The Discreet Hero

V

The notice, paid for out of his own pocket, that Felícito Yanaqué published in El Tiempo made him famous overnight throughout Piura. People stopped him on the street to congratulate him, show their solidarity, ask for his autograph, and, above all, warn him to be careful: “What you’ve done is very rash, Don Felícito. Hey waddya think! Now your life’s really in danger.”

None of this went to the trucker’s head, and none of it frightened him. What affected him most was observing the change the small notice in Piura’s principal newspaper caused in Sergeant Lituma and, especially, in Captain Silva. He’d never liked this vulgar police chief who used any pretext to run his mouth about Piuran women’s bottoms, and he thought the antipathy was mutual. But now the captain’s attitude was less arrogant. On the very afternoon of the day the notice was published, both police officers showed up at his house on Calle Arequipa, affable and ingratiating. They’d come to demonstrate their concern over “what was happening to you, Señor Yanaqué.” Not even when the fire set by the spider crooks leveled part of Narihualá Transport had they been so attentive. What pangs of conscience troubled this pair of cops now? They seemed truly sorry about his situation and eager to challenge the extortionists.

Finally, Captain Silva took a clipping of the El Tiempo notice out of his pocket.

“You must have been crazy when you published this, Don Felícito,” he said, half in jest, half seriously. “Didn’t it occur to you that this kind of hotheaded act could get your throat slit or put a bullet in the back of your neck?”

“It wasn’t a hotheaded act, I thought about it a lot before I did it,” the trucker explained gently. “I wanted those sons of bitches to know once and for all that they won’t get a cent out of me. They can burn down this house, all my trucks, buses, and jitneys. Even knock off my wife and children if they want. Not one fuckin’ cent!”

Small and steadfast, he said this without exaggeration or anger, his hands quiet, his glance firm, his determination serene.

“I believe you, Don Felícito,” the distressed captain agreed. And he got to the point: “The thing is, without wanting to, without realizing it, you’ve gotten us into one enormous jam. Colonel Rascachucha, our regional chief, called the station this morning about the notice. Do you know why? Tell him, Lituma.”

“To tell us to go to hell and call us morons and losers, sir,” the sergeant explained sorrowfully.

Felícito Yanaqué laughed. For the first time since he’d begun to receive the spider letters, he was in a good mood.

“That’s what the two of you are, Captain,” he murmured with a smile. “I’m so glad your boss told you off. Is that word really his name? Cuntscratcher?”

Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva laughed too, uneasily.

“Of course not, that’s his nickname,” the chief explained. “His real name is Colonel Asundino Ríos Pardo. I don’t know how he got that moniker or who gave it to him. He’s a good officer, but he swears a lot. He doesn’t put up with any nonsense, he’ll curse out anybody for the least little thing.”

“You’re wrong to think we haven’t taken your complaint seriously, Señor Yanaqué,” Sergeant Lituma interjected.

“We had to wait until the crooks revealed themselves before we could act,” the captain went on with sudden energy. “Now that they have, we’re taking care of business.”

“That’s cold comfort to me,” said Felícito Yanaqué, frowning annoyance. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but as far as I’m concerned, nobody’s going to give me back the business they burned down.”

“Doesn’t your insurance take care of damages?”

“It ought to, but they’re giving me a hard time. They claim that only the vehicles were insured, not the premises. Dr. Castro Pozo, my lawyer, says maybe we’ll have to go to court. Which means I lose either way. And that’s that.”

“Don’t you worry, Don Felícito,” the captain said, calming him with a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll catch them. Sooner or later, we’ll catch them. Word of honor. We’ll keep you up to date. We’ll say goodbye now. And please give my best to Señora Josefita, that beautiful secretary of yours.”

It was true that from that day on, the police began to show signs of diligence. They questioned all the drivers and clerks at Narihualá Transport. They kept Miguel and Tiburcio, Felícito’s two sons, at the station for several hours, subjecting them to a barrage of questions the boys couldn’t always answer. And they even hounded Lucindo to identify the voice of the person who asked him to tell Don Felícito his business was on fire. The blind man swore he’d never heard the voice before. But in spite of all this activity by the police, the trucker felt depressed and skeptical. Deep down he had the feeling they’d never catch the extortionists. They’d keep after him, and then it would suddenly end in tragedy. Still, these gloomy thoughts didn’t make him yield an inch in his resolve not to give in to their threats or attacks.

