The Discreet Hero

XV

“What’s wrong, Felícito?” the holy woman repeated, bending toward him and fanning him with the old straw fan riddled with holes that she held in her hand. “Don’t you feel well?”

The trucker saw the concern in Adelaida’s large eyes, and in the fog that filled his head it occurred to him that since she could prophesy, she must know what was wrong. But he didn’t have the strength to answer her; he was dizzy and certain that at any moment he’d faint. He didn’t care. Sinking into a deep sleep, forgetting everything, not thinking: how wonderful. He thought vaguely of asking the Captive Lord of Ayabaca for help; Gertrudis was especially devoted to him. But he didn’t know how.

“Do you want a nice glass of cool water right from the filter, Felícito?”

Why was Adelaida talking so loud, as if he were going deaf? He nodded and, still in a fog, saw the mulatta wrapped in her rough mud-colored tunic running in her bare feet toward the back of the herbs and saints shop. He closed his eyes and thought: “You have to be strong, Felícito. You can’t die yet, Felícito Yanaqué. Balls, man! Where are your balls?” He felt his dry mouth and his heart struggling to grow larger among the ligaments, bones, and muscles of his chest. He thought: “It’s coming right out of my mouth.” At that moment he realized how precise that expression was. Not impossible, hey waddya think. That organ was thundering so energetically and so uncontrollably inside his rib cage that it could suddenly leap free, escape the prison of his body, climb up his larynx, and be ejected in a great spewing of bile and blood. He’d see his heart at his feet, flattened on the dirt floor of the holy woman’s house, deflated now, quiet now, perhaps surrounded by scurrying, chocolate-colored cockroaches. That would be the last thing in this life he’d remember. When he opened the eyes of his soul, he’d be before God. Or maybe the devil, Felícito.

“What’s going on?” he asked uneasily. Because as soon as he saw their faces, he knew something very serious had happened, which explained the urgency of their summons to the station, their uncomfortable expressions, the evasive eyes and false half smiles of Captain Silva and Sergeant Lituma. The two policemen had become mute and petrified as soon as they’d seen him walk into the narrow cubicle.

“Here you go, Felícito, nice and cool. Open your mouth and drink it slow, in little sips, baby. It’ll do you good, you’ll see.”

He nodded, and without opening his eyes he parted his lips and felt with relief the cool liquid Adelaida brought to his mouth, as if he were a baby. The water seemed to douse the flames on his palate and tongue, and even though he couldn’t speak and didn’t want to, he thought: “Thanks, Adelaida.” The tranquil semidarkness in which the holy woman’s shop was always submerged calmed his nerves a little.

“Important business, my friend,” the captain said at last, becoming serious and standing to shake his hand with unusual effusiveness. “Come, let’s have a coffee somewhere cooler on the avenue, where we can talk better than in here. It’s hotter than hell in this cave, don’t you agree, Don Felícito?”

And before he had time to respond, the chief took his kepi from the hook and, followed like a robot by Lituma, who avoided looking him in the eye, headed for the door. What was wrong with them? What important business? What was going on? What fly had bitten this pair of cops?

“Do you feel better, Felícito?” the holy woman asked.

“Yes,” he managed to stammer with difficulty. His tongue, palate, and teeth hurt. But the glass of cool water had done him good and returned some of the energy that had been draining from his body. “Thanks, Adelaida.”

“That’s good, thank God for that,” the mulatta exclaimed, crossing herself and smiling at him. “That was some scare you gave me, Felícito. You were so pale! Oh, hey waddya think! When I saw you come in and drop into the rocker like a sack of potatoes, you looked like a corpse. What happened, baby, who died?”

“With all this mystery you have me on pins and needles, Captain,” Felícito insisted, beginning to be alarmed. “What is this business, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“A good, strong coffee for me,” Captain Silva told the waiter. “An espresso cut with milk for the sergeant. What’ll you have, Don Felícito?”

