The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [112]
“They said he fell into disgrace because somebody made Trujillo believe it was Uncle Agustín’s fault that the bishops refused to proclaim him Benefactor of the Catholic Church.”
“They said a thousand things,” exclaims Aunt Adelina. “The doubt was the worst part of his calvary. The family was being ruined and nobody knew what Agustín had been accused of, what he had done or failed to do.”
No other senator was there when Agustín Cabral entered the Senate at a quarter past eight, as he did every morning. The guards gave him the proper salute, and the ushers and clerks he passed in the halls on the way to his office said good morning with their usual effusiveness. But the uneasiness felt by his two secretaries, Isabelita and Paris Goico, a young lawyer, was reflected in their faces.
“Who died?” he joked. “Are you worried about the letter in ‘The Public Forum’? We’ll clear up that nasty business right now. Call the editor of El Caribe, Isabelita. At home—Panchito doesn’t go to his office before noon.”
He sat down at his desk, glanced at the pile of documents, his correspondence, the day’s schedule prepared by the efficient Parisito. “The letter was dictated by the Chief,” he thought. A little snake slid down his spine. Was it one of those melodramas that amused the Generalissimo? In the midst of tensions with the Church and a confrontation with the United States and the OAS, was he in the mood for one of his bravura performances from the past, when he had felt all-powerful, unthreatened? Was this the time for circuses?
“He’s on the line, Don Agustín.”
He picked up the receiver and waited a few seconds before speaking.
“Did I wake you, Panchito?”
“What an idea, Egghead.” The journalist’s voice sounded normal. “I’m up at the crack of dawn, like a capon rooster. And I sleep with one eye open, just in case. What’s up?”
“Well, as you can imagine, I’m calling about the letter this morning in ‘The Public Forum,’” Senator Cabral said hoarsely. “Can you tell me anything about it?”
The answer came in the same light, jocular tone, as if they were talking about something trivial.
“It came recommended, Egghead. I wasn’t going to print something like that without checking. Believe me, given our friendship, it didn’t make me happy to publish it.”
“Yes, yes, sure,” he murmured to himself. He mustn’t lose his composure for a single instant.
“I intend to rectify the slander,” he said softly. “I haven’t been dismissed from anything. I’m calling you from the office of the President of the Senate. And that alleged committee investigating my management of the Ministry of Public Works, that’s another lie.”
“Send me your rectification right away,” Panchito replied. “I’ll do everything I can to publish it, it’s the least I can do. You know the esteem I have for you. I’ll be at the paper from four o’clock on. My love to Uranita. Take care of yourself, Agustín.”
As soon as he hung up, he began to have his doubts. Had he done the right thing in calling the editor of El Caribe? Wasn’t it a false move that betrayed his concern? What else could Panchito have said? He received letters for “The Public Forum” directly from the National Palace and printed them, no questions asked. He looked at his watch: a quarter to nine. He had time; the meeting of the Senate executive committee was at nine-thirty. He dictated his rectification to Isabelita with the same austere clarity he used in all his writing. A brief, dry, fulminating letter: he continued as President of the Senate and no one had questioned his scrupulous management at the Ministry of Public Works, entrusted to him by the regime presided over by that eponymous Dominican, His Excellency Generalissimo Rafael Leonidas Trujillo, Benefactor and Father of the New Nation.
When Isabelita left to type the letter, Paris Goico came into the office.
“The meeting of the Senate executive committee has been canceled, Don Agustín.”
He was young and didn’t know how to dissemble; his mouth hung open and his face was livid.
“Without consulting me? By whom?”
“The Vice