What depressed him most was the conversation with Colorado Vignolo, his compadre, colleague, and competitor, who came looking for him one morning at Narihualá Transport, where Felícito had set up an improvised office — a board on two oil barrels — in a corner of the garage. From there he could see the shambles of scorched corrugated iron, walls, and furniture the fire had turned his old office into. The flames had even destroyed part of the roof. Through the open space a piece of high, blue sky was visible. Just as well it rarely rained in Piura, except in El Niño years. Colorado Vignolo was very troubled.

“You shouldn’t have done this, compadre,” he said as he embraced him and showed him a clipping from El Tiempo. “How could you risk your life like this? You’re always so calm about everything, Felícito. What got into you this time? What are friends for, hey waddya think? If you’d consulted me, I wouldn’t have let you do anything so dumb.”

“That’s why I didn’t consult you, compadre. I figured you’d tell me not to place the notice.” Felícito pointed at the ruins of his old office. “I had to respond somehow to the people who did this to me.”

They went to have coffee in a dive that had recently opened at the corner of Plaza Merino and Calle Tacna, next to a Chinese restaurant. It was dark, and numerous flies circled in the gloom. From there you could see the dusty almond trees in the little square and the weathered façade of the Church of the Virgen del Carmen. There were no other customers, and they could talk openly.

“It’s never happened to you, compadre?” Felícito asked. “You never had one of those letters, demanding money?”

He was surprised to see that Colorado Vignolo had a strange expression on his face; he seemed to be in a daze and for a moment didn’t know how to answer. There was a guilty gleam in his hooded eyes; he blinked incessantly and avoided looking at his friend.

“Compadre, don’t tell me you…” Felícito stammered, squeezing his friend’s arm.

“I’m no hero and don’t want to be one,” Colorado Vignolo replied in a quiet voice. “So yes, I am telling you. I pay them a small amount every month. And though I can’t prove it, I can tell you that all or almost all the transport companies in Piura make those payments too. It’s what you should have done instead of being reckless and confronting them. We all thought you were paying too, Felícito. What a foolish thing you’ve done. I can’t understand it and none of our colleagues can either. Have you lost your mind? My friend, you don’t get into fights you can’t win.”

“It’s hard to believe you’d bend over for those sons of bitches,” Felícito said sadly. “I swear I can’t wrap my mind around it. You always seemed like such a tough guy.”

“It’s not much, a small sum that’s included in general expenses.” Colorado shrugged, embarrassed, not knowing what to do with his hands, moving them as if they were in the way. “It’s not worth risking your life over something so minor, Felícito. That five hundred they asked for would’ve been cut in half if you’d just been willing to negotiate with them, I can tell you that. Don’t you see what they’ve done to your business? And on top of that, you put that notice in El Tiempo. You’re risking your life and your family’s life. And even poor Mabel’s, don’t you realize that? You won’t ever be able to stand up to them, as sure as my name’s Vignolo. The earth is round, not square. Accept it and don’t try to straighten out the crooked world we live in. The gang’s very powerful, it’s infiltrated everywhere, beginning with the government and the judges. You’re really naïve to trust the police. It wouldn’t surprise me if the cops were in on it. Don’t you know what country we’re living in, compadre?”

Felícito Yanaqué barely listened to him. It was true, it was hard for him to believe what he’d heard: Colorado Vignolo making monthly payments to those crooks. He’d known him for twenty years and always thought he was an upstanding guy. Fuck, what a world this was.

“Are you sure all the transport companies are making payments?” he repeated, trying to look into his friend’s eyes. “Aren’t you exaggerating?”

“If you don’t believe me, ask them. As true as my name’s Vignolo, if not all, then most. This isn’t the time to play the hero, Felícito my friend. The important thing is to be able to work and have your business run smoothly. If the only way is to make payments, you make them and that’s the end of it. Do what I do and don’t stick your neck out, compadre. You might be sorry. Don’t risk what you’ve built up with so much sacrifice. I wouldn’t like to attend your funeral Mass.”

After that conversation, Felícito couldn’t shake his depression. He felt sorrow, pity, irritation, astonishment. Not even in the nighttime solitude of his living room, when he played the songs of Cecilia Barraza, could he think about anything else. How could his colleagues let themselves be squeezed this way? Didn’t they realize that by giving in they were tying their own hands and feet and compromising their own futures? The extortionists would demand more and more money until the businessmen were bankrupt. It seemed that all of Piura was out to get him, that even the people who stopped him on the street to embrace and congratulate him were hypocrites involved in the plot to take what he’d achieved after so many years of hard work. “Whatever happens, don’t you worry, Father. Your son won’t let those cowards — or anybody else — walk all over him.”

