The Discreet Hero

XVIII

Don Rigoberto, Doña Lucrecia, and Fonchito arrived in Piura at midmorning on the LAN Perú flight, and took a taxi to Hotel Los Portales on the Plaza de Armas. The reservations made by Felícito Yanaqué—a double room and an adjacent single — suited them perfectly. As soon as they’d settled in, the three of them went out for a walk. They took a turn around the Plaza de Armas, shaded by tall old tamarinds and colored at intervals by the bright red blossoms of poincianas.

It wasn’t very hot. They stopped for a while to look at the central monument, La Pola, a bold marble woman who represented liberty, a gift from President José Balta in 1870, and had a glance at the dreary cathedral. Then they sat down in a pastry shop, El Chalán, to have a cold drink. Rigoberto and Lucrecia, intrigued and somewhat skeptical, observed their environs and people they didn’t know. Would they really have the secret meeting with Armida as planned? They wanted to intensely, of course, but all the mystery surrounding this trip made it difficult for them to take any of it too seriously. At times they thought they were playing one of those games old people play in order to feel young.

“No, it can’t be a joke or a trap,” Don Rigoberto declared one more time, trying to convince himself. “The gentleman I spoke to on the phone made a good impression on me, as I’ve said. Undoubtedly humble, provincial, somewhat timid, but well intentioned. A good person, I’m certain. I have no doubt he was speaking for Armida.”

“Doesn’t it seem as if the whole situation is kind of unreal?” Doña Lucrecia replied with a nervous little laugh. She held a mother-of-pearl fan and fanned her face constantly. “It’s hard to believe the things that are happening to us, Rigoberto. Coming to Piura, telling everybody we needed a rest. Nobody believed it, of course.”

Fonchito didn’t seem to be listening. He sipped his eggfruit frappe from time to time, his eyes fixed on the table, totally indifferent to what his father and stepmother were saying, as if absorbed by a secret worry. He’d been this way since his last encounter with Edilberto Torres, which was why Don Rigoberto had decided to bring him to Piura, though he would miss a few days of school because of the trip.

“Edilberto Torres?” Don Rigoberto gave a start in his desk chair. “Him again? Talking about Bibles?”

“In the flesh, Fonchito,” said Edilberto Torres. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me. I don’t believe you’re so ungrateful.”

“I’ve just confessed and am doing the penance the priest gave me,” stammered Fonchito, more surprised than frightened. “I can’t talk to you now, señor, I’m very sorry.”

“In Fátima Church?” repeated Don Rigoberto, incredulous, swinging around as if suddenly possessed by Saint Vitus’s dance and dropping the book on Tantric art he was reading. “He was there? Inside the church?”

“I understand and beg your pardon,” said Edilberto Torres, lowering his voice, pointing at the altar with his index finger. “Pray, pray, Fonchito, it helps. We’ll talk afterward. I’m going to pray too.”

“Yes, in Fátima Church,” Fonchito confirmed, pale, his eyes a little wild. “My friends and I, the ones from the Bible group, went there for confession. The others had finished, and I was the last to go into the confessional. There weren’t many people left in the church. And suddenly I realized he was there, I don’t know for how long. Yes, right there, sitting next to me. I was really frightened, Papa. I know you don’t believe me, I know you’ll say I invented our meeting this time too. Talking about the Bible, yes.”

“All right, fine,” Don Rigoberto decided. “Now we should go back to the hotel. We’ll have lunch there. Señor Yanaqué said he’d get in touch with me some time this afternoon. If that’s really his name. An odd name, it sounds like the stage name of one of those rock singers covered with tattoos, doesn’t it?”

“It seems like a very Piuran last name to me,” Doña Lucrecia offered. “Maybe it’s Tallan.”

He paid the check and the three of them left the pastry shop. When they crossed the Plaza de Armas, Rigoberto had to push aside the shoeshine boys and lottery-ticket sellers who kept offering their services. Now it was definitely hotter. The sun was white in a cloudless sky, and all around them trees, benches, flagstones, people, dogs, cars seemed to be burning.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” murmured Fonchito, pierced by sorrow. “I know I’m giving you bad news, I know this is a difficult time for you, with the death of Señor Carrera and the disappearance of Armida. I know it’s rotten for me to do this. But you asked me to tell you everything, to tell you the truth. Isn’t that what you want, Papa?”

“I’ve had some financial problems, like everyone else these days, and my health is none too good,” said Señor Edilberto Torres, downcast and sad. “I’ve gone out very little recently. That’s the reason you haven’t seen me in so many weeks, Fonchito.”

“Did you come to this church because you knew I’d be here with my friends from the Bible-study group?”

