The Discreet Hero

VII

It happened one morning when Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva, the latter distracted for a moment from his obsession with Piuran women in general and Señora Josefita in particular, were working, all five senses focused on the task, trying to find the link that would give focus to the investigation. Colonel Ríos Pardo, alias Rascachucha, the regional police chief, had reprimanded them again the night before, ranting like a madman because news of Felícito Yanaqué’s defiance of the crooks in El Tiempo had reached Lima. The minister of the interior had called him personally to demand that the business be resolved immediately. The press was following the story, and not only the police but the government itself was being made to look ridiculous in the public eye. The rallying cry from headquarters was: Get your hands on the extortionists and make an example of them!

“We have to justify the police, damn it,” the ill-tempered Rascachucha bellowed from behind his enormous mustache, his eyes like red-hot coals. “A couple of hicks can’t laugh at us like this. Either you hunt them down ipso facto, or I swear by San Martín de Porres and by God Himself that you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”

Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva analyzed with a magnifying glass the statements of all the witnesses, made file cards, compared and cross-referenced data, shuffled through hypotheses and rejected them one after the other. From time to time, taking a breather, the captain would burst into praise, charged with sexual fever, of the curves of Señora Josefita, with whom he’d fallen in love. Very seriously, and with salacious gestures, he explained to his subordinate that those gluteals were not only large, round, and symmetrical but also “gave a little jiggle when she walked,” something that aroused his heart and his testicles in unison. For that reason, he maintained, “in spite of her age, her moon face, and her slightly bowed legs, Josefita is the goddamnedest woman.

“Hotter than gorgeous Mabel, if I’m forced to make comparisons, Lituma,” he went on, his eyes popping as if he had the backsides of the two ladies right in front of him and were hefting them both. “I acknowledge that Don Felícito’s girlfriend has a nice figure, aggressive tits, and well-formed, fleshy legs and arms, but her ass, as you must have noticed, leaves much to be desired. It’s not very touchable. It didn’t finish developing, it didn’t blossom, at some point it went into decline. According to my classification system, hers is a timid ass, if you know what I mean.”

“Why don’t you concentrate on the investigation instead, Captain?” Lituma asked him. “You saw how furious Colonel Ríos Pardo is. At this rate we won’t ever get rid of this case or be promoted again.”

“I’ve noticed that you have absolutely no interest in women’s asses, Lituma,” was the captain’s judgment, pretending to commiserate with him and putting on a grief-stricken face. But immediately afterward he smiled and licked his lips like a cat. “A defect in your manly formation, I’m telling you. A good ass is the most divine gift God gave to female bodies for the pleasure of males. I’ve been told that even the Bible recognizes this.”

“Of course I have an interest, Captain. But with all due respect, in you there’s not only interest but obsession and depravity too. Let’s get back to the spiders now.”

They spent many hours reading, rereading, and examining word by word, letter by letter, stroke by stroke the extortionists’ letters and drawings. They’d requested a handwriting analysis of the anonymous letters from the central office, but the specialist, in the hospital following hemorrhoid surgery, was on a two-week leave. It was on one of those days, as they were comparing the letters to the signatures and writing samples of criminals on file in the office of the public prosecutor, that a suspicion sprouted in Lituma’s mind. A memory, an association. Captain Silva noticed that something had happened to his colleague.

“You look like you’re in a trance all of a sudden. What’s up, Lituma?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing, Captain.” The sergeant shrugged. “It’s silly. I just remembered a guy I met. He was always drawing spiders, as I recall. Just bullshit, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” the captain repeated, staring at him. He brought his face up close to Lituma’s and changed his tone. “But since we don’t have anything, bullshit is better than nothing. Who was this guy? Go on, tell me.”

“A pretty old story, Captain.” The police chief noticed that Lituma’s voice and eyes were fraught with discomfort, as if it bothered him to root through those memories, though he couldn’t avoid it. “I imagine it doesn’t have anything to do with this. But, yes, I remember clearly, that motherfucker was always drawing, scribbling things that could have been spiders. On papers, on newspapers. Sometimes even on the ground in chicha bars, with a stick.”

“And who was this so-called motherfucker, Lituma? Tell me right now and don’t keep beating around the fucking bush.”

