The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [150]
“Three or four months before that, I had my first period,” she whispers. “I think it made me look more mature.”
“It just occurred to me, it occurred to me when I came in,” says the ambassador, extending his hand and pouring himself another whiskey; he serves his host as well. “I’ve always been this way: the Chief comes first, then me. You’re upset, Agustín. Am I wrong? I didn’t say anything, forget it. I’ve forgotten it. Salud, Egghead!”
Senator Cabral takes a long drink. The whiskey burns his throat and reddens his eyes. Was that a rooster crowing at this hour?
“It’s just, it’s just…,” he repeats, not knowing what to add.
“Let’s forget it. I hope you haven’t taken this the wrong way, Egghead. Forget it! Let’s forget it!”
Manuel Alfonso has stood up. He walks among the innocuous furnishings in the living room, neat, clean, but lacking the feminine touch an efficient housekeeper can give. Senator Cabral thinks—how many times has he thought this over the years?—that he made a mistake remaining alone after his wife’s death. He should have married, had other children, then perhaps this misfortune would not have happened. Why didn’t he? Was it for Uranita’s sake, as he told everyone? No. It was so he could devote more time to the Chief, dedicate days and nights to him, prove to him that nothing and no one was more important in the life of Agustín Cabral.
“I didn’t take it the wrong way.” He makes an enormous effort to appear calm. “But I am disconcerted. It’s something I wasn’t expecting, Manuel.”
“You think she’s a little girl, you didn’t realize she had become a young woman.” Manuel Alfonso rattles the ice cubes in his glass. “A pretty girl. You must be proud of having a daughter like her.”
“Of course.” And adds, mindlessly: “She’s always at the head of her class.”
“Do you know something, Egghead? I wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. Not to regain his confidence, not to show him that I’m capable of any sacrifice for him. Simply because nothing would give me more satisfaction, more happiness, than to have the Chief give pleasure to a daughter of mine and take his pleasure with her. I’m not exaggerating, Agustín. Trujillo is one of those anomalies in history. Charlemagne, Napoleon, Bolívar: that breed of men. Forces of Nature, instruments of God, makers of nations. He’s one of them, Egghead. We’ve had the privilege of being at his side, watching him act, collaborating with him. That’s something beyond price.”
He drained his glass and Agustín Cabral raised his to his mouth but barely wet his lips. He was no longer dizzy, but now his stomach was churning. At any moment he would start to vomit.
“She’s still a little girl,” he stammered.
“That’s even better!” exclaimed the ambassador. “The Chief will appreciate the gesture even more. He’ll understand that he made a mistake, that he judged you too hastily, letting himself be guided by his own sensitivities, or listening to your enemies. Don’t think only of yourself, Agustín. Don’t be an egotist. Think of your daughter. What will happen to her if you lose everything and end up in jail accused of mismanagement and fraud?”
“Do you think I haven’t thought about that, Manuel?”
The ambassador shrugged.
“It just occurred to me when I saw how pretty she’s become,” he repeated. “The Chief appreciates beauty. If I say to him: ‘Egghead, to prove his affection and loyalty, wants to offer you his pretty daughter, who’s still a virgin,’ he won’t refuse. I know him. He’s a true gentleman, with a tremendous sense of honor. His heart will be touched. He’ll call you. He’ll return what’s been taken from you. Uranita’s future will be secure. Think of her, Agustín, and shake off your antiquated prejudices. Don’t be an egotist.”
He picked up the bottle again and splashed more whiskey into his glass and Cabral’s. He used his hand to put more ice cubes in both glasses.
“It just occurred to me when I saw how attractive