The fame the little notice in El Tiempo brought him didn’t change Felícito Yanaqué’s orderly, diligent life, though he never got used to being recognized on the street. He felt embarrassed and didn’t know how to respond to the praise and expressions of solidarity from passersby. He always got up very early, did qigong exercises, and arrived at Narihualá Transport before eight o’clock. He was concerned that the number of passengers had gone down but understood it; after the fire at his business, it was to be expected that some clients would be frightened, afraid the crooks would seek reprisals against the vehicles and attack and burn them on the road. The buses to Ayabaca, which had to climb more than two hundred kilometers on a narrow, zigzagging route along the edges of deep Andean precipices, lost something like half their customers. Until the problem with the insurance company was resolved, he couldn’t rebuild the offices. But Felícito didn’t care that he had to work on a board and barrels in a corner of the depot. He spent hours on end with Señora Josefita, going over the surviving account books, bills, contracts, receipts, and correspondence. Fortunately, they hadn’t lost too many important papers. The one who couldn’t be consoled was his secretary. Josefita tried to hide it, but Felícito saw how tense and unhappy she was at having to work in the open, in plain view of the drivers and mechanics, the passengers who arrived and departed, the people who lined up to send packages. She confessed as much, her somnolent face pouting like a little girl’s.

“Having to work in front of everybody makes me feel, I don’t know, like I’m doing a striptease. You don’t feel like that, Don Felícito?”

“A lot of those guys would be happy if you did strip for them, Josefita. You’ve heard all the compliments Captain Silva pays you whenever he sees you.”

“I don’t like that cop’s comments at all.” Josefita blushed, delighted. “And even less the way he looks at me you know where, Don Felícito. Do you think he’s a pervert? That’s what I hear. That the captain only looks at that on women, as if we didn’t have anything else on our body, hey waddya think.”

On the day the notice came out in El Tiempo, Miguel and Tiburcio asked to see him. Both of his sons worked as drivers and inspectors on the company’s buses, trucks, and jitneys. Felícito took them to the restaurant in the Hotel Oro Verde in El Chipe for shellfish ceviche and a Piuran dried-beef stew. A radio was playing and the music forced them to speak in loud voices. From the table they could see a family swimming in the pool under the palm trees. Felícito ordered soft drinks instead of beers. From his sons’ faces he suspected what was on their minds. Miguel, the older one, spoke first. Strong, athletic, white-skinned, with light eyes and hair, he always dressed with some care, unlike Tiburcio, who rarely changed out of jeans, polo shirts, and basketball sneakers. At the moment Miguel wore loafers, corduroy trousers, and a light blue shirt with a racing-car print. A hopeless flirt, he had the vocation and manners of a snob. When Felícito had forced him to do his military service, he thought that in the army Miguel would lose his rich-kid affectations, but he didn’t — he came out of the barracks just as he’d gone in. As he had more than once in his lifetime, the trucker thought: “Can he be my son?”

The boy wore a watch with a leather band that he kept stroking as he said, “We’ve thought about something, Father, and talked it over with Mama.” He was blushing, as he always did whenever he spoke to his father.

“Oh, so you two are thinking,” Felícito joked. “I’m glad to know it, that’s good news. May I ask what brilliant idea you’ve had? You’re not going to consult the witch doctors of Huancabamba about the spider extortionists, I hope. Because I already consulted with Adelaida, and not even she, who can foretell everything, has any idea who they can be.”

“This is serious, Father,” Tiburcio interjected. Felícito’s blood ran in this one’s veins, no doubt about it. Tiburcio looked like him, with the brown skin, straight black hair, and thin, slight build of his progenitor. “Don’t kid around, Father, please. Listen to us. It’s for your own good.”

“All right, agreed, I’m listening. What’s this about, boys?”

“After that notice you published in El Tiempo, you’re in a lot of danger,” said Miguel.

“I don’t know if you realize how much, Father,” added Tiburcio. “You might as well have put the noose around your own neck.”

“I was in danger before that,” Felícito corrected them. “We all are. Gertrudis and you too. Ever since the first letter from those sons of bitches arrived, trying to extort money from me. Don’t you know that? This isn’t just about me but about the whole family. Or aren’t you the ones who’ll inherit Narihualá Transport?”