“I came here to meditate, to ease my mind and see things more calmly, with greater perspective,” explained Edilberto Torres, but he didn’t look serene. He was trembling, as if suffering great anguish. “I do this frequently. I know half the churches in Lima, perhaps even more. This atmosphere of withdrawal, silence, and prayer does me good. I even like the pious old women and the smell of incense and antiquity that permeates the small chapels. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, and proud of it. I also pray and read the Bible, Fonchito, even though that surprises you. More proof that I’m not the devil, as your papa believes.”

“He’s going to be sad when he finds out I’ve seen you,” the boy said. “He thinks you don’t exist, that I invented you. And my stepmother does too. They really believe it. That’s why my papa was so enthusiastic when you said you could help him with the legal problems he had. He wanted to see you, meet with you. But you disappeared.”

“It’s never too late,” declared Señor Torres. “I’d be delighted to meet with Rigoberto and ease any concerns he has about me. I’d like to be his friend. I’d guess we’re about the same age. The truth is I don’t have friends, only acquaintances. I’m certain he and I would get along very well.”

“I’ll have a dried-beef stew,” Don Rigoberto told the waiter. “It’s a typical Piuran dish, isn’t it?”

Doña Lucrecia ordered grilled sea bass with a mixed salad, and Fonchito only a ceviche. The dining room at the Hotel Los Portales was almost empty, and some slow-moving fans kept the air cool. They drank lemonade with lots of ice.

“I want to believe you, I know you don’t lie to me, that you’re an honest kid with decent feelings,” Don Rigoberto concurred, his expression exasperated. “But this individual has become a burden in my life and in Lucrecia’s. It’s clear we’ll never be free of him, that he’ll pursue us to the grave. What did he want this time?”

“For us to have a conversation about profound things, a dialogue between friends,” said Edilberto Torres. “God, the afterlife, the world of the spirit, transcendence. Since you’re reading the Bible, I know those topics interest you, Fonchito, and I know too that you’re somewhat disappointed by your readings in the Old Testament. That you were expecting something else.”

“And how do you know that, señor?”

“A little bird told me,” Edilberto Torres said with a smile, but there was no joy at all in his smile, only the usual hidden anxiety. “Pay no attention to me, I’m joking. All I wanted to say is that the same thing happens to everybody who begins reading the Old Testament. Keep it up, keep it up, don’t be discouraged, and you’ll see that very soon your impression will change.”

Don Rigoberto gave another start behind his desk. “How did he know you’re disappointed by your biblical reading? Is that true, Fonchito? Are you?”

“I don’t know if I’m disappointed,” Fonchito admitted, somewhat sharply. “It’s just that everything’s so violent. Beginning with God, with Yahweh. I never would have imagined He was so fierce, hurling so many curses, commanding adulterous women to be stoned, ordering those who failed to perform the rituals to be killed. That He’d have the foreskins of the enemies of the Hebrews cut off. I didn’t even know what foreskin meant until I read the Bible, Papa.”

“Those were barbarous times, Fonchito,” Edilberto Torres reassured him, pausing frequently as he spoke without changing his taciturn expression. “All that happened thousands of years ago, in the days of idolatry and cannibalism. A world where tyranny and fanaticism reigned. Besides, you shouldn’t take what the Bible says literally. A good deal that appears there is symbolic, poetic, exaggerated. When fearsome Yahweh disappears and Jesus Christ appears, God will become gentle, pitying, and compassionate, you’ll see. But for that you have to get to the New Testament. Patience and perseverance, Fonchito.”

“He told me again that he wants to see you, Papa. Anyplace, anytime. He’d like to be friends with you, since you’re the same age.”

“I heard that story the last time that ghost materialized next to you, on the jitney,” Don Rigoberto said mockingly. “Wasn’t he going to help me with my legal problems? And what happened? He vanished into thin air! It’ll be the same thing this time. Well, son, I don’t understand you. Do you or don’t you like the Bible readings you’re doing now?”

“I don’t know if we’re doing it the right way.” The boy avoided answering. “Because, though sometimes we like it a lot, other times everything gets very complicated with all the nations the Jews fight in the desert. It’s impossible to remember so many exotic names. We’re more interested in the stories. They’re not like religious stories, more like adventures from Arabian Nights. Pecas Sheridan, one of my friends, said the other day that this wasn’t a good way to read the Bible, that we weren’t taking full advantage of it. That it would be better to have a guide. A priest, for example. What do you think, señor?”

“This tastes pretty good,” said Don Rigoberto, chewing a mouthful of his dried-beef stew. “I like the chifles a lot, that’s what they call fried plantain slices here. But I’m afraid with all this heat it’ll be a little hard to digest.”

After they finished their dishes they ordered ice cream and were just beginning their dessert when they saw a woman come into the restaurant. Standing in the doorway, she scrutinized the place, looking for someone. She was no longer young, but there was something fresh and bright about her, the youthful traces in her plump, smiling face, her bulging eyes and wide, heavily painted mouth. Her false, fluttering lashes were charming, her round, gaily colored earrings danced, and she had on a very tight white dress with a flower print; her generous hips did not keep her from moving with agility. After looking over the three or four occupied tables, she headed resolutely for the one where the three of them were sitting. “Señor Rigoberto, right?” she asked, smiling. She shook hands with each one and sat down in the empty chair.