“Let’s go have some juice and get out of this oven for a while, Captain,” the sergeant suggested. “It’s a long story, and if you don’t get bored, I’ll tell it to you. My treat, don’t worry.”

They went to La Perla del Chira, a little bar on Calle Libertad next to a lot where, Lituma told his boss, in his youth there used to be a cockpit that had pretty heavy betting. He’d gone a few times but didn’t like cockfights; it made him sad to see how the poor animals were destroyed by pecking beaks and slashing razors. The place had no air-conditioning, but fans helped to cool it down. It was deserted. They ordered two eggfruit juices with lots of ice, and then lit their cigarettes.

“The motherfucker’s name was Josefino Rojas and he was the son of Carlos Rojas, the bargeman who used to carry cattle from the ranches to the slaughterhouse on the river during the flood months,” said Lituma. “I met him when I was very young, still wet behind the ears. We had our little gang. We liked binges, guitars, beers, and broads. Somebody nicknamed us ‘the Unconquerables,’ or maybe we did it ourselves. We wrote our anthem.”

And in a low, rasping voice, Lituma sang, in tune and happily:

We’re the Unconquerables,

for us working has no class:

only guzzling!

only gambling!

only girls fucked up the ass!

The captain congratulated him, bursting into laughter and applauding. “Nice, Lituma. I mean, at least when you were young you paid attention.”

“There were three of us Unconquerables at first,” the sergeant continued nostalgically, lost in his memories. “My cousins, the León brothers — José and Mono — and yours truly. Three guys from Mangachería. I don’t know how Josefino hooked up with us. He wasn’t from Mangachería, he came from Gallinacera, near the old market and slaughterhouse. I don’t know why we let him in the group. Back then there was a terrible rivalry between the two neighborhoods. Fistfights and knife fights. A war that made a lot of blood flow in Piura, I can tell you.”

“Come on, you’re talking about the prehistory of this city,” said the captain. “I know where Mangachería was, in the north, from Avenida Sánchez Cerro down, near the old San Teodoro cemetery. But Gallinacera?”

“Right there, close to the Plaza de Armas, beside the river, toward the south,” Lituma said, pointing. “It was called Gallinacera because of all the gallinazos, the turkey buzzards the slaughterhouse attracted when they were killing cattle. We Mangaches were Sanchezcerristas and the Gallinazos were Apristas. The motherfucker Josefino was a Gallinazo and told us that when he was a kid he’d been a butcher’s apprentice.”

“So you were gang members.”

“Just street kids, Captain. We made mischief, nothing very serious. It never got past fistfights. But then Josefino became a pimp. He’d seduce girls and put them to work as whores in the Green House. That was the name of the brothel as you left Catacaos, when Castilla wasn’t named Castilla yet but was still Tacalá. Did you know that whorehouse? It was really fancy.”

“No, but I’ve heard a lot about the famous Green House. A legend in Piura. But getting back to the pimp. Was he the one who drew the spiders?”

“The same, Captain. I think they were spiders, but maybe my memory’s playing tricks on me. I’m not really sure.”

“And may I ask why you hate this pimp so much, Lituma?”

“Lots of reasons.” The sergeant’s heavy face darkened and his eyes grew red with anger; he’d begun to rub his double chin very quickly. “Mainly for what he did to me when I was in jail. You know the story, they ran me in for playing Russian roulette with a local landowner. In the Green House, to be exact. A white guy, a drunk whose last name was Seminario and who blew his brains out during the game. Taking advantage of the fact that I was in jail, Josefino stole my girl. He started her whoring for him in the Green House. Her name was Bonifacia. I brought her here from Alto Marañón, in Santa María de Nieva, in Amazonia. When she started in the life, they called her ‘Selvática,’ Jungle Girl.”

“Ah, well, you had plenty of reason to hate him,” the captain admitted, shaking his head. “So you have quite a past, Lituma. Nobody would think so seeing you now, so tame. As if you’d never killed a fly in your life. Really, I can’t imagine you playing Russian roulette. I played only once, with a buddy of mine one night when we were drinking. My balls still freeze up when I think about it. And this Josefino, may I ask why you didn’t kill him?”

“Not for lack of wanting, but I had no desire to go back to the slammer,” the sergeant explained briefly. “But I did give him a beating — he must still be aching from it. I’m talking at least twenty years ago, Captain.”