“But now you’re more exposed than you were before, Father, because you defied them publicly,” Miguel said. “They’re going to react, they have to do something in the face of this kind of challenge. They’ll try to get back at you because you made them look ridiculous. Everybody in Piura says so—”

“People stop us on the street to warn us,” Tiburcio interrupted. “‘Take care of your father, boys, they won’t forgive his rash act.’ That’s what they tell us everywhere we go.”

“In other words, I’m the one provoking them, poor things,” Felícito interjected, indignant. “They threaten me, they burn down my offices, and I’m provoking them because I let them know I won’t be extorted like those asshole colleagues of mine.”

“We’re not criticizing you, Father, just the opposite,” Miguel insisted. “We support you, it makes us proud that you placed that notice in El Tiempo. You’ve given the family a very good name.”

“But we don’t want them to kill you, listen to us, please,” Tiburcio added. “It would be a good idea to hire a bodyguard. We’ve already looked into it, there’s a very reliable company. It protects all the big shots in Piura. People in banking, farming, mining. And it’s not too expensive, we have the rates here.”

“A bodyguard?” Felícito started to laugh, a forced, mocking little laugh. “A guy who follows me around like my shadow with his pistol in his pocket? If I hire protection, I’d be giving those thieves just what they want. Do you have brains in your heads or sawdust? I’d be confessing I’m scared, that I’m spending my dough on that because they scared me. It would be the same as paying them. We won’t talk about this anymore. Go on, eat, your stew’s getting cold. And let’s change the subject.”

“But Father, we’re doing it for your own good.” Miguel still tried to persuade him. “So that nothing happens to you. Listen to us, we’re your sons.”

“Not another word on this subject,” ordered Felícito. “If something happens to me, you’ll be in charge of Narihualá Transport and can do whatever you want. Even hire bodyguards, if you feel like it. There’s no way I will.”

He saw his sons lower their heads and reluctantly begin to eat. Both of them had always been fairly dutiful, even during adolescence, when kids tend to rebel against parental authority. He didn’t recall their giving him many headaches, except for a few stunts, nothing very important. Like Miguel’s accident, when he killed a donkey on the highway to Catacaos — he was learning to drive and the burro walked in front of the car. They were still pretty obedient, even though they were grown men. Even when he ordered Miguel to join the army as a volunteer for a year to toughen him up, he obeyed without a word. And truth be told, they did their work well. He’d never been especially hard on them, but neither was he one of those indulgent fathers who spoil their children and turn them into bums or faggots. He’d tried to guide them so they’d know how to face adversity and be able to move the company forward when he couldn’t anymore. He had them finish school, learn to be mechanics, get licensed to drive buses and trucks. And both had worked every job at Narihualá Transport: guard, sweeper, bookkeeper’s assistant, driver’s helper, inspector, driver, etcetera, etcetera. He could die at peace, they were both ready to replace him. And they got along with each other, they were very close, thank goodness.

“Me, I’m not afraid of those sons of bitches,” he suddenly exclaimed, hitting the table. His sons stopped eating. “The worst they can do is kill me. But I’m not afraid of dying. I’ve lived fifty-five years and that’s plenty. I’m at peace knowing Narihualá Transport will be in good hands when I go to join my father.”

He noticed that the boys tried to smile but were upset and nervous.

“We don’t want you to die yet, Father,” murmured Miguel.

“If those guys hurt you, we’ll make them pay,” declared Tiburcio.

“I don’t think they’ll dare to kill me,” said Felícito, trying to reassure them. “They’re thieves and extortionists, that’s all. You need more balls to kill than you do to send letters with drawings of spiders.”

“At least buy a revolver and carry it with you, Father,” Tiburcio persisted. “So you can defend yourself just in case.”

“I’ll think about it, we’ll see,” Felícito conceded. “Now I want you to promise me that when I leave this world and Narihualá Transport is in your hands, you won’t give in to extortion by these motherfuckers.”

He saw his sons exchange a look that was somewhere between surprise and alarm.

“Swear to God, right now,” he demanded. “I want to rest easy on that score in case something happens to me.”

They both agreed and crossed themselves as they murmured, “We swear to God, Father.”

