The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [154]
She suspected nothing. Like the budding young lady she was, she worried about the most trivial things. What would she wear, Papa? Which shoes? Too bad it was so late, they could have called the hairdresser who did her hair and made her up last month, when she was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Santo Domingo. It was her only concern from the moment when, to avoid offending the Chief, she and her father decided she would go to the party. Don Manuel Alfonso would come for her at eight. She didn’t have time to do homework.
“How late did you tell Señor Alfonso I could stay?”
“Well, until people begin to leave,” says Senator Cabral, squeezing his hands. “If you want to leave earlier, because you feel tired or whatever, you just tell him and Manuel Alfonso will bring you right home.”
17
When Dr. Vélez Santana and Bienvenido García, General Juan Tomás Díaz’s son-in-law, drove Pedro Livio Cedeño to the International Clinic, the inseparable trio—Amadito, Antonio Imbert, and Turk Estrella Sadhalá—reached a decision: it made no sense to go on waiting there until General Díaz, Luis Amiama, and Antonio de la Maza found General José René Román. What they should do is find a doctor to treat their wounds, then change their soiled clothes and look for a place to hide until things were settled. Was there a trustworthy doctor they could go to at this hour? It was close to midnight.
“My cousin Manuel,” said Imbert. “Manuel Durán Barreras. He lives nearby and his office is next to his house. He can be trusted.”
Tony’s expression was somber, which surprised Amadito. When Salvador was driving them to Dr. Durán Barreras’s house—the city was quiet and the streets were empty of traffic, the news hadn’t broken yet—he asked:
“Why the long face?”
“This is all fucked up,” Imbert replied quietly.
Turk and the lieutenant looked at him.
“Do you think it’s normal for Pupo Román not to show up?” he added between clenched teeth. “There are only two explanations. Either they found him out and arrested him or he got scared. In either case, we’re fucked.”
“But we killed Trujillo, Tony!” Amadito tried to cheer him up. “Nobody’s going to bring him back to life.”
“Don’t think I’m sorry about that,” said Imbert. “The truth is, I never had much faith in the coup, the civilian-military junta, all those dreams of Antonio de la Maza. I always saw us as being on a suicide mission.”
“You should have said so earlier, brother,” Amadito joked. “I would have written my will.”
Turk dropped them off at Dr. Durán Barreras’s place and went to his own house; since the caliés would soon find his abandoned car on the highway, he wanted to alert his wife and children and get some clothes and money. Dr. Durán Barreras was in bed. He came out in a robe, yawning. His jaw dropped when Imbert explained why they were covered with mud and blood, and what they wanted from him. For long seconds he looked at them, astounded, his large bony face, with its full beard, contorted in bewilderment. Amadito could see the doctor’s Adam’s apple moving up and down. From time to time he rubbed his eyes as if he were seeing ghosts. At last he reacted:
“The first thing is to treat you. Let’s go to my office.”
Amadito was the most seriously hurt. A bullet had hit his ankle; you could see the entrance and exit wounds, and splinters of bone protruding from them. His foot and part of his ankle were deformed by swelling.
“I don’t know how you can stand with that shattered ankle,” the doctor remarked as he