“Are you sure the pimp spent all his time drawing spiders?”

“I don’t know whether they were spiders,” Lituma corrected him again. “But he definitely was drawing all the time. On napkins, on any piece of paper he had in front of him. It was his mania. Maybe it has nothing to do with what we’re looking for.”

“Think and try to remember, Lituma. Concentrate, close your eyes, look back. Spiders like the ones on the letters sent to Felícito Yanaqué?”

“My memory’s not that good, Captain,” Lituma apologized. “I’m talking about something that happened years ago, I told you — maybe twenty, maybe more. I don’t know why I made that connection. We should probably forget it.”

“Do you know what happened to Josefino the pimp?” the captain insisted. His expression was grave and he didn’t take his eyes off the sergeant.

“I never saw him again, or my cousins, the other two Unconquerables. Since I was readmitted to the force, I’ve been in the mountains, the jungle, in Lima. Going all around Peru, you might say. I came back to Piura just a little while ago. That’s why I said my idea was probably silly. I’m not sure they were spiders. He definitely was drawing something. He did it all the time and the Unconquerables made fun of him.”

“If Josefino the pimp is alive, I’d like to meet him,” said the chief, hitting the table lightly. “Find out, Lituma. I don’t know why, but it smells right to me. Maybe we’ve bitten into a nice piece of meat. Tender and juicy. I feel it in my spit, my blood, my balls. I’m never wrong about these things. I’m beginning to see light at the end of this tunnel. Good for you, Lituma.”

The captain was so happy that the sergeant regretted telling him about his hunch. Was he sure that back when they were all Unconquerables, Josefino never stopped drawing? Now he wasn’t so certain. That night, when his shift was over and, as usual, he walked up Avenida Grau to the boardinghouse where he lived in the Buenos Aires district near the Grau Barracks, he struggled with his memory, trying to be certain it wasn’t a false one. No, no it wasn’t, though now he wasn’t as convinced as he had been. Images of his years as a kid on the dusty streets of Mangachería returned in waves: He, Mono, and José would go to the sandy tracts of land just outside the city to set traps for iguanas at the foot of the carob trees, hunt birds with slings they made themselves, or hide in the thickets and sand dunes to spy on the women who washed their clothes in the river near the culvert, in water up to their waists. Sometimes, because of the water, their breasts would show through their clothes and the boys’ eyes and crotches would burn with excitement. How did Josefino get into the group? He no longer could remember how, when, or why. In any case, the Gallinazo joined them when they weren’t little kids anymore. Because by then they were going to the chicha bars and spending the few soles they earned doing occasional jobs — like selling bets on horse races — on gambling, carousing, and drunken binges. Maybe they weren’t spiders, but they were definitely drawings, and Josefino made them all the time — he remembered that very clearly — while he was talking, or singing, or beginning to brood about his evil deeds, isolating himself from the others. It wasn’t a false memory, but maybe what he drew were frogs, snakes, pricks. Lituma was assailed by doubts. Suddenly they were the crosses and circles of tic-tac-toe, or caricatures of the people they saw in La Chunga’s bar, one of their haunts. La Chunga, that slut! Did the bar still exist? Impossible. If she were alive, she’d be so old by now that she wouldn’t be physically able to run it. Though who knows. She was a tough woman who wasn’t afraid of anybody and could hold her own in confrontations with drunks. Once she even challenged Josefino when he tried to act smart with her.

The Unconquerables! La Chunga! Damn, how time flew. The León brothers, Josefino, and Bonifacia were probably dead and buried by now, nothing left of them but memory. How sad.

He was walking almost in darkness, because after you passed the Club Grau and entered the residential neighborhood of Buenos Aires, the streetlights were farther apart and dimmer. He walked slowly, tripping over the cracks in the asphalt, past houses that once had gardens and two stories and over time had become lower and poorer. As he approached his boardinghouse the buildings turned into huts, rough constructions with adobe walls, posts of carob wood, and corrugated metal roofs on streets without sidewalks and hardly any automobile traffic.

