Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [32]
He began his rounds in the Puerto Nuevo district, where the guard on duty was Shorty Soldevilla, a young man from Túmbez who sang tonderos in an inspired voice. Puerto Nuevo was the terror of the guards and detectives of El Callao, because in its labyrinth of shanties made of wood, galvanized iron, corrugated tin, bricks, only an infinitesimal proportion of the inhabitants earned their living as dockers or fishermen. The majority were bums, thieves, drunks, pickpockets, pimps, and queers (not to mention the countless whores), who went at each other with knives on the slightest provocation and sometimes shot each other. This district, without water or sewers, without electricity or paved streets, had more than once run red with the blood of officers of the law. But things were exceptionally quiet that night. As he made his way along the meanders of the neighborhood in search of Shorty, stumbling over invisible stones, wrinkling up his nose at the stench of excrement and rotten garbage rising to his nostrils, Sergeant Lituma thought: The cold has sent the night birds to bed early. For it was mid-August, the dead of winter, and a heavy fog that blurred and distorted everything, along with a steady drizzle that saturated the air, had turned this night into a dreary and inhospitable one. Where could Shorty Soldevilla be? Chilled to the bone or scared of the thugs, that chicken from Túmbez might very well have gone off to one of the bars along the Avenida Huáscar to get warm and have himself a drink. No, he wouldn’t dare, Sergeant Lituma thought. He knows that I’m making my rounds and if I find he’s abandoned his post his goose is cooked.
He finally came across him on the corner opposite the national slaughterhouse and cold-storage plant, standing under a lamppost. He was rubbing his hands together furiously and his face had disappeared behind a spectral scarf that left only his eyes visible. On catching sight of him, Shorty gave a start and raised his hand to his gun belt. Then, recognizing him, he clicked his heels.
“You scared me, sergeant,” he said, laughing. “Seeing you at a distance, looming up out of the dark like that, I took you for a ghost.”
“A ghost, my ass,” Lituma said, shaking hands. “You thought I was a thug.”
“No such luck. There aren’t any thugs abroad, what with this cold,” Shorty said, rubbing his hands together again. “The only madmen out tonight in weather like this are you and me. And those critters.”
He pointed to the roof of the slaughterhouse, and the sergeant, squinting, managed to make out a half-dozen turkey buzzards, huddled up with their beaks tucked underneath their wings, sitting in a straight line on the peak of the roof. How hungry they must be, he thought. Even though they’re freezing, they’re sitting there smelling death. Shorty Soldevilla signed his report in the dim light of the streetlamp, with the chewed stub of a pencil that kept slipping out of his fingers. There was nothing to report: no accidents, no crimes, no drunken brawls.
“A quiet night, sergeant,” he said, as he walked a few blocks with him to the Avenida Manco Cápac. “I hope it stays that way till my relief takes over. After that, the world can come to an end as far as I’m concerned.”
He laughed as though he’d just said something very funny, and Sergeant Lituma thought: The mentality of certain guards beggars belief. As though he’d guessed what the sergeant was thinking, Shorty Soldevilla added, in a grave tone of voice: “Because I’m not like you are, sergeant. I don’t like this whole bit. The only reason I wear the uniform is that it keeps food in my belly.”
“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be wearing it,” the sergeant muttered. “The only ones I’d allow to stay in