“A soda, Coca-Cola, Inca Kola, whatever.” He was impatient now, tapping on the table. “Okay, let’s get to the point. I’m a man who knows how to hear bad news, with all that’s happened I’m getting used to it. Let’s have it, no more beating around the bush.”

“The matter’s resolved,” said the captain, looking him in the eye. But he looked at him not with joy but with sorrow, even compassion. Surprisingly, instead of continuing, he fell silent.

“Resolved?” Felícito exclaimed. “Do you mean you caught them?”

He saw the captain and sergeant nod, still very serious and displaying a ridiculous solemnity. Why were they looking at him in that strange way, as if they felt sorry for him? On Avenida Sánchez Cerro there was infernal noise, people going and coming, car horns, shouts, barking, braying. A band was playing a waltz, but the singer didn’t have Cecilia Barraza’s sweet voice, how could he when he was an old man reeking of aguardiente?

“Do you remember the last time I was here, Adelaida?” Felícito spoke very quietly, searching for the words, afraid he’d lose his voice. To breathe more easily he’d unbuttoned his vest and loosened his tie. “When I read the first spider letter to you.”

“Yes, Felícito, sure I remember.” The holy woman’s enormous, worried eyes drilled into him.

“And do you remember that when I was saying goodbye, you had a sudden inspiration and told me to do what they wanted and give them the money they asked for? Do you remember that too, Adelaida?”

“Sure I do, Felícito, sure, how could I not remember. Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong? Why are you so pale and dizzy?”

“You were right, Adelaida. Like always, you were right. I should’ve listened to you. Because, because…”

He couldn’t go on. His voice broke in the middle of a sob and he began to cry. Something he hadn’t done for a very long time, not since the day his father died in that dark, dingy corner of the emergency room of the Hospital Obrero de Piura. Or maybe not since the night he had sex with Mabel for the first time. But that didn’t count as crying because that had been for happiness. And now tears came all the time.

“Everything’s resolved and now we’ll explain it to you, Don Felícito.” The captain finally came back to life, repeating what he’d already told him. “I’m really afraid you won’t like what you’re going to hear.”

He sat up straight in his seat and waited, every sense alert. He had the impression that the people in the small bar had disappeared, that the street noises had become muted. Something made him suspect that what was coming would be the worst misfortune he’d suffered in a good long time. His legs began to tremble.

“Adelaida, Adelaida,” he moaned as he wiped his eyes. “I had to let this out somehow. I couldn’t control myself. I’m sorry, I swear I don’t usually cry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Felícito.” The holy woman smiled, patting him affectionately on his hand. “It does us all good to let the tears flow once in a while. I start wailing too sometimes.”

“Go ahead and talk, Captain, I’m ready,” the trucker declared. “Loud and clear, please.”

“Let’s take it slow,” Captain Silva said hoarsely, playing for time. He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth, took a sip, and continued: “The best thing is for you to hear about the plot the way we did, from the beginning. Lituma, what’s the name of the officer who was guarding Señora Mabel?”

Candelario Velando, twenty-three years old, from Tumbes. Two years on the force, and this was the first time his superiors had him in plain clothes for a job. They stationed him across from the señora’s house on that dead-end street in the Castilla district, near the river and the Salesian fathers’ Don Juan Bosco Academy, and ordered him to make sure nothing happened to the lady who lived there. He was supposed to come to her aid if necessary, write down who came to visit her, follow her without being seen, take notes on whom she met, whom she visited, what she did or stopped doing. They gave him a service weapon with ammunition for twenty shots, a camera, a notebook, a pencil, and a cell phone to use only in case of an emergency, never for personal calls.

“Mabel?” The holy woman’s half-mad eyes opened very wide. “Your girlfriend? It was her?”

Felícito nodded. The glass of water was empty, but he didn’t seem to realize it, because from time to time he brought it up to his mouth and moved his lips and throat as if he were taking a sip.

