,” he thought, “I’ll return to religion, I’ll reconvert and live out the rest of my days in a Carthusian monastery.” He laughed and mumbled, “How infinitely boring. So many oceans of stupidity in the world.”

He stood and went to look at the nearest shelves where he kept his favorite art books and catalogues. As he examined them, he recalled the shows where he’d bought them. New York, Paris, Madrid, Milan, Mexico City. How painful to be seeing lawyers and judges, thinking about the twins, those functional illiterates, instead of losing himself morning, noon, and night in these volumes, prints, and designs, listening to good music, fantasizing, traveling in time, experiencing extraordinary adventures, getting emotional, growing sad, enjoying, crying, becoming exalted and excited. He thought: “Thanks to Delacroix I was present at the death of Sardanapalus surrounded by naked women, and thanks to the young Grosz I beheaded them in Berlin while at the same time, with an enormous phallus, I sodomized them. Thanks to Botticelli I was a Renaissance Madonna, and thanks to Goya a lascivious monster who devoured his children, beginning with their calves. Thanks to Aubrey Beardsley, a faggot with a rose up my ass, and to Piet Mondrian, an isosceles triangle.”

He was beginning to enjoy himself and, almost unconsciously, his hands had already found what he’d been looking for since he’d begun his examination of the shelves: the catalogue of the 2004 retrospective that the Royal Academy dedicated to Tamara de Lempicka that had run from May to August, which he had visited in person the last time he was in England. There, in the crotch of his trousers, he felt the outline of an encouraging tickle in the intimacy of his testicles, while at the same time he felt himself becoming emotional and filling with nostalgia and gratitude. Now, along with the tickle he felt a light burning at the tip of his cock. With the book in his hands he went to sit in his reading armchair and lit the lamp whose light would allow him to enjoy the reproductions in full detail. The magnifying glass was within reach. Was it true that, according to her final wishes, the ashes of the Polish-Russian artist Tamara de Lempicka were dropped from a helicopter by her daughter Kizette into the crater of the Mexican volcano Popocatépetl? What an Olympian, cataclysmic, magnificent way for the woman to say goodbye to this world, a woman who, as her paintings testified, knew not only how to paint but how to enjoy herself, an artist whose fingers imparted an exalted and at the same time icy lasciviousness to these supple, slithering, rounded, opulent nudes who paraded before his eyes: Rhythm, La Belle Rafaela, Myrto, The Model, The Slave. His five favorites. Who said that art deco and eroticism were incompatible? In the 1920s and 1930s, this Polish-Russian woman with the tweezed eyebrows, burning, voracious eyes, sensual mouth, and crude hands populated her canvases with an intense lechery, icy only in appearance, because in the imagination and sensibility of an attentive spectator the sculptural immobility of the canvas disappeared and the figures became animated, intertwined, they assailed, caressed, united with, loved, and enjoyed one another with complete shamelessness. A beautiful, marvelous, exciting spectacle: those women portrayed or invented by Tamara de Lempicka in Paris, Milan, New York, Hollywood, and in her final seclusion in Cuernavaca. Inflated, fleshy, exuberant, elegant, they proudly displayed the triangular navels for which Tamara must have felt a particular predilection, as great as the one inspired by the abundant, succulent thighs of immodest aristocrats whom she stripped only to clothe them in lechery and carnal insolence. “She gave dignity and good press to lesbianism and the garçon style, made them acceptable and worldly, exhibiting them in Parisian and New York salons,” he thought. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that, inflamed by her, Gabriele D’Annunzio’s mad cock tried to violate her in his house, the Vittoriale, on Lake Garda, where he took her under the pretext of having her paint his portrait, though in fact he was crazed with the desire to possess her. Did she escape through a window?” He slowly turned the pages of the book, barely stopping at the mannered aristocratic men, with blue tubercular circles under their eyes, pausing at the splendid, languid female figures with shifting eyes, hair as flat as helmets, scarlet nails, upright breasts, majestic hips, who almost always seemed to be writhing like cats in heat. He spent a long time lost in his illusion, feeling sure he’d be filled once again with the desire that had been extinguished so many days and weeks ago, ever since his pedestrian problems with the hyenas had begun. He was ecstatic over these beautiful damsels decked out in low-cut, transparent dresses, gleaming jewels, all of them possessed by a profound desire that struggled to become manifest in their enormous eyes. “To go from art deco to abstraction, what madness, Tamara,” he thought. Though even the abstract paintings of Tamara de Lempicka exuded a mysterious sensuality. Moved and happy, he noticed in his lower belly a small tumult, the dawning of an erection.

And at that moment, returning to ordinary reality, he noticed that Doña Lucrecia had come into the study without his having heard her open the door. What was wrong? She stood next to him, her eyes wet and dilated and her lips half open, trembling. She struggled to speak but her tongue didn’t obey, instead of words, an incomprehensible stammering emerged.

“More bad news, Lucrecia?” he asked in terror, thinking about Edilberto Torres, about Fonchito. “Bad news again?”

“Armida called crying like a madwoman,” Doña Lucrecia sobbed. “Right after he said goodbye to you, Ismael collapsed in the garden. They took him to the American Clinic. And he just passed, Rigoberto! Yes, yes, he just died!”