The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [172]
“It’s strychnine. I got it in Moca; I said it was for a rabid dog.”
The fat general shrugged disdainfully, and showed him his revolver:
“There’s no better strychnine than this, brother. Poison is for dogs and women, don’t fuck around with bullshit like that. Besides, asshole, you commit suicide with cyanide, not strychnine.”
They laughed again, with the same fierce, sad little laugh.
“Did you notice the guy at the register?” Antonio de la Maza pointed at the cashier’s window. “Who do you think he’s calling?”
“Maybe his wife, to ask how her pussy’s doing.”
Antonio de la Maza laughed again, a real, long, open laugh this time.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, asshole?”
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” asked Antonio, who was serious again. “The two of us in this taxi. What the hell are we doing here? We don’t even know where we’re going.”
They told the driver to go back to the colonial district. Antonio had thought of something, and once they were in the old city, they told him to turn onto Calle Espaillat from Billini. Generoso Fernández, an attorney whom they both knew, lived there. Antonio recalled hearing him say the most bitter things about Trujillo; perhaps he could get them a car. The lawyer came to the door but did not ask them in. When he recovered from the shock—he looked at them in horror, blinking—all he could do in his indignation was berate them:
“Are you crazy? How can you compromise me like this? Don’t you know who went into the house across the street just a minute ago? The Constitutional Sot! Couldn’t you stop and think before doing this to me? Get away, go on, I have a family. For God’s sake, leave! I’m nobody, nobody.”
He slammed the door in their faces. They went back to the cab. The old black was still sitting docilely at the wheel, not looking at them. After a while he mumbled:
“Where to now?”
“To Independencia Park,” Antonio told him, just to say something.
Seconds after he pulled away—the streetlamps at the corners had turned on and people were coming out on the sidewalks to enjoy the cool air—the driver alerted them:
“There are Beetles behind us. I’m really sorry, gentlemen.”
Antonio felt relieved. This ridiculous trip to nowhere was finally ending. Better to go out shooting than like a couple of assholes. They turned around. Two green Volkswagens were following them at a distance of about ten meters.
“I don’t want to die, gentlemen,” the driver pleaded, crossing himself. “By the Blessed Virgin, please!”
“Okay, get to the park however you can and drop us at the corner by the hardware store,” said Antonio.
There was a good deal of traffic. The driver maneuvered his way between a truck and bus with clusters of people hanging from the doors. He braked hard a few meters from the large plate-glass windows of the Reid hardware store. When he jumped out of the cab, with his revolver in his hand, Antonio noticed that the lights in the park were coming on, as if to welcome them. There were shoeshine boys, street peddlers, cardplayers, bums and beggars leaning against the walls. It smelled of fruit and fried food. He turned around to hurry along Juan Tomás, who was fat and tired, and could not keep up with him. At that moment, shots broke out behind him. There were deafening screams all around him; people ran between cars, and automobiles drove onto the sidewalks. Antonio heard hysterical voices: “Surrender, damn it!” “You’re surrounded, assholes!” When he saw that Juan Tomás was stopping, exhausted, he stopped too, beside him, and began to shoot. He fired blindly,