“It was her, Adelaida.” He moved his head several times. “Yes, Mabel. I still can’t believe it.”

He was a good policeman, reliable and punctual. He liked the profession and so far had refused to take bribes. But that night he was very tired, he’d been following the señora on the street and guarding her house for fourteen hours, and as soon as he sat down in that corner where there was no light and leaned his back against the wall, he fell asleep. He didn’t know for how long; it must have been a while, because when he woke with a start, the street was quiet, the kids spinning tops had disappeared, and in the houses the lights had been turned off and the doors locked. Even the dogs had stopped running around and barking. The entire neighborhood seemed to be asleep. He stood up in a daze, and, keeping to the shadows, approached the señora’s house. He heard voices. He put his ear to one of the windows. It seemed to be an argument. He couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying but he had no doubt it was a man and a woman, and they were fighting. He ran to crouch at another window and from there he could hear better. They were insulting each other and cursing but there were no blows, not yet. Only long silences, and then voices again, quieter. She seemed to be consenting. She’d had a visitor, and apparently the visitor was fucking her. Candelario Velando knew right away it wasn’t Señor Felícito Yanaqué. Did the señora have another lover, then? Finally, the house was completely silent.

Candelario went back to the corner where he’d fallen asleep. He sat down again, lit a cigarette, and waited, leaning his back against the wall. This time he didn’t nod off or become distracted. He was sure the visitor would reappear at some point. And in fact, he did reappear after a long time, taking the precautions that gave him away: barely opening the door, putting only his head out, looking to the right and the left, and only when he was sure no one would see him, beginning to walk. Candelario saw the full length of his body, and his silhouette and movements confirmed it couldn’t be the very short old man who owned Narihualá Transport. This was a young man. Candelario couldn’t make out his face, it was too dark. When he saw him heading toward the Puente Colgante, he went after him, walking slowly, trying not to be seen, keeping a fair distance without losing sight of him. He moved a little closer as they crossed the Puente Colgante because night owls were on the bridge and he could hide among them. Candelario saw him take one of the paths on the Plaza de Armas and disappear into the bar of the Hotel Los Portales. He waited a moment and then went in too. He was at the bar — young, white, good-looking, with an Elvis Presley pompadour — gulping down what must have been a small bottle of pisco. Then Candelario recognized him. He’d seen him when he came to the station on Avenida Sánchez Cerro to make his statement.

“Are you sure it was him, Candelario?” Sergeant Lituma asked, looking doubtful.

“It was Miguel, absolutely, positively, definitely,” Captain Silva said drily, bringing the cup of coffee up to his lips again. He seemed very uncomfortable saying what he was saying. “Yes, Señor Yanaqué. I’m very sorry. But it was Miguel.”

“My son Miguel?” the trucker repeated very rapidly, blinking constantly, waving one of his hands; he’d suddenly turned pale. “At midnight? At Mabel’s?”

“They were having an argument, Sergeant,” the guard Candelario Velando explained to Lituma. “They were really fighting, using curse words like ‘whore,’ ‘motherfucker,’ and worse. After that it was quiet for a long time. I imagined then what you must be imagining now: They made up and went to bed. And why else but to fuck, though I didn’t hear or see any of that. That’s only a guess.”

“You shouldn’t tell me those things,” Adelaida said, uncomfortable and lowering her eyes. Her lashes were long and silky and she was upset. She gave the trucker an affectionate pat on the knee. “Unless you think it will help you to tell me about them. Whatever you like, Felícito. Whatever you say. That’s what friends are for, hey waddya think.”

“A guess that reveals what a filthy mind you have, Candelario.” Lituma smiled at him. “Okay, boy. You passed. Since there are asses involved, the captain will like your story.”

“Finally, the end of the thread. We began to pull on it and undo the knot. I already suspected something when I questioned her after the kidnapping. There were too many contradictions, she didn’t know how to lie. That’s how it was, Señor Yanaqué,” the chief added. “Don’t think this is easy for us. I mean, giving you this awful news. I know it feels like a knife in the back. But it’s our duty, I hope you’ll forgive us.”