They spent the rest of lunch talking about other things. Felícito began to think about an old idea. Since they’d left home to live on their own, he knew very little about what Tiburcio and Miguel did when they weren’t working. They didn’t live together. The older one boarded in a house in the Miraflores district, a white neighborhood, of course, and Tiburcio rented an apartment with a friend in Castilla, near the new stadium. Did they have girlfriends, lovers? Were they carousers, gamblers? Did they get drunk with their friends on Saturday night? Did they go to bars and taverns or patronize whorehouses? What did they do in their spare time? On Sundays when they stopped by to have lunch in the house on Calle Arequipa, they didn’t talk much about their private lives, and he and Gertrudis didn’t ask questions. Maybe he should talk with them, find out a little more about the boys’ personal lives.

The worst thing during this period were all the interviews, the result of the notice in El Tiempo, at several local radio stations, with reporters from the newspapers Correo and La República, and with the correspondent in Piura for RPP Noticias. The journalists’ questions made him very tense: His palms got sweaty and chills ran down his spine. His answers were punctuated by long pauses; he searched for words, denying vehemently that he was a civic hero or an example for anybody. Not at all, what an idea, he was simply following the philosophy of his father, who’d left him this piece of advice as an inheritance: “Son, never let anybody walk all over you.” They’d smile; some looked at him with an intimidating expression. He didn’t care. Screwing up his courage, he went on. He was a workingman, that’s all. He’d been born poor, very poor, near Chulucanas, in Yapatera, and everything he had he’d earned by working. He paid his taxes, obeyed the law. Why should he allow a few crooks to take what he had, sending him threats without even showing their faces? If nobody gave in to extortion, extortionists would disappear.

He didn’t like to receive awards either; he broke into a cold sweat when he had to give speeches. Of course, deep down, he was proud and thought how happy his father, the sharecropper Aliño Yanaqué, would have been at the Exemplary Citizen medal pinned on his chest at a Rotary Club lunch in the Piuran Center, attended by the regional president and the mayor and the bishop of Piura. But when he had to approach the microphone to express his gratitude, he became tongue-tied and lost his voice. The same thing happened when the Enrique López Albújar Civic-Cultural-Athletic Society declared him Piuran of the Year.

This was when a letter came to his house on Calle Arequipa from the Club Grau, signed by the president, the distinguished chemist-pharmacist Dr. Garabito León Seminario. It stated that the board of directors had unanimously accepted his application for membership in the institution. Felícito couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d sent in his application two or three years ago, and since they never responded, he thought they’d voted against him because he wasn’t white, which is what they believed they were, those gentlemen who went to the Club Grau to play tennis, Ping-Pong, Sapo, the card game cacho, swim in the pool, and dance on Saturday nights to the best orchestras in Piura. He’d found the courage to apply after he saw Cecilia Barraza, the Peruvian artist he admired most, sing at a party in the Club Grau. He’d gone with Mabel and sat at the table of Colorado Vignolo, who was a member. If he’d been asked to name the happiest day of his life, Felícito Yanaqué would have chosen that night.

Cecilia Barraza had been his secret love even before he saw her in photographs or in person. He fell in love with her because of her voice. He didn’t tell anyone about it; it was private. He’d been in La Reina, a now-defunct restaurant on the corner of the Eguiguren Seawalk and Avenida Sánchez Cerro, where on the first Saturday of each month the board of directors of the Association of Interprovincial Drivers of Piura, of which he was a member, would meet for lunch. They were toasting with carob syrup cocktails when suddenly he heard someone on the radio singing one of his favorite waltzes, “Soul, Heart, and Life,” with more charm, emotion, and candor than he’d ever heard before. No Peruvian singer he knew — not even Jesús Vásquez, or the Morochucos, or Lucha Reyes — interpreted this beautiful waltz with as much feeling, charm, and mischievous wit as this singer he was hearing for the first time. She imbued each word and syllable with so much truth and harmony, so much delicacy and tenderness, that it made you want to dance, even to cry. He asked her name and was told: Cecilia Barraza. As he listened to that girl’s voice, he seemed to understand completely, and for the first time, many of the words in Peruvian waltzes that had seemed mysterious and incomprehensible before—“arpeggios,” “skylights,” “ecstasy,” “cadence,” “yearning,” “celestial”—became clear:

Soul to conquer you,

heart to love you,

and life to live it

beside you!