“My name’s Josefita and I’m Señor Felícito Yanaqué’s secretary,” she introduced herself. “Welcome to the land of the tondero dance and the ‘hey waddya think.’ Is this your first time in Piura?”

She spoke not only with her mouth but also with her expressive, darting green eyes, moving her hands constantly.

“The first, but it won’t be the last,” Don Rigoberto replied pleasantly. “Señor Yanaqué couldn’t come?”

“He preferred not to, because, as you probably know, Don Felícito can’t set foot on the streets of Piura without a swarm of reporters following him.”

“Reporters?” Don Rigoberto was amazed, opening his eyes very wide. “And may I ask why they’re following him, Señora Josefita?”

“Señorita,” she corrected him, and added with a blush: “Though now I have an admirer who’s a captain in the Civil Guard.”

“A thousand pardons, Señorita Josefita,” Rigoberto apologized, bowing his head. “Can you tell me why reporters are chasing Señor Yanaqué?”

Josefita stopped smiling. She looked at them with surprise and even a little pity. Fonchito had emerged from his lethargy and seemed suddenly attentive to what the newcomer was saying.

“Don’t you know that at this moment Don Felícito Yanaqué is more famous than the president of the republic?” she exclaimed, dumbfounded, showing the tip of her tongue. “For some time now he’s been talked about on radio and television, and in the papers. But sad to say, it’s for bad reasons.”

Don Rigoberto and his wife were clearly so astonished that Josefita had to explain how the owner of Narihualá Transport had passed from anonymity to popularity. It was obvious that these Limeños were in the dark about the spider story and the subsequent scandals.

“It’s a magnificent idea, Fonchito,” Señor Edilberto Torres agreed. “To sail with confidence on the ocean of the Bible, one needs an experienced navigator. It could be a cleric like Father O’Donovan, of course. But also a layman, someone who’s devoted many years to studying the Old and New Testaments. Myself, for example. Don’t think I’m bragging, but the truth is I’ve spent a good part of my life studying Scripture. I can see in your eyes you don’t believe me.”

“Now the pedophile is passing himself off as a theologian and an expert in biblical studies,” Don Rigoberto said indignantly. “I can’t tell you how much I want to see his face, Fonchito. Any time now he’ll tell you he’s a priest—”

“He already told me that, Papa,” Fonchito interrupted. “I mean, he’s not a priest now but he was one. He hung up his seminarian’s habit before being ordained. He couldn’t endure chastity, that’s what he told me.”

“I shouldn’t talk to you about these things, you’re still too young,” added Señor Edilberto Torres, turning pale, his voice trembling. “But that’s what happened. I masturbated all the time, sometimes several times a day. It grieves and troubles me, because believe me, my vocation to serve God was very strong. Since the time I was a boy, like you. Except I never could defeat the damned demon of sex. The time came when I thought I’d go mad because of the temptations that pursued me day and night. And then, what could I do, I had to leave the seminary.”

“He talked to you about that?” Don Rigoberto was shocked. “About masturbation, about jerking off?”

“And then did you get married, señor?” the boy asked timidly.

“No, no, I’m still a bachelor.” Señor Torres gave a somewhat forced laugh. “You don’t need to be married to have a sex life, Fonchito.”

“According to the Catholic religion you do,” declared the boy.

“Certainly, because the Catholic religion is very intransigent and puritanical in sexual matters,” the man explained. “Other religions are more tolerant. Besides, in our permissive time, even Rome will modernize, no matter how difficult it may be.”

“Yes, yes, now I remember,” Señora Lucrecia interrupted Josefita. “Of course, I read it somewhere or saw it on television. Señor Yanaqué is that man: His son and mistress wanted to kidnap him and steal all his money?”

“Well, well, this is unbelievable.” Don Rigoberto was completely disheartened by what he was hearing. “It means we’ve walked right into the lion’s den. If I understand you correctly, your employer’s office and house are surrounded by reporters day and night. Is that right?”

“No, not at night.” With a triumphant smile Josefita tried to cheer up this big-eared man, who not only turned pale but also began to grimace and contort his face. “When the scandal first broke, yes, those early days were unbearable. Reporters circling his house and office twenty-four hours a day. But then they got tired; now, at night, they go to sleep or to get drunk, because here all the reporters are bohemians and romantics. Señor Yanaqué’s plan will work very well, don’t worry.”

“And what is his plan?” asked Rigoberto. He hadn’t finished his ice cream and still held the glass of lemonade he’d just emptied in a single swallow.