“No chance there’s been a mistake?” he murmured in a voice that was hollow now, and somewhat pleading. “No chance at all?”

“None at all,” stated Captain Silva pitilessly. “It’s been proved ad nauseam. Señora Mabel and your son Miguel have been pulling the wool over your eyes for a long time now. That’s where the spider story begins. We’re really sorry, Señor Yanaqué.”

“It’s more your son Miguel’s fault than Señora Mabel’s,” Lituma said, then immediately apologized for adding his two cents: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Felícito Yanaqué no longer seemed to be listening to the two police officers. His pallor had intensified; he looked at empty space as if a ghost had just materialized. His chin trembled.

“I really know what you’re feeling and my heart goes out to you, Felícito.” The holy woman had placed a hand on her chest. “Well, yes, you’re right. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest. Nothing you tell me will leave here, baby, you know that.”

She hit her chest and Felícito thought, “How strange, it sounded hollow.” Ashamed, he felt his eyes filling with tears again.

“He’s the spider,” Captain Silva declared categorically. “Your son, the white-skinned one. Miguel. It seems he didn’t do it just for the money; his motives are more twisted. And maybe, maybe, that’s why he went to bed with Mabel. He has something personal against you. A grudge, resentment, those bitter things that poison a person’s soul.”

“Because you forced him to do military service, it seems,” Lituma intervened again. And this time too he apologized: “Excuse me. At least, that’s what he led us to believe.”

“Are you listening to what we’re telling you, Don Felícito?” the captain asked, leaning toward the trucker and grasping his arm. “Do you feel sick?”

“I feel great.” The trucker forced a smile. His lips and nostrils were trembling, as were the hands holding the empty bottle of Inca Kola. A yellow ring encircled the whites of his eyes, and his voice was like a thread. “Just go on, Captain. But excuse me, I’d like to know one thing, if I can. Was Tiburcio, my other son, also involved?”

“No, it was just Miguel.” The captain tried to be encouraging. “I can assure you of that definitively. You can rest easy as far as that’s concerned, Señor Yanaqué. Tiburcio wasn’t involved and didn’t know anything about it. When he finds out, he’ll be as shocked as you are now.”

“This terrible story has a good side, Adelaida,” the trucker grunted, after a long pause. “Even if you don’t believe it, it does.”

“I believe it, Felícito,” said the holy woman, opening her mouth wide, showing her tongue. “Life’s always like that. Good things always have their bad side and bad things their good side. So, what’s the good side here?”

“I’ve resolved a doubt that’s been eating at my heart ever since I got married, Adelaida,” Felícito Yanaqué murmured. At that moment he seemed to recover: He regained his voice, his color, a certain sureness in his speech. “Miguel isn’t my son. He never was. Gertrudis and her mother made me marry her by telling me she was pregnant. Sure she was pregnant, but not by me, by another man. I was her dumb cholito. They stuck me with a stepson, passing him off as mine, and Gertrudis was saved from the shame of being a single mother. I mean, tell me how that white kid with blue eyes could be my son? I always suspected something fishy there. Now I finally have the proof, though it’s a little late. He isn’t mine, my blood doesn’t run in his veins. A son of mine, a son of my blood, would never have done what he did to me. Do you see, do you get the picture, Adelaida?”

“I see, baby, I get it,” the holy woman agreed. “Give me your glass, I’ll fill it again with cool water from the distilling stone. I can’t tell you how it makes me feel to see you drink water from an empty glass, hey waddya think.”

“And Mabel?” the trucker mumbled, his eyes lowered. “Was she involved in the spider plot from the beginning? Was she?”

