The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [165]
“You, come with me.”
General Román—an energetic click of his heels, a hand at the visor of his cap—quickly obeyed. He climbed into the car and sat on the edge of the seat, very erect, his hat on his knees.
“To San Isidro, the base.”
As the official car drove toward the center of the city in order to cross to the eastern bank of the Ozama on the Radhamés Bridge, Trujillo contemplated the landscape, as if he were alone. General Román did not dare say a word, waiting for the storm to break. It began to loom when they had covered about three of the ten miles that separated the obelisk from the air base.
“How old are you?” he asked, without turning to look at him.
“I just turned fifty-six, Chief.”
Román—everyone called him Pupo—was tall, strong, and athletic, with a very close crew cut. He played sports and maintained an excellent physique, without a trace of fat. He replied very quietly, humbly, trying to placate him.
“How many years in the Army?” Trujillo continued, looking out the window, as if he were questioning someone who wasn’t there.
“Thirty-one, Chief, ever since my graduation.”
He allowed a few seconds to go by without saying anything. Finally he turned toward the head of the Armed Forces, with the infinite contempt the man always inspired in him. In the shadows, which had deepened rapidly, he could not see his eyes, but he was sure that Pupo Román was blinking, or had his eyes half closed, like children when they wake at night and squint fearfully into the darkness.
“And in all those years you haven’t learned that a superior answers for his subordinates? That he is responsible for their mistakes?”
“I know that very well, Chief. If you tell me what this is about, perhaps I can give you an explanation.”
“You’ll see what it’s about,” said Trujillo, with the apparent calm his collaborators feared more than his shouting. “You bathe with soap every day?”
“Of course, Chief.” General Román tried to laugh, but since the Generalissimo was still very serious, he fell silent.
“I hope so, for Mireya’s sake. I think it’s fine that you bathe with soap every day, that your uniform is well pressed and your shoes shined. As head of the Armed Forces you’re obliged to set an example of cleanliness and proper appearance for Dominican officers and soldiers. Isn’t that true?”
“Of course it is, Chief.” The general groveled. “I beg you to tell me how I’ve failed. So I can set things right and make amends. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Appearance is the mirror of the soul,” Trujillo philosophized. “If somebody goes around smelling bad with snot running out of his nose, he isn’t a person who can be entrusted with public hygiene. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course, Chief.”
“The same is true of institutions. What respect can you have for them if they don’t even tend to their appearance?”
General Román chose not to speak. The Generalissimo had become more incensed and did not stop rebuking him for the fifteen minutes it took to reach San Isidro Air Base. He reminded Pupo how sorry he had been when the daughter of his sister Marina was crazy enough to marry a mediocre officer like him, which he still was despite the fact that because of his relationship by marriage to the Benefactor, he had been promoted to the very top of the hierarchy. These privileges, rather than motivating him, had led him to rest on his laurels and betray Trujillo’s confidence a thousand times over. Not content with being the nonentity he was as an officer, he had taken up farming, as if you didn’t need brains to raise cattle and manage lands and dairies. What was the result? He was drowning in debt and was an embarrassment to the family. Barely eighteen days ago he had personally paid with