When he returned to Piura after serving for many years in Lima and in the mountains, he moved into a room on the military base, where police as well as soldiers could live. But he didn’t like that much intimacy with his associates on the force. It was like still being in the service, seeing the same people and talking about the same things. That’s why, after six months, he moved to the house of the Calancha family, who had five rooms for boarders. It was extremely modest and Lituma’s bedroom was tiny, but he paid very little and felt more independent there. The Calanchas were watching television when he came in. The husband had been a teacher and his wife a municipal employee. They’d been retired for some time. Board included only breakfast, but if the tenant desired, the Calanchas could order in lunch and dinner from a nearby restaurant whose stews were pretty substantial. The sergeant asked if they happened to remember a little bar near the old stadium, run by a fairly masculine woman who was named, or called, La Chunga. They looked at him uneasily, shaking their heads no.

That night he lay awake for a long time and didn’t feel very well. Damn, he never should have mentioned Josefino to Captain Silva. Now he was almost certain the pimp hadn’t been drawing spiders but something else. Rummaging around in his past wasn’t a good idea. It made him sad to remember his youth, to think about how old he was — close to fifty now — how solitary his life was, the misfortunes that had battered him, that idiotic Russian roulette with Seminario, his years in prison, what happened to Bonifacia, which left a bitter taste in his mouth each time he thought about it.

He slept at last, but badly, and had nightmares that left him with a memory of calamitous, terrifying images when he woke. He washed, had breakfast, and was out before seven, on his way to the spot where his memory guessed La Chunga’s bar had been. It wasn’t easy to orient himself. In his memory, this had been the outskirts of the city, just a few huts of clay and wild reeds built on the sandy tracts. Now there were streets, cement, houses made of reputable materials, streetlights, sidewalks, cars, schools, gas stations, shops. So many changes! The old neighborhood was now a part of the city and bore no resemblance to his memories. His attempts to speak to residents — he asked only older people — led nowhere. Nobody remembered either the bar or La Chunga; a lot of people in the area weren’t even Piuran but had moved here from the mountains. He had the unpleasant sensation that his memory was lying to him; none of the things he remembered had existed, they were phantoms and always had been phantoms, pure products of his imagination. Thinking about that frightened him.

At midmorning he called a halt to the search and returned to the center of Piura. It was hot, and before going back to the police station, he had a soda at the corner. The streets were filled with noise, cars, buses, students in uniform. Lottery-ticket sellers and trinket vendors hocking their wares, sweaty people all in a hurry, crowding the sidewalks. And then his memory retrieved the name and number of the street where his cousins, the León brothers, had lived: Calle Morropón 17. In the very heart of Mangachería. Half closing his eyes, he saw the faded façade of the one-story house, grillwork on the windows, pots of wax flowers, the chicha bar over which a white flag on a reed fluttered, a sign that cold chicha was served there.

He took a mototaxi to Avenida Sánchez Cerro and, feeling the drops of sweat streaming down his face and wetting his back, he walked into the ancient labyrinth of streets, alleys, crescents, dead ends, empty lots that had been Mangachería, a neighborhood, people said, that got its name because in colonial times it had been populated by slaves brought over from Madagascar. This had all changed too — in its form, people, texture, and color. The dirt streets were paved in asphalt, the houses were made of brick and cement, there were some office buildings, street lighting, not a single chicha bar or burro left in the streets, only stray dogs. Chaos had turned into order and straight, parallel streets. Nothing here resembled his Mangache memories now. The neighborhood had been made respectable and become colorless, impersonal. But Calle Morropón still existed, and so did number 17. Except that instead of his cousins’ little house he found a large auto repair shop, with a sign that read: WE SELL REPLACEMENT PARTS FOR ALL MAKES OF CARS, VANS, TRUCKS, AND BUSES. He went inside, and in the huge, dim place that smelled of oil he saw dismantled car bodies and engines, heard the sound of welding, observed three or four workers in blue overalls leaning over their machines. A radio played music from the jungle, “La Contamanina.” He walked into an office where a fan was humming. A very young woman sat in front of a computer.

“Good afternoon,” said Lituma, removing his kepi.

“Can I help you?” She was looking at him with the slight uneasiness with which people usually regarded the police.

“I’m looking for a family that used to live here,” Lituma explained, indicating the premises. “When this wasn’t a repair shop but a house. Their name was León.”

“As far as I know, this has always been a repair shop,” said the girl.

“You’re very young, you can’t remember,” Lituma replied. “But maybe the owner knows something.”