“Unwillingly, but yes.” Captain Silva was modulating his words, as if reluctant to speak. “She was. She never liked the idea, and according to her, at first she tried to talk Miguel out of it, which is possible. But your son is strong-willed, and—”

“He isn’t my son,” Felícito Yanaqué interrupted, looking him in the eye. “Excuse me, I know what I’m saying. Go on, what else, Captain.”

“She was fed up with Miguel and wanted to break it off, but he didn’t let her and threatened to tell you about their affair,” Lituma interjected again. “And she began to hate him for dragging her into this mess.”

“Does this mean you’ve talked to Mabel?” asked the trucker, disconcerted. “What did she confess to?”

“She’s cooperating with us, Señor Yanaqué.” Captain Silva nodded. “Her testimony was instrumental in our learning about the entire spider plot. What the sergeant told you is correct. At first, when she became involved with Miguel, she didn’t know he was your son. When she found out, she tried to break it off, but it was too late. She couldn’t because Miguel blackmailed her.”

“He threatened to tell you everything, Señor Yanaqué, so you’d kill her or at least give her a good beating,” Sergeant Lituma interjected again.

“And leave her in the street without a cent, which is the main thing,” the captain continued. “It’s what I told you before, Don Felícito. Miguel hates you, he feels a great deal of rancor toward you. He says it’s because you forced him and not his brother Tiburcio to do military service. But it looks to me like there’s something else. Maybe his hatred goes all the way back to when he was a kid. You’d know.”

“He also must have suspected he wasn’t my son, Adelaida,” the trucker added. He sipped at the fresh glass of water the holy woman had just brought him. “All he had to do was look at his face in the mirror to realize he didn’t have, couldn’t have my blood. And that’s how he must have begun to hate me, what else could it be. What’s strange is that he always hid it, never showed it to me. Do you see?”

“What do you want me to see, Felícito?” exclaimed the holy woman. “Everything’s very clear, even a blind person could see it. She’s a girl and you’re an old man. Did you think Mabel would be faithful to you until she died? Especially with you having a wife and family and her knowing she’d never be anything but your girlfriend. Life is what it is, Felícito, you must’ve known that. You come from poor people, you know what suffering means, like me and all the poor Piurans.”

“Of course, the kidnapping never was a kidnapping, it was a joke,” said the captain. “To put pressure on you, on your feelings, Don Felícito.”

“I knew it, Adelaida. I never had any illusions. Why do you think I always chose to look the other way and never asked what else Mabel was up to? But I never imagined she’d get involved with my own son!”

“So now maybe he’s your son?” the holy woman chided him mockingly. “What difference does it make who she got involved with, Felícito. How can that matter to you now? Don’t think about it anymore, compadre. Turn the page, forget about it, it’s over. It’s for the best, believe me.”

“Do you know what I think about now with real sorrow, Adelaida?” His glass was empty again. Felícito was shuddering. “The scandal. You must think that’s silly, but it’s what tortures me most. It’ll be in tomorrow’s papers, on radio and television. Then the reporters will come after me. My life will be a circus again. Reporters persecuting me, curious people on the street, in the office. I don’t have the patience or energy to go through all that again, Adelaida. Not anymore.”

“He fell asleep, Captain,” whispered Lituma, pointing to the trucker whose eyes were closed, his head bent.

“I think he has,” the captain agreed. “The news crushed him. His son, his girlfriend. From bad to worse. No surprise there, damn it.”

Felícito heard them without hearing them. He didn’t want to open his eyes, not even for a moment. He dozed, hearing the noise and hubbub on Avenida Sánchez Cerro. If all this hadn’t happened, he’d be at Narihualá Transport, reviewing the morning’s movement of buses, trucks, and cars, studying today’s total number of passengers and comparing it to yesterday’s, dictating letters to Señora Josefita, settling accounts or cashing checks at the bank, getting ready to go home for lunch. He felt so much sadness that he began to tremble from head to foot, as if he had tertian fever. Never again would his life have the tranquil rhythm it once had, never again would he be an anonymous face in the crowd. Now he’d always be recognized on the street; when he went into a movie theater or a restaurant the gossiping would begin, rude glances, whispers, fingers pointing him out. This very night or tomorrow at the latest, the news would become public, all of Piura would know about it. And his life would be hell again.

