The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [163]
“Call Johnny Abbes.”
Detaching himself from the cluster of civilians and military men—the Generalissimo was walking quickly toward the cement column, a copy of the Washington Monument—the inelegant, flaccid figure of the head of the SIM took his place beside him. Despite his girth, Johnny Abbes García kept pace without difficulty.
“What’s going on with Juan Tomás?” he asked, not looking at him.
“Nothing important, Excellency,” the head of the SIM replied. “Today he went to his farm in Moca, with Antonio de la Maza. They brought back a bull calf. The general and his wife, Chana, quarreled because she said that cutting up and cooking a calf is a lot of work.”
“Have Balaguer and Juan Tomás seen each other in the past few days?” Trujillo interrupted.
Since Abbes García did not answer immediately, he turned to look at him. The colonel shook his head.
“No, Excellency. As far as I know, they haven’t seen each other for some time. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing concrete.” The Generalissimo shrugged. “But just now, in his office, when I mentioned Juan Tomás’s conspiracy, I noticed something strange. I felt something strange. I don’t know what it was. Nothing in your reports to justify any suspicions of the President?”
“Nothing, Excellency. You know I have him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. He doesn’t make a move, he doesn’t receive anyone, he doesn’t make a phone call without our knowing about it.”
Trujillo nodded. There was no reason to distrust the puppet president: his hunch could have been wrong. This plot didn’t seem serious. Antonio de la Maza was one of the conspirators? Another resentful man who consoled himself for his frustrations with whiskey and huge meals. They’d be gorging on marinated unborn calf this evening. Suppose he burst into Juan Tomás’s house in Gazcue? “Good evening, gentlemen. Do you mind sharing your barbecue with me? It smells so good! The aroma reached all the way to the Palace and led me here.” Would their faces be filled with terror or joy? Would they think that his unexpected visit marked their rehabilitation? No, tonight he’d go to San Cristóbal, make Yolanda Esterel cry out, and feel healthy and young tomorrow.
“Why did you let Cabral’s daughter leave for the United States two weeks ago?”
This time Colonel Abbes García really was surprised. He saw him run his hand over his pudgy cheeks, not knowing how to answer.
“Senator Agustín Cabral’s daughter?” he mumbled, playing for time.
“Uranita Cabral, Egghead’s daughter. The nuns at Santo Domingo gave her a scholarship to the United States. Why did you let her leave the country without consulting me?”
It seemed to him that the colonel was shrinking. He opened and closed his mouth, not knowing what to say.
“I’m sorry, Excellency,” he exclaimed, lowering his head. “Your instructions were to follow the senator and arrest him if he tried to seek asylum. It didn’t occur to me that the girl, having spent a night at Mahogany House and with an exit permit signed by President Balaguer…The truth is, it didn’t even occur to me to mention it to you, I didn’t think it was important.”
“Those things should occur to you,” Trujillo berated him. “I want you to investigate the personnel on my secretarial staff. Somebody hid a memo from Balaguer about that girl’s trip. I want to know who it was and why he did it.”
“Right away, Excellency. I apologize for this oversight. It won’t happen again.”
“I hope not,” and Trujillo dismissed him.
The colonel gave him a military salute (it made him want to laugh) and rejoined the other courtiers. He walked a few blocks without calling anyone; he was thinking. Abbes García had only partially followed his instructions to withdraw the guards and caliés. At the corners he didn’t see the fortified wire barricades,