The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [196]
He was told that the apostolic nuncio, the American consul, and the chargé d’affaires of the United Kingdom were at the entrance to the Palace, held there by guards. He had them come in. What had brought them was not the assassination but the violent capture of Monsignor Reilly by armed men, who had broken down the doors of the Santo Domingo Academy and forced their way in. They fired their guns into the air, beat the nuns and the Redemptorist priests from San Juan de la Maguana who accompanied the bishop, killed a watchdog, and dragged the prelate away.
“Mr. President, I am holding you responsible for the life of Monsignor Reilly,” the nuncio warned.
“My government will not tolerate any attempt against his life,” threatened the representative of the United States. “I don’t need to remind you of Washington’s interest in Reilly, who is an American citizen.”
“Have a seat, please,” he said, indicating the chairs that surrounded his desk. He picked up the telephone and asked to speak to General Virgilio García Trujillo, head of San Isidro Air Base. He turned to the diplomats: “Believe me, I regret this more than you do. I will spare no effort to remedy this act of barbarism.”
A short while later, he heard the voice of the Generalissimo’s nephew. Without moving his eyes away from the trio of visitors, he said, slowly and deliberately:
“I am speaking to you as President of the Republic, General. I am addressing you as the head of San Isidro and also His Excellency’s favorite nephew. I will spare you the preliminaries in view of the gravity of the situation. In an act of enormous irresponsibility, some subordinate, perhaps Colonel Abbes García, has arrested Bishop Reilly after taking him by force from the Santo Domingo Academy. Sitting here now are representatives of the United States, Great Britain, and the Vatican. If anything happens to Monsignor Reilly, who is an American citizen, it can be catastrophic for the country. There may even be a landing of Marines. I do not need to tell you what that would mean for our nation. In the name of the Generalissimo, your uncle, I urge you to avoid a historical calamity.”
He waited for General Virgilio García Trujillo’s reaction. That nervous panting betrayed his indecision.
“It wasn’t my idea, Dr. Balaguer,” he heard him murmur at last. “I wasn’t even informed about this.”
“I know that very well, General Trujillo,” Balaguer helped him along. “You are a sensible, responsible officer. You would never commit such an outrage. Is Monsignor Reilly at San Isidro? Or have they taken him to La Cuarenta?”
There was a long, barbed silence. He feared the worst.
“Is Monsignor Reilly alive?” Balaguer persisted.
“He’s being held at an outpost of the base about two kilometers from here, Dr. Balaguer. The commander of the detention center, Rodríguez Méndez, did not allow him to be killed. I was just told.”
The President sweetened his voice:
“I implore you to go there in person, as my emissary, to rescue the monsignor. And to ask his forgiveness, in the name of the government, for the error. And then bring the bishop to my office. Safe and sound. This is a request to a friend, and also an order from the President of the Republic. I have full confidence in you.”
The three visitors looked at him in confusion. He stood and walked over to them. He accompanied them to the door. As he shook their hands, he murmured:
“I am not certain of being obeyed, gentlemen. But, as you can see, I am doing everything in my power to restore rationality.”
“What’s going