“You can wait for him if you’d like.” The girl indicated a chair. And then, suddenly, her face lit up. “Oh, I’m so dumb. Of course! The owner’s name is León, Don José León, to be precise. He probably can help you.”

Lituma dropped into the chair, his heart pounding. Don José León. Damn. It was him, his cousin José. It had to be the Unconquerable. Who else could it be?

He was on pins and needles as he waited. The minutes seemed endless. When the Unconquerable José León finally appeared in the shop — though he was now a stout, big-bellied man with streaks of gray in his thinning hair, dressed like a white man in a jacket, business shirt, and shoes shined as bright as glass — Lituma recognized him immediately. He stood, filled with emotion, and held out his arms. José, surprised, didn’t recognize him and brought his face very close to examine him.

“I see you don’t know who I am, cousin,” said Lituma. “Have I changed that much?”

José’s face broke into a broad smile.

“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, holding out his arms as well. “Lituma! What a surprise, brother. After so many years, hey waddya think.”

They embraced, patted each other’s backs under the astonished gazes of the secretary and the workers. They scrutinized each other, smiling and effusive.

“Do you have time for a coffee, cousin?” Lituma asked. “Or would you prefer to get together later or tomorrow?”

“Let me take care of two or three little things and then we’ll go and remember the days of the Unconquerables,” said José, giving him another pat on the back. “Sit down, Lituma. I’ll be free in no time. What a huge pleasure, brother.”

Lituma sat down in the chair again and from there he watched León examine papers on the desk, check some large books with the secretary, leave the office and walk around the shop, inspecting the mechanics’ work. He noticed how confident he seemed giving orders and greeting his employees, the ease with which he gave instructions or took care of questions. “Man, how you’ve changed, cousin,” he thought. It was difficult for him to reconcile the ragged José of his youth, running barefoot among the goats and burros of Mangachería, with this white owner of a large repair shop, who wore a suit and dress shoes in the middle of the day.

They went out, Lituma holding José’s arm, to a cafeteria-restaurant called Piura Linda. His cousin said their meeting called for a celebration and ordered beers. They toasted the old days and spent a long time nostalgically comparing their shared memories. Mono had been his partner in the repair shop when José first opened it. But then they’d had differences, and Mono left the business, though the two brothers were still very close and saw each other frequently. Mono was married and had three children. He’d worked a few years for the city and then opened a brickyard. It was doing well, many of the construction companies in Piura placed orders with him, especially now, when money was flowing in and new neighborhoods were going up. Every Piuran dreamed of owning a house, and it was terrific that good times had come. José couldn’t complain. It was difficult at first, there was a lot of competition, but gradually word spread about the quality of his service and now, in all modesty, his shop was one of the best in the city. He had more than enough work, thank God.

“In other words, you and Mono stopped being Unconquerables and Mangaches and turned into rich white men,” Lituma joked. “I’m the only one who’s still a poor beggar and will be a cop forever.”

“How long have you been here, Lituma? Why didn’t you look me up earlier?”

The sergeant lied, saying only a short while, and that the inquiries he’d made regarding José’s whereabouts had gone nowhere, and then he’d decided to take a walk around the old neighborhoods. That’s how he’d come face-to-face with Morropón 17. He never could have imagined that the sandy tracts with those crummy huts had turned into this. And with a first-rate auto repair shop!

“Times have changed, fortunately for the better,” José agreed. “These are good times for Piura and for Peru, cousin. I hope they last, knock wood.”

He’d married too, to a woman from Trujillo, but the marriage had been a disaster. They’d fought like cats and dogs and finally divorced. They had two daughters who lived with their mother in Trujillo. José went to see them from time to time, and they spent their vacations with him. They were at the university, the older one studying to be a dentist and the younger one a pharmacist.

“Congratulations, cousin. Both will be professionals, what luck.”

And then, when Lituma was getting ready to bring the pimp’s name up in conversation, José, as if reading his mind, beat him to it.

“Do you remember Josefino, cousin?”

“How could I forget a son of a bitch like him,” Lituma said with a sigh. And after a long pause, as if just making conversation, he asked, “Whatever happened to him?”

José shrugged and made a contemptuous face.