He felt vanquished, moved, bewitched, loved. From that time on, at night before he went to sleep, or at dawn before he got up, he sometimes imagined himself living among arpeggios, cadences, skylights, and yearnings beside the singer named Cecilia Barraza. Without telling anyone, least of all Mabel, of course, he’d lived platonically in love with that smiling face, those expressive eyes, that seductive smile. He assembled a fine collection of photographs of her that had appeared in newspapers and magazines, which he jealously guarded under lock and key in a desk drawer. The fire had made short work of them, but not of his collection of Cecilia Barraza records, which was divided between his house on Calle Arequipa and Mabel’s house in Castilla. He believed he owned every CD made by the artist who, in his modest opinion, had raised Peruvian music—valses, marineras, tonderos, pregones—to new heights. He listened to them almost every day — generally at night after supper, when Gertrudis had gone to bed — sitting in the living room, where they kept the television set and stereo. The songs made his imagination soar; sometimes he was so moved his eyes grew wet at the sweet, caressing voice that saturated the night. And so, when it was announced she would come to Piura to sing at the Club Grau, and the event would be open to the public, he was one of the first to buy a ticket. He invited Mabel, and Colorado Vignolo had them sit at his table, where they had a sumptuous meal with both white and red wine before the show. Seeing the singer in person, even if she was at some distance, put Felícito into an ecstatic trance. She seemed prettier, more charming, and more elegant than in photographs. He applauded so enthusiastically after each song that Mabel said to Vignolo, pointing at him, “Look, Colorado, at the state this dirty old man is in.”

“Don’t be evil-minded, Mabelita,” he said, dissembling, “what I’m applauding is Cecilia Barraza’s art, just her art.”

The third spider letter arrived some time after the second, just when Felícito was wondering whether after the fire, the notice in El Tiempo, and the uproar it had caused, the crooks hadn’t resigned themselves to leaving him in peace. It had been three weeks since the fire, and the dispute with the insurance company still hadn’t been resolved, when one morning, at the improvised desk in the garage, Señora Josefita, who was opening the mail, exclaimed, “How strange, Don Felícito, a letter with no return address.”

The trucker snatched it from her hands. It was what he’d feared.

Dear Mr. Yanaqué:

We’re glad you’re now so popular and well-respected a man in our beloved city of Piura. We hope this popularity is beneficial to Narihualá Transport, especially after the mishap the business suffered because you’re so stubborn. It would be better for you to accept the lessons of reality and be pragmatic instead of remaining as obstinate as a mule. We wouldn’t want you to suffer another loss even more serious than the last. That’s why we invite you to be flexible and attend to our requirements.

Like the rest of Piura, we’re aware of the notice you published in El Tiempo. We feel no rancor toward you. What is more, we understand your decision to place the notice, giving in to a temperamental fit of rage, in view of the fire that destroyed your offices. We’ve forgotten it, you forget it too, and we’ll start again from zero.

We’re giving you two weeks — fourteen days, counting from today — to use your reason and reconsider, so that we can resolve the matter that concerns us. If you don’t, you can be certain of the consequences. They’ll be more serious than anything you’ve suffered so far. A word to the wise, as the saying goes, Señor Yanaqué.

May God keep you.

This time the letter was typed, but the signature was the same drawing in blue ink found in the two earlier ones: a spider with five long legs and a dot in the center that represented the head.

“Do you feel sick, Don Felícito? Don’t tell me it’s another of those letters,” his secretary said.

Her boss had lowered his arms and seemed to have collapsed into his chair, very pale, his eyes staring at the piece of paper. Finally he nodded and brought his finger to his mouth, indicating that she should be silent. The people in the garage didn’t need to know. He asked for a glass of water and drank it slowly, making an effort to control the anxiety that had overwhelmed him. His heart felt agitated and it was difficult to breathe. Naturally those bastards hadn’t stopped, naturally they hadn’t changed their tune. But they were wrong if they thought Felícito Yanaqué would give in. He felt rage, hatred, a fury that made him tremble. Perhaps Miguel and Tiburcio were right. Not about the bodyguard, of course, he’d never throw his dough away on something like that. But maybe about the revolver. Nothing in this life would give him as much pleasure as shooting them, if those shits ever came within range. Riddle them with bullets and even spit on their corpses.

