The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [108]
“Careful, Tony,” he heard himself say after a jolt that must have dented a fender. Antonio and Amadito did not seem to notice; their weapons and heads were still leaning out the windows, waiting for Imbert to pass Trujillo’s car. They were less than twenty meters away, the wind was choking him, and Salvador did not take his eyes off the closed curtains on the back window. They would have to shoot blindly, riddle the entire seat with bullets. He prayed to God that the Goat was not accompanied by one of those unfortunate women he often took to his Mahogany House.
As if, suddenly, it had noticed that they were in pursuit, or as if its sporting instinct refused to let any other car pass, the Chevrolet Bel Air pulled ahead a few meters.
“Step on it, damn it,” ordered Antonio de la Maza. “Faster, damn it!”
In a few seconds the Chevrolet Biscayne made up the distance and kept drawing closer. And the others? Why hadn’t Pedro Livio and Huáscar Tejeda shown up? They were in the Oldsmobile—it also belonged to Antonio de la Maza—only a couple of kilometers away, and they should have intercepted Trujillo’s car by now. Did Imbert forget to turn the headlights on and off three times in a row? Fifí Pastoriza in Salvador’s old Mercury, waiting two kilometers beyond the Oldsmobile, had not appeared either. They already had driven two, three, four, or more kilometers. Where were they?
“You forgot the signals, Tony,” shouted Turk. “We left Pedro Livio and Fifí behind.”
They were about eight meters from Trujillo’s car, and Tony was trying to pass, flashing the headlights and blowing the horn.
“Step on it, faster!” roared Antonio de la Maza.
They drove even closer, but the Chevrolet Bel Air, indifferent to Tony’s signals, would not leave the center of the highway. Where the hell was the Oldsmobile with Pedro Livio and Huáscar? Where was his Mercury with Fifí Pastoriza? Finally, Trujillo’s car moved to the right. It left them enough room to pass.
“Step on it, step on it,” Antonio de la Maza pleaded hysterically.
Tony Imbert accelerated and in a few seconds they were beside the Chevrolet Bel Air. The side curtains were also closed, so that Salvador did not see Trujillo, but he had a clear view, through the driver’s window, of the heavy, coarse face of the famous Zacarías de la Cruz at the moment his eardrums seemed to burst with the explosion of simultaneous shots from Antonio and Amadito. The cars were so close that when the back window of the other automobile shattered, pieces of glass hit them and Salvador felt tiny stings on his face. As if he were having a hallucination, he saw Zacarías’s head move in a strange way, and, a moment later, Salvador fired over Amadito’s shoulder.
It did not last very long, and now—the squeal of the tires made his skin crawl—a violent braking left Trujillo’s car behind them. Turning his head, he saw through the rear window that the Chevrolet Bel Air was swerving as if it would turn over before it came to a stop. It did not make a turn, it did not try to escape.
“Stop, stop!” Antonio de la Maza was shouting. “Put it in reverse, damn it!”
Tony knew what he was doing. He had braked at almost the same time as Trujillo’s bullet-ridden car, but he took his foot off the brake when the vehicle gave a violent jolt, as if it were about to overturn, and then he braked again until the Chevrolet Biscayne stopped. Without wasting a second he turned the car—no other vehicle was coming—in the opposite direction, and then drove toward Trujillo’s automobile, which had stopped, absurdly, with its headlights on, less than a hundred meters away, as if it were waiting for them. When they had driven half the distance, the lights of the parked car turned off, but Turk could still see it