“Do you feel better after that little snooze, Don Felícito?” asked Captain Silva, giving him an affectionate pat on the arm.

“I nodded off for a minute, I’m sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. “Forgive me. So many emotions at the same time.”

“Sure, of course,” the officer reassured him. “Do you want to keep going or leave the rest for later, Don Felícito?”

He nodded, murmuring: “Let’s go on.” During the few minutes he’d had his eyes closed, the bar had filled with people, most of them men. They smoked, ordered sandwiches, sodas, beers, cups of coffee. The captain lowered his voice so he wouldn’t be overheard at the next table.

“Miguel and Mabel have been detained since last night and the investigating judge is up to date on everything. We have a meeting with the press at the station at six tonight. I don’t think you want to be present for that, do you, Don Felícito?”

“No way,” exclaimed the trucker, horrified. “Of course not!”

“You don’t have to come,” the captain assured him. “But prepare yourself. The reporters are going to drive you crazy.”

“Miguel confessed to all the charges?” Felícito asked.

“At first he denied them, but when he found out that Mabel had turned on him and would testify at the hearing, he had to accept reality. As I said, her testimony is devastating.”

“Thanks to Señora Mabel, in the end he confessed to everything,” Sergeant Lituma added. “She’s made our work easier. We’re writing up the report. It’ll be in the hands of the investigating judge tomorrow at the latest.”

“Will I have to see him?” Felícito spoke so quietly, the policemen had to lean their heads in to hear him. “Miguel, I mean.”

“At the trial, absolutely,” the captain said. “You’ll be the star witness. You’re the victim, remember.”

“And before the trial?” the trucker insisted.

“The investigating judge or the prosecutor may ask for a face-to-face meeting,” the captain explained. “In that case, yes. We don’t need to do that because, as Lituma said, Miguel confessed to all the charges. His lawyer may decide on another strategy and deny everything, claim that his confession is invalid because it was forced out of him through illegal means. You know, the usual story. But I don’t think he has any out. As long as Mabel cooperates, he’s a goner.”

“How much time will they give him?” the trucker asked.

“That will depend on the lawyer who represents him and how much he can spend on his defense,” said the chief, looking somewhat skeptical. “It won’t be much. The only act of violence was the small fire at your office. Extortion, false abduction, and conspiracy to commit a crime aren’t all that serious under the circumstances. Because they didn’t result in anything, they were all faked. Two or three years at most, I doubt he’ll get any longer. And since he’s a first-time offender and has no record, he might even avoid jail altogether.”

“What about her?” the trucker asked, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“Since she’s cooperating with the law, the sentence will be very light, Don Felícito. Maybe nothing will happen to her. After all, she was the white guy’s victim too. That’s what her lawyer might argue, and he wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Do you see, Adelaida?” Felícito Yanaqué said with a sigh. “They put me through weeks of torture, they burned my place on Avenida Sánchez Cerro — the losses have been big: A lot of customers left because they were afraid the extortionists would throw a bomb at my buses. And those two crooks will probably go home free and live the good life. Do you see what justice is in this country?”

He stopped talking because he saw that something had changed in the holy woman’s eyes. She was staring at him, her eyes wide, very serious and concentrated, as if she saw something unsettling inside or through him. She grasped one of his hands between her large, callused hands with their dirty nails. She squeezed it with great strength. Felícito shuddered, dying of fear.

“An inspiration, Adelaida?” he stammered, trying to free his hand. “What do you see, what’s going on? Please, dear friend.”

“Something’s about to happen to you, Felícito,” she said, squeezing his hand even harder, staring at him insistently with her deep, now feverish eyes. “I don’t know what, maybe what happened to you this morning with the cops, maybe something else. Worse or better, I don’t know. Something tremendous, very strong, a jolt that will change your whole life.”

