The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [143]
“Not anymore,” General Hermida acknowledged sadly. “If these sons of bitches have killed him, what the hell’s going to happen here?”
Colonel Abbes García slapped his forehead:
“Now I understand why Román made an appointment with me at Army Headquarters. Of course he’s involved in this! He wants people close to the Chief near him so he can lock them up before the coup. If I had gone, I’d be dead by now.”
“I can’t believe it, damn it,” General Félix Hermida repeated.
“Send SIM patrols to close Radhamés Bridge,” ordered Abbes García. “Don’t let anybody in the government, particularly Trujillo’s relatives, cross the Ozama or get anywhere near the December 18 Fortress.”
“The Minister of the Armed Forces, General José René Román, Mireya Trujillo’s husband,” General Félix was saying to himself, mindlessly. “I don’t understand anything about anything anymore, damn it.”
“Believe it until he proves himself innocent,” said Abbes García. “Hurry and warn the Chief’s brothers. Have them meet in the National Palace. Don’t mention Pupo yet. Tell them there are rumors of assassination attempts. Hurry! How is he? Can I question him?”
“He’s dying, Colonel,” Dr. Damirón Ricart declared. “As a physician, my duty…”
“Your duty is to shut up unless you want to be treated like an accomplice.” Again Pedro Livio saw at close range the face of the head of the SIM. “I’m not dying,” he thought. “The doctor lied so he won’t keep putting butts out on my face.”
“General Román ordered the Chief killed?” Again, in his nose and mouth, the colonel’s pungent breath. “Is that true?”
“They’re looking for him to show him the body,” he heard himself shout. “That’s how he is: seeing is believing. And the briefcase too.”
The effort left him exhausted. He was afraid that at this very moment the caliés were putting out cigarettes on Olga’s face. Poor girl, what a shame. She’d lose the baby, she’d curse the day she ever married ex-Captain Pedro Livio Cedeño.
“What briefcase?” asked the head of the SIM.
“Trujillo’s,” he replied immediately, articulating clearly. “Covered with blood outside and full of pesos and dollars inside.”
“With his initials?” the colonel insisted. “The initials RLTM in gold?”
He couldn’t answer, his memory was betraying him. Tony and Antonio found it in the car, they opened it and said it was full of Dominican pesos and dollars. Thousands and thousands. He noticed the agitation of the head of the SIM. Ah, you son of a bitch, the briefcase convinced you it was true, they had killed him.
“Who else is in this?” Abbes García asked. “Give me names. So you can go to the operating room and have the bullets taken out. Who else?”
“Did they find Pupo?” he asked, excited, speaking quickly. “Did they show the body to him? And to Balaguer?”
Again Colonel Abbes García’s jaw dropped. There he was, openmouthed with astonishment and apprehension. In some obscure way, he was winning the game.
“Balaguer?” he said slowly, syllable by syllable, letter by letter. “The President of the Republic?”
“Of the civilian-military junta,” explained Pedro Livio, struggling to control his nausea. “I was against it. They say it’s necessary, to reassure the OAS.”
This time, he didn’t have time to turn his head and vomit on the floor. Something warm and viscous ran down his neck and dirtied his chest. He saw the head of the SIM move away in disgust. He had severe stomach cramps, and his bones felt cold. He couldn’t talk anymore. After a while the colonel’s face hung over him again, grimacing with impatience, looking at him as if he wanted to drill into his skull and find out the whole truth.
“Joaquín Balaguer too?”
He could resist his gaze for only a few seconds. He closed his eyes, he wanted to sleep. Or die, it didn’t matter. Two or three times he heard the question: “Balaguer? Balaguer too?” He didn’t answer or open his eyes. Not even when the intense burning on his right earlobe made him shrink away. The colonel had put out his cigarette and now he was twisting