The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [148]
The senator nodded: if the Chief noticed it, perhaps it was true. Nothing premeditated, of course, and certainly not due to any lessening of his admiration and loyalty. Something unconscious, fatigue, the tremendous tension of this past year, the hemispheric conspiracy against Trujillo by the Communists and Fidel Castro, the priests, Washington and the State Department, Figueres, Muñoz Marín, and Betancourt, economic sanctions, the despicable actions of the exiles. Yes, yes, it was possible that, unintentionally, his dedication to his work, the Party, the Congress, had flagged.
“The Chief doesn’t accept discouragement or weakness, Agustín. He wants us all to be like him. Tireless, a rock, a man of iron. You know that.”
“And he’s right.” Agustín Cabral banged his fist on his small desk. “Because he is the way he is, he has made this country. He is always in the saddle, Manuel, as he said in the campaign of 1940. He has a right to demand that we emulate him. I disappointed him without realizing it. Perhaps because I didn’t succeed in persuading the bishops to proclaim him Benefactor of the Church? He wanted that as compensation after the villainy of the Pastoral Letter. I formed part of the commission, along with Balaguer and Paíno Pichardo. Was it that failure, do you think?”
The ambassador shook his head.
“He’s very tactful. Even if he feels unhappy about that, he wouldn’t have told me so. Perhaps it is one of the reasons. You have to understand him. For thirty-one years he has been betrayed by the people he helped the most. How could a man not be sensitive when his best friends stab him in the back?”
“I remember his scent,” says Urania, after a pause. “Since then, and it’s no lie, every time a man wearing scent happens to be near me, I see Manuel Alfonso again. And hear that gibberish he spoke on the two occasions I had the honor of enjoying his charming company.”
Her right hand crumples the runner on the table. Her aunt, cousins, and niece, disoriented by her hostility and sarcasm, hesitate, feeling uncomfortable.
“If talking about this upsets you, don’t do it, Urania,” Manolita suggests.
“It sickens me, it makes me want to vomit,” Urania replies. “It fills me with hatred and disgust. I never told anyone about this. Maybe it will do me good to finally get it off my chest. And who better than my family to listen?”
“What do you think, Manuel? Will the Chief give me another chance?”
“Why don’t we have some whiskey, Egghead,” the ambassador exclaims, avoiding a reply. He holds up his hands, cutting off the senator’s objections. “I know I shouldn’t, I’m not allowed to drink alcohol. Bah! Is it worth living if you have to deprive yourself of the good things? Great whiskey is one of those things.”
“Excuse me for not asking earlier. I’ll have a drink too. Let’s go down to the living room. Uranita must be in bed by now.”
But she still hasn’t gone to her room. She has just finished supper and stands when she sees them coming down the stairs.
“You were just a little girl the last time I saw you,” Manuel Alfonso compliments her, smiling. “Now you’re a very beautiful young lady. You probably haven’t even noticed the change, Agustín.”
“See you tomorrow, Papa.” Urania kisses her father. She is going to shake the visitor’s hand, but he offers his cheek. She barely kisses him, and blushes: “Good night, señor.”
“Call me Uncle Manuel,” and he kisses her on the forehead.
Cabral tells the butler and maid that they can go to bed, and he brings in the bottle of whiskey, the glasses, the ice bucket. He pours his friend a drink and another for himself, both on the rocks.
“Salud, Manuel.”
“Salud, Agustín.”
The ambassador savors his drink with satisfaction, half closing his eyes. “Ah, how nice,” he exclaims. But he has difficulty getting the liquor down, and his face contracts