Very simple. They should stay in the hotel or, at the most, if they preferred, go to a movie; there were several modern theaters now in the new malls, she recommended the Centro Comercial Open Plaza in Castilla, not very far, right next to the Puente Andrés Avelino Cáceres. It wasn’t a good idea for them to appear on the streets of the city. When night came, when all the reporters had left Calle Arequipa, Josefita herself would come for them and take them to Señor Yanaqué’s house. It was near the theater, just a couple of blocks away.

“What bad luck for poor Armida,” lamented Doña Lucrecia as soon as Josefita had left. “She really fell into a trap worse than the one she wanted to escape. I don’t understand how the reporters or the police haven’t found her yet.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be scandalized by my confidences, Fonchito.” A remorseful Edilberto Torres apologized, lowering his eyes and his voice. “But tormented by that damned demon of sex, I went to brothels and paid prostitutes. Horrible things that made me feel disgusted with myself. God willing you’ll never succumb to those repugnant temptations, the way I did.”

“I know very well where that degenerate wanted to lead you by talking about touching yourself and hookers,” Don Rigoberto said in a hoarse, choking voice. “You should have left immediately and not encouraged him. Didn’t you realize that his supposed confidences were a strategy designed to make you fall into his net, Fonchito?”

“You’re wrong, Papa,” he replied. “I assure you Señor Torres was sincere, he had no hidden motives. He looked very sad, full of grief for having done those things. Suddenly his eyes grew red, his voice broke, and he began to cry again. It broke my heart to see him like that.”

“It’s just as well I’ve brought something good to read,” remarked Don Rigoberto. “We have a long time to wait until nightfall. I’m guessing you won’t want to go to a movie in this heat.”

“Why not, Papa?” Fonchito protested. “Josefita said they had air-conditioning and were very modern.”

“We could see something of their progress. Don’t they say that Piura is one of the Peruvian cities that’s developing the fastest?” Doña Lucrecia agreed. “Fonchito’s right. Let’s take a little walk around that shopping center, there’s probably something good playing. We never go to the movies as a family in Lima. Come on, Rigoberto.”

“I’m so ashamed of doing those bad, dirty things that I impose my own penance. And sometimes, as punishment, I flog myself until I bleed, Fonchito,” confessed Edilberto Torres, his voice breaking and his eyes red.

“And didn’t he ask you then to do the flogging?” Don Rigoberto exploded. “I’ll search heaven and earth for that pervert and won’t stop until I find him and put the screws to him, I’m warning you. He’ll go to prison or I’ll put a bullet in him if he tries to do anything to you. If he shows up again, tell him that for me.”

“And then he began crying even harder and couldn’t go on talking, Papa,” Fonchito reassured him. “It isn’t what you think, I swear it isn’t. Because listen, in the middle of crying, suddenly he stopped and ran out of the church, without saying goodbye or anything. He seemed desperate, like someone who’s going to kill himself. He isn’t a pervert but a man in a lot of pain. He’s more to be pitied than feared, I swear.”

Then a nervous knocking on the study door interrupted them. One of the panels opened and Justiniana’s worried face peered in.

“Why do you think I closed the door?” Rigoberto stopped her, raising an admonishing hand, not letting her speak. “Don’t you see that Fonchito and I are busy?”

“But they’re here, señor,” the maid said. “They’ve planted themselves at the door, and even though I told them you’re busy, they want to come in.”

“They?” Don Rigoberto gave a start. “The twins?”

“I didn’t know what else to tell them or what to do,” Justiniana said, very upset, speaking quietly and gesticulating. “I’m really sorry. They say it’s very urgent and will take only a few minutes of your time. What should I tell them, señor?”

“All right, show them into the living room,” Rigoberto said in a resigned voice. “You and Lucrecia stay alert in case something happens and you have to call the police.”

When Justiniana withdrew, Don Rigoberto grasped Fonchito’s arms and looked deep into his eyes. He regarded him with affection but also with an anxiety that was apparent in his uncertain, imploring speech.

“Foncho, Fonchito, my dear son, I beg you, I implore you for the sake of all you hold dear. Tell me that everything you’ve told me isn’t true. That you made it up. That it hasn’t happened. Tell me Edilberto Torres doesn’t exist, and you’ll make me the happiest creature on earth.”

He saw the boy’s face become demoralized as he bit his lips until they turned purple.

“Okay, Papa,” he heard him say, with an intonation no longer that of a child but of an adult. “Edilberto Torres doesn’t exist. I invented him. I’ll never talk about him to you again. Can I go now?”

Rigoberto agreed. He watched Fonchito leave the study and noted that his hands were trembling. Rigoberto’s heart was icy. He loved his son very much but, he thought, in spite of all his efforts, he’d never understand him, Fonchito would always be an unfathomable mystery to him. Before facing the hyenas, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He’d never get out of this labyrinth, more and more passageways, basement chambers, turns, and switchbacks. Is this what life was, a labyrinth that, no matter what you did, brought you ineluctably into the clutches of Polyphemus?

