The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [157]
“God bless you, Toño.”
“And be with you,” Toño Sánchez repeated, pulling away.
Aunt Meca’s little one-story house—made of wood, with a fence, no garden, but surrounded by pots of geraniums in the windows—was about twenty meters away, which Amadito strode across, limping, not concealing his revolver. As soon as he knocked the door opened. Aunt Meca didn’t have time to be astonished, because the lieutenant rushed in, moving her aside and closing the door behind him.
“I don’t know what to do, where to hide, Aunt Meca. It’ll be for one or two days, until I can find a safe place.”
His aunt kissed and embraced him, affectionate as always. She didn’t seem as frightened as Amadito had feared.
“They must have seen you, honey. How could you come in broad daylight? My neighbors are raging Trujillistas. You’re covered with blood. And those bandages? Are you wounded?”
Amadito peered at the street through the curtains. There were no people on the sidewalks. Doors and windows across the street were closed.
“Ever since the news broke I’ve been praying to St. Peter Claver for you, Amadito, he’s such a miraculous saint,” his Aunt Meca said, cradling his face in her hands. “When they showed you on television and in El Caribe, some of my neighbors came to ask me questions, to see what they could find out. I hope they haven’t seen you. You look awful, honey. Do you want anything?”
“Yes, Aunt Meca,” he said with a laugh, caressing her white hair. “A shower and something to eat. I’m starving.”
“And it’s your birthday!” Aunt Meca recalled, and hugged him again.
She was a small, energetic old woman, with a resolute expression and deep, kind eyes. She had him take off his pants and shirt, so she could wash them, and while Amadito showered—it was a pleasure fit for the gods—she heated up all the leftovers in the kitchen. Wearing his shorts and undershirt, the lieutenant found a banquet spread on the table: fried green plantains, fried sausage, rice, deep-fried pieces of chicken. He ate with good appetite, listening to his Aunt Meca’s stories. How it upset the family when they learned he was one of Trujillo’s assassins. The caliés had come to the houses of three of her sisters in the middle of the night, asking about him. They hadn’t come here yet.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to sleep for a while, Aunt Meca. I’ve barely closed my eyes for days. I was too bored. I’m happy to be here with you.”
She led him to her bedroom and had him lie down on her bed, under an image of St. Peter Claver, her favorite saint. She closed the shutters to darken the room, and said that while he was napping, she would wash and iron his uniform. “And we’ll think of a place where you can hide, Amadito.” She kissed him repeatedly on his brow and head: “And I thought you were such a good Trujillista, honey.” He fell asleep immediately. He dreamed that Turk Sadhalá and Antonio Imbert were calling him repeatedly: “Amadito, Amadito!” They were trying to tell him something important, but he couldn’t understand their gestures or words. It seemed to him he had just closed his eyes when he felt someone shaking him. There was Aunt Meca, so pale and frightened he felt sorry for her, and guilt-ridden for having involved her in this.
“They’re here, they’re here,” she said in a strangled voice, crossing herself. “Ten or twelve Beetles, honey, and lots of caliés.”
He was lucid now and knew perfectly well what to do. He made the old woman lie down on the floor, behind the bed, against the wall, at the feet of St. Peter Claver.
“Don’t move, don’t get up no matter what,” he told her. “I love you very much, Aunt Meca.”
He had the .45 in his hand. Barefoot, dressed only in his regulation khaki undershirt and shorts, he hugged the wall and crept to the front door. He peered through the curtains, staying out of sight. It was an overcast afternoon, and in the distance he could hear a bolero. Black SIM Volkswagens filled the street. At least twenty caliés armed with submachine guns and revolvers were