The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [140]
“This injection is to prepare you, Pedro Livio,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Do you want to call home?”
“Not Olga, she’s pregnant, I don’t want to scare her. Call my sister-in-law Mary.”
His voice sounded firmer. He gave them Mary Despradel’s phone number. The pills he had just swallowed, the injection, the bottles of disinfectant the nurses were pouring on his arm and stomach, made him feel better. He no longer thought he was going to pass out. Dr. Damirón Ricart put the receiver in his hand. “Hello? Hello?”
“It’s Pedro Livio, Mary. I’m at the International Clinic. An accident. Don’t say anything to Olga, don’t scare her. They’re going to operate.”
“Good God, oh my God! I’m coming over there, Pedro Livio.”
The doctors examined him, moved him, and he couldn’t feel his hands. He was filled with a great serenity. With utter lucidity he told himself that no matter how much of a friend he was, Damirón Ricart would have to inform the SIM that a man with bullet wounds had come to the emergency room, something all clinics and hospitals were obliged to do or risk having their doctors and nurses go to prison. And so, pretty soon, the SIM would be all over the place asking questions. But no. Juan Tomás, Antonio, Salvador, must have shown Pupo the body by now, and Román would have alerted the barracks and announced the civilian-military junta. Perhaps at this very moment the military loyal to Pupo were arresting or exterminating Abbes García and his gang of killers, putting Trujillo’s brothers and allies in jail, and the people would be out on the streets, summoned by radios announcing the death of the tyrant. The colonial city, Independencia Park, El Conde, the area around the National Palace, would see a real carnival, celebrating freedom. “Too bad you’re on an operating table instead of dancing, Pedro Livio.”
And then he saw the weeping, frightened face of his wife: “What is it, darling, what happened, what did they do to you?” He embraced and kissed her, trying to reassure her (“An accident, love, don’t be afraid, they’re going to operate”). He recognized his sister-in-law and her husband, Mary and Luis Despradel Brache. He was a doctor and was asking Dr. Damirón Ricart about the operation. “Why did you do it, Pedro Livio?” “So our children can be free, Olga.” She kept asking questions and did not stop crying. “My God, there’s blood all over you.” Releasing a torrent of restrained emotions, he grasped his wife’s arms, looked into her eyes, and exclaimed:
“He’s dead, Olga! He’s dead, dead!”
It was like a movie when the image freezes and moves out of time. He wanted to laugh when he saw the incredulous looks that Olga, his in-laws, the nurses and doctors were giving him.
“Be quiet, Pedro Livio,” murmured Dr. Damirón Ricart.
They all turned toward the door: in the corridor there was a rush of footsteps, people coming down hard on their heels, not caring about the “Quiet” signs on the walls. The door opened. Pedro Livio instantly recognized, among all the military figures, the flaccid face, receding double chin, and eyes embedded in protuberant flesh of Colonel Johnny Abbes García.
“Good evening,” he said, looking at Pedro Livio but speaking to the others. “Please leave. Dr. Damirón Ricart? You stay, Doctor.”
“He’s my husband,” Olga whimpered, her arms around Pedro Livio. “I want to be with him.”
“Take her out,” Abbes García ordered, not looking at her.
More men had come into the room, caliés with revolvers in their belts and soldiers carrying San Cristóbal submachine guns over their shoulders. Half closing his eyes, he saw them take away Olga, who was sobbing (“Don’t do anything to her, she’s pregnant”), and Mary, and he saw his brother-in-law follow them, not needing to be shoved. The men looked at him with curiosity and some revulsion. He recognized General Félix Hermida and Colonel Figueroa Carri