The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [145]
“Playboy, playboy,” shrieks Samson. But this time only her tall, skinny niece laughs.
“He was very good-looking, an Adonis,” says Urania. “Before the cancer.”
He had been the handsomest Dominican of his generation, but in the weeks, perhaps months, since Agustín Cabral had seen him, the demigod whose elegance and grace made girls turn around to look at him had become a shadow of himself. The senator could not believe his eyes. He must have lost ten or fifteen kilos; emaciated, wasted, he had deep shadows around eyes that had always been proud and smiling—the gaze of a pleasure-taker, the smile of a victor—and now were lifeless. He had heard about the small tumor under his tongue that the dentist happened to find when Manuel, who was still ambassador in Washington, went for his annual cleaning. The news, they said, affected Trujillo as much as if they had discovered a tumor in one of his children, and he remained glued to the telephone during the operation at the Mayo Clinic, in the United States.
“I’m so sorry to bother you when you’ve just come home, Manuel.” Cabral stood up when he saw him come into the small room where he was waiting.
“My dear Agustín, how nice.” Manuel Alfonso embraced him. “Can you understand me? They had to take out part of my tongue. But with some therapy I’ll speak normally again. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, Manuel. I don’t notice anything strange in your voice, I assure you.”
It wasn’t true. The ambassador spoke as if he were chewing pebbles, or was tongue-tied, or had a stammer. The faces he made indicated the effort each word cost him.
“Have a seat, Agustín. Some coffee? A drink?”
“Nothing, thank you. I won’t take up much of your time. Again I apologize for bothering you when you’re recuperating from surgery. I’m in a very difficult situation, Manuel.”
He stopped speaking, embarrassed. Manuel Alfonso put a friendly hand on his knee.
“I can imagine, Egghead. A small country, a huge hell: I even heard the rumors in the United States. You’ve been stripped of the Presidency of the Senate and they’re investigating your management of the ministry.”
Illness and suffering had drastically aged the Dominican Apollo whose face, with its perfect white teeth, had intrigued Generalissimo Trujillo on his first official trip to the United States, causing the fortunes of Manuel Alfonso to experience a sudden upturn, as if he were Snow White touched by a magic wand. But he was still an elegant man, dressed like the fashion model he had been in his youth, when he was a Dominican immigrant in New York: suede loafers, cream-colored velour trousers, an Italian silk shirt, and a smart scarf around his neck. A gold ring sparkled on his little finger. He was meticulously shaved, perfumed, and combed.
“I’m so grateful that you’ve received me, Manuel.” Agustín Cabral recovered his poise: he had always been contemptuous of men who felt sorry for themselves. “You’re the only one. I’ve become a pariah. Nobody wants to see me.”
“I don’t forget services rendered, Agustín. You were always generous, you supported all my nominations in Congress, you did me a thousand favors. I’ll do what I can. What are the charges against you?”
“I don’t know, Manuel. If I knew, I could defend myself. So far no one will tell me what crime I’ve committed.”
“Yes, very much so, all our hearts beat faster when he was nearby,” Aunt Adelina admits impatiently. “But what connection can he have with what you’ve said about Agustín?”
Urania’s throat has become dry, and she takes a few sips of water. Why do you insist on talking about this? What’s the point?
“Because Manuel Alfonso was the only one of all his friends who tried to help Papa. I’ll bet you didn’t know that, any of you.”
The three women look at her as if they thought her unbalanced.
“Well, no, I didn’t know that,” murmurs Aunt Adelina. “He tried to help him when he fell into disgrace? Are you sure?”
“As sure as I am that my papa didn’t tell you or Uncle Aníbal about the steps Manuel Alfonso took to get him