Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [36]
“Stand up,” he ordered. “You’re not only a madman, but a stupid idiot as well. And how you stink!”
He had an indefinable smell, of tar, acetone, cat piss. He’d rolled over onto his back and lay there looking up at Lituma with terror in his eyes.
“Where in the world can you have come from?” the sergeant muttered. He brought his flashlight a little closer and in utter bewilderment examined for a moment that incredible face crisscrossed with rectilinear incisions, a network of little fine slashes running across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his chin, and down into the folds of his neck. How had a guy with a mug like that, with his nuts dangling in the air, been able to walk through the streets of El Callao without anybody notifying the police?
“Stand up, I said, or else I’ll really work you over,” Lituma said. “Madman or not, I’ve had enough of you.”
The guy didn’t budge. He’d begun making noises with his mouth, an indecipherable mutter, a purr, a murmur, a sound that seemed to have more to do with birds, insects, or wild beasts than with human speech. And he kept staring at the flashlight in utter terror.
“Get up, don’t be afraid,” the sergeant said, reaching down with one hand and grabbing the black by the arm. The sambo made no move to resist, but at the same time not the slightest effort to get to his feet. How thin you are, Lituma thought, amused almost at the meowing, gurgling, babbling sound that poured out of the man’s mouth in a steady stream. And how afraid of me you are. He jerked him to his feet and couldn’t believe how little the man weighed; he had no sooner given him a slight push in the direction of the opening in the wall when he felt him stumble and fall to the floor. But this time he got up all by himself, with great effort, hanging on to a barrel of oil for support.
“Are you sick?” the sergeant asked. “You’re hardly able to walk, sambo. Where in hell can a jaybird like you have come from, anyway?”
He dragged him over to the opening, made him crouch down and crawl through it in front of him to the street. The sambo went on making noises, not letting up for a second, as though he had a piece of iron in his mouth and was trying to spit it out. Yes, the sergeant thought, he’s a madman. The drizzle had stopped, but now a strong wind was sweeping down the streets, howling round about them as Lituma, giving the sambo little pushes and shoves to hurry him up, headed toward the commissariat. Even bundled up as he was in his thick greatcoat, he could feel the cold.
“You must be frozen, old boy,” Lituma said. “Bare-ass naked in this weather, at this hour. If you don’t catch pneumonia, it’ll be a miracle.”
The black’s teeth were chattering and he was walking along with his arms crossed over his chest, rubbing his sides with his huge bony hands, as though it were his ribs that felt the cold most. He was still snorting or roaring or croaking, but to himself now, and obeying docilely whenever the sergeant motioned to him to turn. As they threaded their way through the streets, they met neither cars nor dogs nor drunks. As they reached the commissariat—the light from its windows, with its oily glow, made Lituma as happy as a shipwreck victim sighting the beach—the booming bell in the tower of the church of Nuestra Señora del Carmen de la Legua was just striking two.
On seeing the sergeant appear with the naked black, handsome young Lieutenant Jaime