When he’d calmed down a little, he walked very quickly to the police station, but Captain Silva and Sergeant Lituma weren’t there. They’d gone out to lunch and would be back at about four. He sat in a cafeteria on Avenida Sánchez Cerro and ordered an ice-cold soda. Two women approached to shake his hand. They admired him, he was an example and an inspiration for all Piurans. They said goodbye and gave him their blessing. He thanked them with a smile. “The truth is, right now I don’t feel like a hero at all,” he thought. “More like a prick. A real asshole, that’s what I am. They’re playing with me, having their fun, and I can’t find my way out of this damn mess.”

He was returning to his office, walking slowly along the high sidewalks of the avenue, surrounded by noisy mototaxis, cyclists, and pedestrians, when in the midst of his dejection he felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to see Mabel. See her, talk to her, maybe feel his desire gradually waking, a disturbance that for a few moments would make him dizzy, make him forget about the fire, and Dr. Castro Pozo’s ongoing quarrels with the insurance company, and the latest spider letter. And maybe, after taking his pleasure, he might be able to sleep for a while, peacefully and contentedly. As far as he could remember, not once in these years had he dropped in on Mabel unannounced, in the middle of the day; he’d always come after dark and on days decided with her in advance. But these were extraordinary times and he could change the routine. He was tired, it was hot, and instead of walking he took a cab. When he got out in Castilla, he saw Mabel at the door of her house. Was she going out or coming back? She stood looking at him in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she said in greeting. “Today? At this hour?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” Felícito apologized. “If you have an engagement, I’ll go.”

“I do, but I can cancel it.” Mabel smiled at him, recovering from her surprise. “Come in, come in. Wait for me, I’ll take care of it and be right back.”

In spite of her friendly words, Felícito noted her irritation. He’d come at a bad time. Maybe she was going shopping. No, no. She was probably meeting a girlfriend for a stroll and then lunch. Or maybe a young man was waiting for her, young like her, one she liked and maybe they were seeing each other in secret. He felt a pang of jealousy imagining that Mabel was going to meet a lover. Some guy who’d undress her and make her cry out. He’d ruined their plans. He felt a current of desire, a tingling in his groin, the beginning of an erection. Well, after how many days. Mabel looked nice this morning in a white dress that left her arms and shoulders bare, spike-heeled sandals, her hair arranged, her eyes and lips made up. Could she have a boyfriend? He’d gone inside, taken off his jacket and tie. When Mabel came back, she found him reading the spider letter again. Her irritation had vanished. Now she was as smiling and affectionate as always.

“It’s just that I got another letter this morning,” Felícito apologized, handing it to her. “I blew up. And then suddenly I wanted to see you. That’s why I’m here, my love. Forgive me for dropping in like this, without letting you know. I hope I haven’t ruined any plans.”

“This is your home, old man.” Mabel smiled at him again. “You can come here whenever you want. You haven’t ruined any plans. I was going to the pharmacy to pick up a few things.”

She took the letter, sat down next to him, and as she read her expression changed to anger. A cloud seemed to dim her eyes.

“In other words, these damn people won’t stop,” she exclaimed very seriously. “What will you do now?”

“I went to the police station but the cops weren’t there. I’ll go back this afternoon. I don’t know what for, those assholes don’t do a thing. They string me along, that’s all they know how to do. String me along with talk.”

“So you came to me for a little pampering.” Mabel lifted his spirits, smiling at him. “Isn’t that right, old man?”

She caressed his face and he grasped her hand and kissed it.

“Let’s go to the bedroom, Mabelita,” he whispered in her ear. “I want you so much, right now.”

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting that.” She laughed again, exaggerating her surprise. “At this time of day? I don’t recognize you, old man.”

“Well, now you see,” he said, embracing her and kissing her on the neck, inhaling her. “You smell so good, baby. I must be changing my habits, getting younger, hey waddya think.”

They went to the bedroom, undressed, and made love. Felícito was so excited he had an orgasm almost as soon as he entered her. He kept embracing her, caressing her in silence, playing with her hair, kissing her neck and body, biting her nipples, tickling her, touching her.

“How affectionate you are, old man.” Mabel grasped his ears, looking into his eyes, very close to his face. “One of these days you’ll tell me you love me.”

“Haven’t I already told you that a lot of times, you foolish girl?”

“You say it when you’re excited and so it doesn’t mean anything,” Mabel grumbled, joking with him. “But you never say it before or after.”

“Well I’m telling you now when I’m not so excited. I love you very much, Mabelita. You’re the only woman I’ve ever really loved.”

“Do you love me more than Cecilia Barraza?”

