The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [166]
General José René Román Fernández remained mute and motionless as the recriminations and insults poured down on him. Trujillo did not rush; rage made him speak carefully, as if, in this way, each syllable, each letter, would strike a harder blow. The chauffeur drove at high speed, not deviating a millimeter from the center of the deserted highway.
“Stop,” Trujillo ordered a little before the first sentry post along the fence that encircled the sprawling San Isidro Air Base.
He jumped out, and despite the dark, he immediately located the large puddle of pestilential water. Sewage was still pouring out of the broken pipe, and in addition to mud and filth, the air was thick with mosquitoes that rushed to the attack.
“The leading military installation in the Republic,” Trujillo said slowly, barely containing a new surge of rage. “Does it seem right to you that at the entrance to the most important air base in the Caribbean, the visitor is greeted by this stinking shit pile of garbage, mud, and vermin?”
Román squatted down. He inspected, stood up, bent down again, did not hesitate to dirty his hands as he felt along the sewage pipe, looking for the break. He seemed relieved to discover the reason for the Chief’s anger. Had the idiot been afraid of something more serious?
“It’s a disgrace, no doubt about it.” He tried to display more indignation than he felt. “I’ll take all necessary steps to make certain the damage is repaired immediately, Excellency. I’ll punish those responsible, from top to bottom.”
“Beginning with Virgilio García Trujillo, the commander of the base,” the Benefactor roared. “You’re the first one responsible, and he’s the second. I hope you have the courage to impose the most severe sanctions on him, even though he’s my nephew and your brother-in-law. And if you don’t have the courage, I’ll be the one who’ll impose them on both of you. Not you, not Virgilio, not any of you shitty little generals is going to destroy my work. The Armed Forces will continue to be the model institution I created, even if I have to throw you and Virgilio and all the rest of you uniformed bunglers into jail for the rest of your lives.”
General Román came to attention and clicked his heels.
“Yes, Excellency. It won’t happen again, I swear.”
But Trujillo had already turned and was climbing into the car.
“Too bad for you if there’s any trace of what I’m seeing and smelling now when I come back here. Fucking tin soldier!”
Turning to the chauffeur, he ordered: “Let’s go.” They pulled away, leaving the Minister of the Armed Forces in the mudhole.
As soon as he left Román behind, a pathetic figure splashing in the muck, his bad temper vanished. He gave a little laugh. He was sure about one thing: Pupo would move heaven and earth and curse out everybody necessary to make sure the pipe was repaired. If this kind of thing went on while he was alive, what would happen when he could no longer personally keep laziness, negligence, and imbecility from tearing down what it had cost him so much effort to build up? Would anarchy and misery, the backwardness and isolation of 1930, return? Ah, if only Ramfis, the son he had longed for, were capable of continuing his work. But he did not have the slightest interest in politics or the country; all he cared about was booze, polo, and women. Fuck! General Ramfis Trujillo, head of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Dominican Republic, playing polo and fucking the dancers at the Lido in Paris while his father did battle here alone against the Church, the United States, conspirators, and cretins like Pupo Román. He moved his head, trying to shake off those bitter thoughts. In an hour and a half he would be in San Cristóbal, in the peaceful refuge of the Fundación Ranch, surrounded by fields and gleaming stables, beautiful woods, the broad Nigua