In the living room, Ismael Carrera’s sons stood waiting for him. Both were dressed in suits and ties, as usual, but contrary to his expectations, they hadn’t come to do battle. Was the defeated, victimized attitude they displayed authentic or merely a new tactic? What were they up to? Both greeted him with affection, patting him on the shoulder and making an effort to display contrition. Escobita was the first to apologize.

“I behaved very badly the last time we were here, uncle,” he whispered, downcast, wringing his hands. “I lost my temper, I said stupid things and insulted you. I was upset, half crazy. I beg your pardon. I’m in a state of confusion, I haven’t slept for weeks, I take pills for my nerves. My life’s become a calamity, Uncle Rigoberto. I swear we’ll never disrespect you again.”

“All of us are confused, and no wonder,” Don Rigoberto acknowledged. “The things that are happening make us all lose our tempers. I feel no rancor toward you. Sit down and let’s talk. To what do I owe this visit?”

“We can’t stand any more, uncle.” Miki came forward. He’d always seemed the more serious and judicious of the two, at least when it came time to speak. “Life has become unbearable for us. I suppose you know that. The police think we’ve kidnapped or killed Armida. They interrogate us and ask the most offensive questions. Snitches follow us day and night. They ask for bribes, and if we don’t give them something they come in and search our apartments at any hour. As if we were common criminals, what do you think of that?”

“And the papers and the television, uncle!” Escobita interjected. “Have you seen the filth they throw at us? Every day and every night on all the newscasts. We’re rapists, we’re drug addicts, and given that background we’re probably responsible for the disappearance of that damn chola. It’s so unfair, uncle!”

“If you begin by insulting Armida, who’s now your stepmother whether you like it or not, you’re off to a bad start, Escobita,” Don Rigoberto reprimanded him.

“You’re right, I’m sorry, but I’m already half crazed,” Escobita apologized. Miki was again obsessively biting his nails; he did it finger by finger, unceasingly, unmercifully. “You don’t know how awful it’s become to read the paper, or listen to the radio, or watch television. They slander you day and night, call you a degenerate, a bum, a cocaine addict, and I don’t know how many other vile things. What a country we live in, uncle!”

“And it’s no use filing lawsuits or appeals for legal protection, they say those are attacks on freedom of the press,” Miki complained. He smiled for absolutely no reason, then became serious again. “Well, we already know that journalism survives on scandals. Worst of all is the police. Doesn’t it seem monstrous to you that on top of what Papa did to us, now they’re trying to make us responsible for the disappearance of that woman? We’re under a travel ban during the investigation. We can’t even leave the country, right when the Open is starting in Miami.”

“What’s the Open?” Don Rigoberto asked, intrigued.

“The tennis championships, the Sony Ericsson Open,” Escobita explained. “Didn’t you know that Miki is a wizard with the racket, uncle? He’s won a pile of prizes. We’ve offered a reward to whoever helps locate Armida. And just between us, we can’t even pay it. We don’t have the money, uncle. We’re flat broke. Miki and I don’t have a goddamn penny left. Just debts. And since we’ve become contagious, no bank, no moneylender, no friend is willing to cough up a cent.”

“We don’t have anything left to sell or pawn, Uncle Rigoberto,” said Miki. His voice trembled so much that he spoke with long pauses and blinked constantly. “Not a cent, no credit, and as if that wasn’t enough, we’re suspected of kidnapping or murder. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”

“You’re our last hope.” Escobita grasped his hand and squeezed it firmly, nodding, with tears in his eyes. “Don’t fail us, please, uncle.”

Don Rigoberto couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. The twins had lost the haughtiness and certainty that had characterized them, they seemed defenseless, frightened, pleading for his compassion. How things had changed in so short a time!

“I’m very sorry for everything that’s happening to you, nephews,” he said, using that word sincerely for the first time. “I know somebody else’s suffering is no consolation, but at least think about this: With all the bad things happening to you, it must be much worse for poor Armida. Don’t you agree? Whether they’ve killed or kidnapped her, what a terrible thing for her, don’t you think? Then too, I believe I’ve also been the victim of a good number of injustices — your accusations, for example, of my complicity in the supposed deception that led to Ismael marrying Armida. Do you know how many times I’ve had to go to make a statement to the police and the investigating judge? Do you know how much lawyers are costing me? Do you know that months ago I had to cancel the trip with Lucrecia to Europe that we’d already paid for? I still can’t start collecting my pension from the insurance company because you two stalled the process. In short, if it’s a question of counting misfortunes, the three of us are neck and neck.”

They listened to him with heads lowered, silent, dejected, confused. Don Rigoberto heard strange music outside on the Barranco Seawalk. Was it the old knife grinder’s penny whistle again? These two seemed to summon him. Miki chewed his nails and Escobita swung his left foot in a slow, symmetrical motion. Yes, it was the knife grinder’s tune. It made him happy to hear it.