“She’s only a dream, a fairy tale,” Felícito said, laughing. “You’re my only love in real life.”

“I’ll take your word for it, old man.” Weak with laughter, she tousled his hair.

They talked for quite a while, lying in bed, and then Felícito got up, washed, and dressed. He went back to Narihualá Transport and attended to matters in the office for a good part of the afternoon. On his way home, he stopped at the police station again. Now the captain and the sergeant were there and received him in the captain’s office. Without saying a word, he handed them the third spider letter. Captain Silva read it aloud, sounding out each word before the attentive gaze of Sergeant Lituma, who listened as he handled a notebook with his plump hands.

“Well, everything’s following its predictable course,” stated Captain Silva when he finished reading. He seemed very satisfied at having foreseen everything that had happened. “They won’t give in, which was to be expected. That perseverance will be their ruin, I’ve already told you that.”

“Then should I be very happy?” Felícito asked sarcastically. “Not satisfied with burning my office, they keep sending me anonymous letters, and now they’re giving me a two-week ultimatum, threatening me with something worse than the fire. I come here and you say that everything’s following its predictable course. The truth is you haven’t made a millimeter’s progress in your investigation, while these motherfuckers do whatever they damn well feel like doing to me.”

“Who says we haven’t made any progress?” Captain Silva protested, gesturing and raising his voice. “We’ve made good progress. For the present we’ve determined that they’re not from any of the three known gangs in Piura that extort money from businessmen. Further, Sergeant Lituma has found something that might be a good clue.”

He said this in a way that made Felícito believe him in spite of his skepticism.

“It’s still too soon to tell you about it. But something is something. You’ll know as soon as we have anything concrete. Believe me, Señor Yanaqué. We’re dedicated to your case, body and soul. We spend more time on it than on all the rest. You’re our first priority.”

Felícito told them his sons were worried and suggested that he hire a bodyguard, and he’d refused. They also suggested he buy a revolver. What did they think?

“I don’t advise it,” Captain Silva answered immediately. “You should carry a pistol only when you’re prepared to use it, and you don’t look to me like someone capable of killing anybody. You’d put yourself in danger for no reason, Señor Yanaqué. Well, you’ll decide. If, in spite of my advice, you want a gun permit, we’ll expedite the application. You should know it takes time. You’ll have to pass a psychological test. Well, sleep on it.”

Felícito reached home when it was already dark and in the garden crickets were singing and frogs croaking. He had supper right away: chicken broth, a salad, and some gelatin served to him by Saturnina. As he was going to the living room to watch the news on television, he noticed Gertrudis’s silent, bovine form approaching him. She held a newspaper in her hand.

“The whole city’s talking about the notice you published in El Tiempo,” said his wife as she sat down in the easy chair next to the one he was in. “Even the priest mentioned it in his sermon at Mass this morning. All of Piura has read it. Except me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you, that’s why I didn’t say anything to you,” Felícito apologized. “But if you have it there, why haven’t you read it?”

He noticed her shifting in the chair, uncomfortable and averting her gaze.

“I’ve forgotten how,” he heard her mumble. “Since I never read because of my eyes, I almost don’t understand what I read now. The letters dance around.”

“You have to go to the optometrist then and have your eyes tested,” he admonished her. “How can you possibly have forgotten how to read? I don’t think that happens to anybody, Gertrudis.”

“Well it’s happening to me,” she said. “Yes, I’ll go have my eyes tested one of these days. Why don’t you read me what you published in El Tiempo? I asked Saturnina, but she doesn’t know how to read either.”

Gertrudis handed him the paper, and after he put on his glasses, Felícito read:

Dear Spider Extortionists:

Although you’ve burned the offices of Narihualá Transport, a business I created with the honest effort of a lifetime, I’m publicly informing you that I will never pay the amount you demand to give me protection. I’d rather you kill me. You won’t receive one cent from me, because I believe that honest, hardworking, decent people shouldn’t be afraid of crooks and thieves like you but should face you with determination until you’re sent to prison, which is where you belong.

Signed,

Felícito Yanaqué (I don’t have a maternal surname)

The female shape was motionless a long while, ruminating on what she’d just heard. Finally, she murmured, “Then what the priest said in his sermon is true. You’re a brave man, Felícito. May the Captive Lord have mercy on us. If we get out of this, I’ll go to Ayabaca to pray to Him on His feast day, the Twelfth of October.”