“I haven’t heard anything about him for years. He became a crook, you know. He lived off women, had little whores working for him, and went from bad to worse. Mono and I didn’t have much to do with him. He’d come by from time to time to put the touch on us, telling us stories about his ailments and the loan sharks who were threatening him. He even got involved in something really ugly — a crime of some kind. They accused him of being an accomplice or an accessory after the fact. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he turns up somewhere murdered by those hoodlums he liked so much. He’s probably rotting in some jail, who knows.”

“That’s true, he was drawn to crime, like a fly to honey,” said Lituma. “The fucker was born to be a crook. I don’t understand why we hooked up with him, cousin. Besides, he was a Gallinazo and we were Mangaches.”

And at that moment Lituma, who’d been looking at without really seeing the movements of one of his cousin’s hands on the table, saw that José was drawing lines with his thumbnail on the rough wooden surface covered with carved-in words, burns, and stains. Barely able to breathe, he focused his eyes and repeated to himself that he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t obsessed because what his cousin was doing, without realizing it, was tracing spiders with his nail. Yes, spiders, like the ones on the threatening anonymous letters Felícito Yanaqué had received. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t seeing things, damn it. Spiders, spiders. Fuck, fuck.

“Now we have one hell of a problem,” he murmured, hiding his agitation and indicating Avenida Sánchez Cerro. “You must know about it. You must have read the letter in El Tiempo from Felícito Yanaqué, the owner of Narihualá Transport to the guys who are trying to extort him.”

“The biggest balls in Piura,” his cousin exclaimed. His eyes shone with admiration. “I not only read that letter, like every other Piuran, but I cut it out, had it framed, and have it hanging on the wall in my office, cousin. Felícito Yanaqué is an example for all the asshole executives and business owners in Piura who bend over for the gangs and pay them protection money. I’ve known Don Felícito a long time. In the shop we do the repairs and tune-ups for Narihualá Transport’s buses and trucks. I wrote him a few lines congratulating him for his letter in El Tiempo.”

He poked Lituma with his elbow, pointing to the braid on his epaulets.

“You cops have an obligation to protect that guy, cousin. It would be a tragedy if the gangs sent a killer to take care of Don Felícito. You know they already burned down his place.”

The sergeant looked at him, nodding. So much indignation and admiration couldn’t be an act; he’d made a mistake, José hadn’t been drawing spiders with his nail, only lines. A coincidence, a fluke, like so many others. But at that moment his memory struck another blow; lighting everything so he could see it in the clearest, most obvious way, it reminded him, with a lucidity that made him tremble, that in fact, ever since they were kids, the one who was always drawing stars that looked like spiders, with a pencil, a twig, or a knife, was his cousin José, not Josefino the pimp. Of course, of course. It was José. Long before they even knew Josefino, José was always drawing. He and Mono often teased him about his obsession. Fuck, fuck.

“Let’s have lunch or dinner together soon and you’ll have a chance to see Mono, Lituma. What a kick he’ll get out of seeing you!”

“Me too, José. My best memories are Piuran, why deny it. When we hung out together, when we were the Unconquerables. The best time of my life, I think. Back then I was happy. The hard times came later. Besides, as far as I know, you and Mono are the only family I have left in the world. Whenever you want, you two tell me the date and I’ll be there.”

“Then lunch is better than dinner,” said José. “Rita, my sister-in-law, is incredibly jealous, she keeps an eye on Mono like you wouldn’t believe. She makes big scenes whenever he goes out at night. I even think she hits him.”

“Lunch, then, no problem.” Lituma felt so agitated that, afraid José might suspect what was whirling around in his head, he looked for an excuse to say goodbye.

He went back to the station distracted, confused, dazed, paying so little attention to where he was stepping that a fruit vendor’s tricycle almost knocked him down as he crossed at a corner. When he reached the station, Captain Silva understood his state of mind as soon as he saw him.

“Don’t add to the headaches I already have, Lituma,” he warned, standing up at his desk so violently that the cubicle shook. “What the hell’s wrong with you now? Who died?”

“What’s died is the suspicion that it was Josefino Rojas who drew the spiders,” Lituma stammered, taking off his kepi and wiping away sweat with his handkerchief. “Now it turns out that the suspect isn’t the pimp but my cousin José León. One of the Unconquerables I told you about, Captain.”

“Are you kidding me, Lituma?” the disconcerted captain exclaimed. “Just explain to me how I’m supposed to swallow that shit you just said.”