“We filed that complaint because we were desperate, uncle, Papa’s marriage drove us crazy,” said Escobita. “I swear we’re very sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused you. The matter of your pension will be resolved very quickly now, I imagine. As you know, we don’t have anything to do with the company anymore. Papa sold it to an Italian firm. Without even telling us.”

“We’ll withdraw the complaint whenever you say, uncle,” Miki added. “As a matter of fact, it’s one of the things we wanted to talk to you about.”

“Thanks very much, but it’s a little late now,” said Rigoberto. “Dr. Arnillas explained that when Ismael died, the suit you filed, at least as far as I’m concerned, was dismissed.”

“There’s nobody else like you, uncle,” said Escobita, displaying, Don Rigoberto thought, even more stupidity than it was reasonable to expect from him in everything he did and said. “By the way, Dr. Claudio Arnillas, that wimp in a clown’s suspenders, is the worst traitor ever born in Peru. He lived by sucking on Papa’s teats his whole life, and now he’s our sworn enemy. A servant sold body and soul to Armida and those Italian mafiosi who bought Papa’s company at bargain prices—”

“We came to straighten things out and you’re complicating them,” his brother cut him short. A contrite Miki turned to Don Rigoberto. “We want to hear you, uncle. Though it still saddens us that you helped Papa with that marriage, we trust you. Give us a hand, give us some advice. You’ve heard the disastrous situation we’re in, we don’t know what to do. What do you think we should do? You have a lot of experience.”

“This is much nicer than I expected,” exclaimed Doña Lucrecia. “Saga Falabella, Tottus, Passarela, Dejavu, so on and so forth. Well, well, nothing less than the best stores in the capital.”

“And six movie theaters! All of them air-conditioned,” Fonchito applauded. “You can’t complain, Papa.”

“All right,” Don Rigoberto gave in. “You two choose the least bad movie and let’s go into a theater right away.”

Since it was still early in the afternoon and the heat outside was intense, there were almost no people in the elegant installations of the Centro Comercial Open Plaza. But the air-conditioning was a blessing, and while Doña Lucrecia looked in some shopwindows and Fonchito studied the films on the billboard, Don Rigoberto amused himself by looking at the yellow tracts of sand that surrounded the enormous expanse of the Universidad Nacional de Piura and the sparse carob trees scattered among those tongues of golden earth where, though he didn’t see them, he imagined fast-moving lizards peering all around with their triangular heads and gummy eyes, searching for insects. Armida’s story was incredible! She ran away from scandal, lawyers, and her irate stepsons, only to seek refuge in the house of a man who was at the center of yet another monstrous scandal, complete with the tastiest ingredients of yellow journalism: adultery, extortion, anonymous letters signed with spiders, abductions, false abductions, and apparently even incest. Now he really was impatient to meet Felícito Yanaqué, to listen to Armida, to tell her about his last conversation with Miki and Escobita.

Then Doña Lucrecia and Fonchito came up to him. They had two suggestions: Pirates of the Caribbean II (his son’s choice) and A Fatal Passion (his wife’s). He opted for the pirates, thinking they would lull him better than the tearful melodrama the other title foretold and that he might manage to take a nap. How many months had it been since he’d set foot in a movie theater?

“When we come out, we could go to this tearoom,” said Fonchito, pointing. “What delicious-looking pastries!”

“He seems happy and excited about this trip,” Don Rigoberto thought. He hadn’t seen his son so cheerful and lively for a long time. Ever since the appearance of the wretched Edilberto Torres, Fonchito had become reserved, melancholy, absentminded. Now, in Piura, he once again seemed the good-humored, curious, enthusiastic boy he used to be. There were barely half a dozen people inside the brand-new movie theater.

Don Rigoberto inhaled, exhaled, and began his speech.

“I have only one piece of advice to give you.” He spoke solemnly. “Make peace with Armida. Accept her marriage to Ismael, accept her as your stepmother. Forget about the foolishness of trying to have the marriage annulled. Negotiate a financial compensation. Don’t deceive yourselves, you’ll never be able to seize everything she’s inherited. Your father knew what he was doing and tied things up very nicely. If you insist on this legal action, you’ll burn all your bridges and won’t get a cent. Negotiate in a friendly way, agree on an amount that may not be what you wanted but could be enough so you can live well without working, having a good time and playing tennis for the rest of your lives.”

“And suppose the kidnappers have killed her, uncle?” Escobita’s expression was so pathetic that Don Rigoberto shuddered. In fact, what if they had killed her? What would happen to that fortune? Would it remain in the hands of bankers, managers, accountants, and international law firms, which now kept it beyond the reach not only of these two poor devils but of tax collectors all over the world?

