The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [128]
“ ‘A bold, energetic will that supports, in the march of the Republic toward the fulfillment of its destiny, the protective benevolence of supernatural forces,’” Trujillo recited with half-closed eyes. “ ‘God and Trujillo: here, in synthesis, is the explanation, first, of the survival of the nation, and second, of the present-day flourishing of Dominican life.’”
He opened his eyes and gave a melancholy sigh. Balaguer, made even smaller by gratitude, listened in rapture.
“Do you still believe that God passed the baton to me? That He delegated to me the responsibility of saving this country?” he asked with an indefinable mixture of irony and interest.
“More than I did then, Excellency,” replied the delicate, clear voice. “Trujillo could not have carried out his superhuman mission without transcendental help. You have been, for this nation, an instrument of the Supreme Being.”
“Too bad those asshole bishops haven’t heard the news,” Trujillo said with a smile. “If your theory is true, I hope God makes them pay for their blindness.”
Balaguer was not the first to associate divinity with his work. The Benefactor recalled that the law professor, attorney, and politician Don Jacinto B. Peynado (whom he had made puppet president in 1938, when the massacre of Haitians had resulted in international protests against his third reelection) had placed a large luminous sign on the door of his house: “God and Trujillo.” And then identical signs began to be displayed on many homes in the capital city and in the interior. No, it hadn’t been the words but the arguments justifying that association that had struck Trujillo as an overwhelming truth. It wasn’t easy to feel the weight of a supernatural hand on his shoulders. Reissued every year by the Trujillonian Institute, Balaguer’s speech was required reading in schools, and the central text in the Civics Handbook, used to educate high school and university students in the Trujillista Doctrine and composed by a trio of men he had selected: Balaguer, Egghead Cabral, and the Walking Turd.
“I’ve often thought about that theory of yours, Dr. Balaguer,” he confessed. “Was it a divine decision? Why me? Why was I chosen?”
Dr. Balaguer wet his lips with the tip of his tongue before answering:
“The decisions of the Divinity are ineluctable,” he said unctuously. “What must have been taken into account were your exceptional talent for leadership, your capacity for work, and, above all, your love for this country.”
Why was he wasting time on this bullshit? He had urgent matters to attend to. And yet, it was very strange, he felt a need to prolong this vague, reflective, personal conversation. Why with Balaguer? Within the circle of his collaborators, he had shared the fewest intimate moments with him. He never invited him to the private suppers in San Cristóbal, at Mahogany House, where the liquor flowed and excesses were sometimes committed. Perhaps because, in that entire horde of intellectuals and writers, he was the only one who had not yet disappointed him. And because he was famous for his intelligence (although, according to Abbes García, a dirty aura surrounded the President).
“I’ve always had a low opinion of intellectuals and writers,” he repeated. “On the scale of merit, the military occupy first place. They do their duty, they don’t get involved in intrigues, they don’t waste time. Then the campesinos. In the bateys and huts, on the