“Do you mean, something different from everything that’s already happening to me? Even worse things, Adelaida? Isn’t my cross heavy enough?”

She moved her head like a madwoman and didn’t seem to hear him. She raised her voice.

“I don’t know if it’ll be better or worse, Felícito,” she shouted, terrified. “But I do know it’s more important than anything that’s happened to you so far. A revolution in your life, that’s what I see.”

“Even worse?” he repeated. “Can’t you tell me anything concrete, Adelaida?”

“No, no I can’t.” The holy woman freed his hand and slowly began to recover her usual appearance and manner. He saw her sigh and pass her hand over her face as if she were brushing away an insect. “I only tell you what I feel, what the inspiration makes me feel. I know it’s confusing. For me too, Felícito. It’s not my fault, it’s what God wants me to feel. He’s the one in charge. That’s all I can tell you. Be prepared, something’s going to happen. Something that will surprise you. I only hope it isn’t for the worse, baby.”

“For the worse?” the trucker exclaimed. “The only thing worse that could happen to me now would be to die, run over by a car, bitten by a rabid dog. Maybe that would be the best thing for me, Adelaida. Dying.”

“You’re not going to die yet, I can promise you that. Your death isn’t something the inspiration told me about.”

The holy woman looked exhausted. She was still on the floor, sitting on her heels and rubbing her hands and arms slowly, as if brushing away dust. Felícito decided to leave. Half the afternoon was over. He hadn’t eaten a thing at midday but wasn’t hungry. The mere idea of sitting down to eat filled him with disgust. With an effort he got up from the rocker and took out his wallet.

“You don’t need to give me anything,” said the holy woman from the floor. “Not today, Felícito.”

“Yes, I do,” said the trucker, leaving fifty soles on the nearest counter. “Not for that confused inspiration but for having comforted and advised me with so much kindness. You’re my best friend, Adelaida. That’s why I’ve always trusted you.”

He went out, buttoning his vest, adjusting his tie, his hat. He felt very hot again. The presence of so many people crowding the streets in the center of Piura oppressed him. Some recognized and greeted him with nods and bows while others were more secretive, merely pointing him out. Still others took pictures of him with their cell phones. He decided to stop by Narihualá Transport in case there were new developments. He looked at his watch: five o’clock. The press conference at the police station was at six. An hour until the news went off like gunpowder. It would explode on the radio and the Internet, to be spread by blogs and televised reports. He’d be the most popular man in Piura again. “Deceived by son and mistress,” “Son and mistress tried to extort him,” “The spiders were his son and his girlfriend, and on top of everything, they were lovers too!” He felt nauseated imagining the headlines, the caricatures that would show him in embarrassing poses, wearing horns that stretched to the clouds. What dogs they were! Ungrateful, thankless dogs! What Miguel had done angered him less. Because, thanks to the spider extortion, he’d confirmed his suspicion that Miguel wasn’t his son. Who could his real father be? Did Gertrudis even know? Back then, any patron at the inn fucked her, so there were plenty of candidates. Should he leave her? Get a divorce? He’d never loved her, but now, after so long, he couldn’t even feel rancor toward her. She hadn’t been a bad wife; in all these years her conduct had been exemplary, she’d lived only for her home and her religion. The news would shake her, naturally. A photograph of Miguel in handcuffs, behind bars for having tried to extort his father, the father he shared a mistress with, wasn’t something a mother would easily accept. She’d cry and hurry to the cathedral so the priests could console her.

What Mabel had done was worse. He thought about her and a hollow opened in his stomach. She was the only woman he’d ever really loved. He’d given her everything: house, allowance, gifts. A freedom no other man would have granted to the woman he kept. So she’d go to bed with his son! So she’d extort him in cahoots with that hateful wretch! He wasn’t going to kill her, or even punch her in her lying mouth. He wouldn’t see her again. Let her make her living whoring. Let’s see if she could find another lover as considerate as him.