“It’s easy for you to ask us to be friends with the woman who stole Papa from us, uncle,” said Miki, with more grief than anger. “And who has kept everything the family had, even the furniture, my mother’s dresses and jewelry. We loved our papa. It hurts us very much that in his old age he became the victim of such a filthy conspiracy.”

Don Rigoberto looked him in the eye and Miki didn’t look away. This little scoundrel who’d embittered Ismael’s last years, and for months had kept him and Lucrecia on a tightrope, stuck in Lima and smothered in judicial appearances, allowed himself the luxury of a good conscience.

“There was no conspiracy, Miki,” he said slowly, trying not to let his rage show through his words. “Your papa married because he cared for Armida. Maybe it wasn’t love, but he cared for her very much. She was good to him and comforted him when your mother died, a very difficult time when Ismael felt very alone.”

“And how well she comforted him, getting the poor old man into bed,” said Escobita. He stopped talking when Miki lifted an energetic hand, indicating that he should shut his mouth.

“But above all, Ismael married her because of how terribly disappointed he was with the two of you,” Don Rigoberto continued as if, unintentionally, his tongue had been unleashed all by itself. “Yes, yes, I know very well what I’m saying, nephews. I know what I’m talking about. And now you’re going to know it too, if you listen without further interruptions.”

He’d been raising his voice, and now the twins were quiet and attentive, surprised by the gravity with which he spoke to them.

“Do you want me to tell you why he was so disappointed in you? Not because you’re bums, playboys, drunkards who smoke marijuana and snort cocaine as if it were candy. No, no, all this he could understand and even excuse. Though, of course, he would have preferred his sons to be very different.”

“We didn’t come here for you to insult us, uncle,” protested Miki, turning red.

“He was disappointed because he found out you were impatient for him to die so you could inherit his money. How do I know? Because he told me so himself. I can tell you where, what day, what time. And even the exact words he used.”

And for several minutes, with absolute calm, Rigoberto reported the conversation of several months earlier at lunch in La Rosa Náutica, when his employer and friend told him he’d decided to marry Armida and asked him to be a witness at his wedding.

“He heard you talking in the San Felipe Clinic, saying stupid, immoral things beside his deathbed,” Rigoberto concluded. “You precipitated the marriage of Ismael and Armida because you’re insensitive and cruel. Or rather, because you’re fools. You should have hidden your feelings at least for those few moments and let your father die in peace, believing his sons were sorry about what was happening to him, and had not begun to celebrate his death when he was still alive and listening to you. Ismael told me that hearing the two of you say those awful things gave him the strength to survive, to fight. You were the ones who revived him, not the doctors. Well, you know that already. It’s the reason your father married Armida. And so that you’d never inherit his fortune.”

“We never said what you say he said we said,” was Escobita’s confusing reply, and his words turned into a tongue twister. “My papa must have dreamed that on account of the strong medications they gave him to get him out of the coma. If you’re really telling us the truth and haven’t invented that whole story to fuck us over even more than we’re fucked already.”

He looked as if he were going to say something else but thought better of it. Miki said nothing and continued to bite his nails tenaciously. His expression had soured and he seemed dejected. His face had turned even redder.

“We probably said it and he heard us,” Miki corrected his brother abruptly. “We said it often, that’s true, uncle. We didn’t love him because he never loved us. To the best of my memory, I never heard him say an affectionate word. He never played with us or took us to the movies or the circus the way our friends’ fathers did. I don’t think he ever sat down to talk to us. He barely spoke to us. He didn’t love anybody except his company and his work. Do you know something? I’m not sorry at all that he found out we hated him. Because it was absolutely true.”

“Shut up, Miki, anger is making you say damn fool things,” Escobita protested. “I don’t know why you told us that, uncle.”

“For a very simple reason, nephew. So that once and for all you’ll get rid of the ridiculous idea that your papa married Armida because he was doddering and had senile dementia, or because he was given potions or was the victim of black magic. He married because he found out that the two of you wanted him to die as soon as possible so you could have his fortune and squander it. That’s the absolute, sad truth.”

“We’d better leave, Miki,” said Escobita, getting up from his chair. “Now do you see why I didn’t want to pay this visit? I told you that instead of helping us he’d end up insulting us, like last time. We’d better go before I get angry again and punch this dirty slanderer in the face.”

“I don’t know about you two, but I loved the movie,” said Señora Lucrecia. “It was a little silly, but I had a good time.”

“More than an adventure movie, it’s a fantasy,” Fonchito agreed. “I thought the best things were the monsters, the skulls. And don’t say you didn’t like it, Papa. I watched you and you were totally absorbed by the screen.”

“Well, it’s true I wasn’t bored at all,” Don Rigoberto admitted. “Let’s take a taxi back to the hotel. It’s getting dark and the big moment’s approaching.”

