The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [193]
In a very quiet voice, Turk whispered in his friend’s ear: “This is the end, isn’t it, Modesto?” The lawyer nodded, not saying anything, squeezing his arm.
Before the sun came up they were taken out of the prison and put into the Dogcatcher again. There was an impressive military deployment around the Palace of Justice, and Salvador, in the uncertain light, saw that all the soldiers wore Air Force insignia. They were from San Isidro Air Base, the fiefdom of Ramfis and Virgilio García Trujillo. He said nothing, not wanting to alarm his companions. In the cramped van he tried to talk to God, as he had for part of the night, asking that He help him die with dignity, that he not dishonor himself with any show of cowardice, but he could not concentrate now. His failure caused him great anguish.
After a short drive, the van came to a stop. They were on the San Cristóbal highway. This had to be the site of the assassination. The sun gilded the sky, the coconut palms along the road, the ocean that murmured as it broke against the rocks. There were a great many guards. They had cordoned off the highway and blocked traffic in both directions.
“As far as this circus is concerned, the boy turned out to be as much of a clown as his papa,” he heard Modesto Díaz say.
“Why should it be a circus?” Fifí Pastoriza protested. “Don’t be such a pessimist. It’s a reconstruction. Even the judges are here. Don’t you see?”
“The same kind of joke his papa liked,” Modesto insisted, shaking his head in disgust.
Farce or not, it went on for many hours, until the sun was in the middle of the sky and began to drill into their skulls. One by one, they were made to pass in front of a campaign table set up outdoors, where two men in civilian clothing asked the same questions that had been asked in El Nueve and La Victoria. Typists recorded their answers. Only low-ranking officers were present. None of the top brass—Ramfis, Abbes García, Pechito León Estévez, Pirulo Sánchez Rubirosa—were visible during the tedious ceremony. They were not given anything to eat, only some glasses of soda at noon. It was early afternoon when the rotund warden of La Victoria, Major Américo Dante Minervino, put in an appearance. He was chewing nervously on his mustache and his face looked more sinister than usual. He was accompanied by a corpulent black with the flattened nose of a boxer, a submachine gun on his shoulder and a pistol tucked into his belt. They were returned to the Dogcatcher.
“Where are we going?” Pedro Livio asked Minervino.
“Back to La Victoria,” he said. “I came to take you back myself so you won’t get lost.”
“What an honor,” replied Pedro Livio.
The major was behind the wheel and the black with the boxer’s face sat beside him. The three guards escorting them in the rear of the Dogcatcher were so young they looked like new recruits. They seemed tense, overwhelmed by the responsibility of guarding such important prisoners. In addition to handcuffs, their ankles were tied rather loosely, allowing them to take short steps.
“What the hell do these ropes mean?” Tunti Cáceres protested.
One of the guards pointed at the major and lifted a finger to his mouth: “Quiet.”
During the long ride, Salvador realized they were not going back to La Victoria, and judging by the faces of his companions, they had guessed the same thing. They were silent, some with their