The sergeant sat down, trying to make the breeze from the fan blow directly into his face. In complete detail he recounted everything that had happened to him that morning.

“In other words, now it’s your cousin José who draws spiders with his fingernails.” The captain was angry. “And on top of that, he’s so hopelessly dumb he betrays himself in front of a police sergeant, knowing very well that all of Piura is talking about the spiders of Felícito Yanaqué and Narihualá Transport. I can see your brains have been completely fried, Lituma.”

“I’m not sure he was drawing spiders with his nails,” his subordinate apologized, filled with remorse. “I might be wrong about that too. Please forgive me. I’m not sure about anything anymore, Captain, not even the ground I walk on. Yes, you’re right. It’s bedlam in my head, like a stewpot full of crickets.”

“A stewpot full of spiders, you mean.” The captain laughed. “And now, look who’s here. The only piece missing. Good morning, Señor Yanaqué. Come in, come in.”

Lituma knew right away from the trucker’s face that something serious had happened: Another letter from the gang? Felícito was ashen, dark circles under his eyes, his mouth half open in an idiotic expression, his eyes dilated with fear. He’d just removed his hat and his hair was messy, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. He, who was always so elegantly dressed, had buttoned the first button of his vest into the second buttonhole. His appearance was ridiculous, careless, clownish. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t respond to the greeting but took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the captain, his hand trembling. He looked smaller and more fragile than ever, almost like a midget.

“Fuck,” muttered the chief, taking the letter and beginning to read aloud:

Dear Señor Yanaqué:

We told you your obstinacy and your challenge in El Tiempo would have unpleasant consequences. We told you you’d regret your refusal to be reasonable and reach an understanding with those who wish only to provide protection for your business and security for your family. We’re as good as our word. We have one of your loved ones and will keep that individual until you relent and come to an agreement with us.

Even though we know you have the bad habit of going to the police with your complaints, as if that would be of any use, we assume that this time, for your own good, you’ll be more discreet. It’s in no one’s interest for it to be known that we have this person, above all if you’re interested in her not suffering as the result of another of your imprudent acts. This matter should remain between us and be resolved quietly and quickly.

Since you like to make use of the press, place a notice in El Tiempo, giving thanks to the Captive Lord of Ayabaca for performing the miracle you asked for. Then we’ll know you’ve agreed to the conditions we proposed to you. And the person in question will immediately return safe and sound to her house. Otherwise, you may never hear from her again.

May God keep you.

Though he hadn’t seen it, Lituma could guess at the spider signature on the letter.

“Who have they kidnapped, Señor Yanaqué?” Captain Silva asked.

“Mabel,” the trucker said, choking. Lituma saw that the little man’s eyes were wet and fat tears were running down his cheeks.

“Sit here, Don Felícito.” The sergeant offered him his chair and helped him into it.

The trucker sat and covered his face with his hands. He wept slowly, silently. His weak body was shaken by sudden tremors. Lituma felt sorry for him. Poor man, now those sons of bitches had found the way to soften him up. It wasn’t right, what an injustice.

“I can assure you of one thing, sir.” The captain also seemed to be moved by what was happening to Felícito Yanaqué. “They’re not going to touch a hair on your friend’s head. They want to frighten you, that’s all. They know it’s not a good idea for them to harm Mabel in any way, that the person in their hands is untouchable.”

“Poor girl,” Felícito Yanaqué stammered, between hiccups. “It’s my fault, I got her into this. What’s going to happen to her? My God, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Lituma saw Captain Silva’s plump face, with its shadow of a beard, moving from pity to anger and back to compassion. He watched him stretch out his arm, pat Don Felícito’s shoulder, and, bringing his head forward, say firmly, “I swear to you by the thing I hold most holy, which is the memory of my mother, that nothing’s going to happen to Mabel. She’ll be returned to you safe and sound. By my blessed mother, I’m going to solve this case and those sons of bitches are going to pay dearly. I never make vows like this, Don Felícito. You’re a man with serious balls, everybody in Piura says so. Don’t go soft on us now, for the sake of all you hold dear.”

Lituma was impressed. What the chief said was true: He never made vows like the one he’d just made. He felt his spirits rising: He’d do it, they’d do it. They’d catch them. Those shits would be sorry they’d done anything so low to this poor man.

“I won’t weaken now or ever,” the trucker stammered, wiping his eyes.