They returned to Hotel Los Portales, and Don Rigoberto took a long shower. Now that it was almost time for their meeting with Armida, it seemed to him that everything he was experiencing was, in effect, as Lucrecia had said, a fantasy as amusing and silly as the movie they’d just seen, with no bearing on lived reality. But suddenly a shudder chilled his spine. Perhaps at this very moment, a gang of killers, international criminals, aware of the huge fortune left by Ismael Carrera, were torturing Armida, pulling out her nails, cutting off a finger or an ear, gouging out an eye, to force her to give them the millions they demanded. Or perhaps they’d gone too far and she was already dead and buried. Lucrecia showered too, dressed, and they went down to the bar to have a drink. Fonchito stayed in his room watching television. He said he didn’t want to eat; he’d order up a sandwich and go to bed.

The bar was fairly crowded, but no one seemed to pay them any attention. They sat at the most isolated table and ordered two whiskeys with soda and ice.

“I still can’t believe we’re going to see Armida,” said Doña Lucrecia. “Can it be true?”

“It’s a strange feeling,” replied Don Rigoberto. “As if we were living a fantasy, a dream that may turn into a nightmare.”

“Josefita, what a common name, and what about her appearance,” she remarked. “To tell you the truth, my nerves are on edge. Suppose all of this is a trick by some crooks to get money out of you, Rigoberto?”

“They’ll be very disappointed,” he said with a laugh. “Because my wallet’s empty. But this Josefita hardly looked like a gangster, don’t you agree? And by the same token, on the phone Señor Yanaqué seemed the most inoffensive creature in the world.”

They finished their whiskeys, ordered two more, and finally walked into the restaurant. But neither of them felt like eating, so instead of sitting at a table, they went into the lounge near the entrance. They were there for close to an hour, consumed by impatience, never taking their eyes off the people entering and leaving the hotel.

At last Josefita arrived, with her bulging eyes, big earrings, and ample hips. She was dressed as she had been that morning. Her expression was very serious and her gestures conspiratorial. She came up to them only after checking behind her with darting eyes, and didn’t even open her mouth to say good evening, indicating with a gesture that they should go with her. They followed her to the Plaza de Armas. Don Rigoberto, who almost never drank, was slightly dizzy after the two whiskeys, and the light breeze on the street made him a little dizzier. Josefita had them walk around the square, pass close to the cathedral, and then turn onto Calle Arequipa. The stores were already closed, the display windows lit and gated, and there weren’t many pedestrians on the sidewalks. When they reached the second block, Josefita pointed at the entrance to an old house, its windows covered by curtains, and, still not saying a word, waved goodbye. They watched her walk away quickly, swinging her hips, not looking back. Don Rigoberto and Doña Lucrecia approached the large studded door, but before they could knock it opened, and a quiet, very respectful man’s voice murmured, “Come in, come in please.”

They went in. In a dimly lit vestibule, its one light moving in the breeze from the street, they were received by a small, sickly-looking man wearing a fitted jacket and vest. He bowed deeply as he extended a childlike hand.

“I’m happy to meet you, welcome to this house. Felícito Yanaqué, at your service. Come in, come in.”

He closed the street door and led them through the shadowy vestibule into a living room, also dimly lit, with a television and a small bookcase that held CDs. Don Rigoberto saw a feminine silhouette emerging from one of the armchairs and recognized Armida. Before he could greet her, Doña Lucrecia stepped forward and he saw his wife enfold Ismael Carrera’s widow in a close embrace. Both women began to cry, like two close friends meeting again after many years of being apart. When it was his turn to greet her, Armida offered Don Rigoberto her cheek for him to kiss. He did, murmuring, “How glad I am to see you safe and sound, Armida.” She thanked them for coming, God would reward them, and Ismael also thanked them from wherever he was.

“What an adventure, Armida,” said Rigoberto. “I suppose you know you’re the most searched-for woman in Peru. The most famous too. You’re on television morning, noon, and night, and everybody thinks you’ve been kidnapped.”

“I don’t have the words to thank you for taking the trouble to come to Piura.” She wiped away her tears. “I need you to help me. I couldn’t stay in Lima any longer. Appointments with lawyers and notaries and meetings with Ismael’s sons were driving me crazy. I needed a little calm to think. I don’t know what I would have done without Gertrudis and Felícito. This is my sister, and Felícito is my brother-in-law.”

A slightly misshapen figure emerged from the shadows in the room. The woman, wearing a tunic, extended a thick, sweaty hand and greeted them silently, with a slight nod. Beside her, the small man, who apparently was her husband, seemed even tinier, almost a gnome. She held a tray with glasses and bottles of soft drinks.

“I’ve prepared some refreshments for you. Help yourselves.”

“We have so much to talk about, Armida,” said Don Rigoberto, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“The best place would be the beginning,” said Armida. “But sit down, sit down. You must be hungry. Gertrudis and I have also prepared something for you to eat.”