Instead of walking down Calle Lima, at the Puente Colgante he turned toward the Eguiguren Seawalk. There were fewer people there and he could walk more calmly, free of the feeling of knowing that people were looking at him and pointing him out. He thought of the old mansions that had lined this seawalk when he was a kid. They’d fallen into disrepair one after the other because of the havoc caused by El Niño: the rains, the river overflowing its banks and flooding the neighborhood. Instead of rebuilding, the whites had made their new homes in El Chipe, far from the center of town.

What would he do now? Go on with his work at Narihualá Transport as if nothing had happened? Poor Tiburcio. He’d suffer a terrible blow. His brother, Miguel, whom he’d always been so close to, suddenly a criminal who tried to rob his father with the help of his father’s mistress. Tiburcio was a very good man. Maybe not very intelligent but decent, reliable, incapable of anything as low as what his brother had done. He’d be destroyed by the news.

The Piura River was very high, carrying away branches, small shrubs, papers, bottles, plastic. It looked muddy, as if there’d been landslides in the mountains. Nobody was swimming in it.

As he went up the seawalk to Avenida Sánchez Cerro, he decided not to go to the office. It was a quarter to six, and the reporters would swarm like flies around Narihualá Transport as soon as they learned the news. Better to shut himself up in his house, lock the door to the street, and not go out for a few days until the storm had calmed down. Thinking about the scandal sent chills up and down his spine.

He walked up Calle Arequipa toward his house, feeling anxiety pooling again in his chest and making it difficult to breathe. So Miguelito had a grudge against him, had hated him even before he forced him to do military service. The feeling was mutual. No, not true, he’d never hated his bastard son. That was different from never having loved him because he sensed they didn’t have the same blood. But he didn’t remember showing a preference for Tiburcio. He’d been a fair father, careful to treat them both identically. It’s true he’d made Miguel spend a year in the barracks. It was for his own good. So that he’d get on track. He was an awful student, he only liked to have fun, kick around soccer balls, drink in the chicha bars. He’d caught him guzzling drinks in seedy bars and restaurants with evil-looking friends, spending his allowance in brothels. Things would go very badly for him if he continued down that path. “If you keep this up, I’ll put you in the army,” he’d warned him. He kept it up, and he put him in. Felícito laughed. Well, it hadn’t really straightened him out if he ended up doing what he’d done. Let him go to jail, let him find out what that meant. Let’s see who’d give him work after that, with that kind of record. He’d come out more of a bandit than when he went in, just like everyone else who passed through the prisons, those universities of crime.

He was in front of his house. Before opening the large studded door, he walked over to the corner and tossed some coins into the blind man’s jar.

“Good afternoon, Lucindo.”

“Good afternoon, Don Felícito. God bless you.”

He went back, feeling the tightness in his chest, breathing with difficulty. He opened the door and closed it behind him. From the vestibule he heard voices in the living room. Just what he needed. Visitors! It was strange, Gertrudis didn’t have women friends who dropped in unannounced, she never gave teas. He stood uncertainly in the vestibule until he saw his wife’s broad shape appear in the doorway to the living room. He saw her come toward him, enclosed in one of those dresses that looked like a habit, speeding up that laborious walk of hers. What was with that expression on her face? Well, she must have heard the news by now.

“So now you know everything,” he murmured.

But she didn’t let him finish. She pointed toward the living room and spoke hurriedly.

“I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, Felícito. I’ve had to put her up here in the house. There was nothing else I could do. It’ll only be for a few days. She’s running away. It seems they might kill her. An incredible story. Come on, she’ll tell you herself.”

Felícito Yanaqué’s chest was a drum. He looked at Gertrudis, not really understanding what she was saying, but instead of his wife’s face he saw Adelaida’s, transformed by the visions of her inspiration.