The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [200]
The Bountiful First Lady listened in silence, looking into his eyes. Finally she nodded appreciatively:
“I knew you were a loyal friend, Dr. Balaguer,” she said, very sure of herself.
“I hope to prove it to you, Doña María. I trust you have not been offended by my counsel.”
“It’s good advice. In this country you never know what can happen,” she grumbled. “I’ll talk to Dr. Chirinos tomorrow. Everything will be done with the greatest discretion?”
“On my honor, Doña María,” the President declared, touching his chest.
He saw a doubt altering the expression of the Generalissimo’s widow. And he guessed what she was going to say to him:
“I ask that you don’t even speak to my children about this little matter,” she said, very quietly, as if she were afraid they might hear her. “For reasons it would take too long to explain.”
“Not to anyone, not even to them, Doña María,” the President reassured her. “Of course. Allow me to reiterate how much I admire your character, Doña María. Without you, the Benefactor could never have accomplished all that he did.”
He had won another point in his strategic war with Johnny Abbes García. Doña María’s response had been predictable: her greed was stronger than any other passion. And, in fact, the Bountiful First Lady inspired a certain respect in Dr. Balaguer. In order to keep herself at Trujillo’s side for so many years, first as mistress, then as wife, La Españolita had been obliged to strip away all sensitivity, all sentiment—especially pity—and take refuge in calculation, cold calculation, and, perhaps, hatred as well.
The reaction of Ramfis, on the other hand, disconcerted him. Within two hours of his arrival with Radhamés, Porfirio Rubirosa, and a group of friends at San Isidro Air Base, on a chartered Air France plane—Balaguer was the first to embrace him at the bottom of the steps—and freshly shaved and dressed in his uniform of a four-star general, he came to the National Palace to pay his respects to his father. He did not cry, he did not say a word. His grief-stricken, handsome face was ashen and wore a strange expression of surprise, befuddlement, denial, as if that recumbent figure in evening clothes, the chest covered with medals, lying in the sumptuous casket surrounded by candelabra, in a room filled with funeral wreaths, could not and should not be there, as if the fact that it was there revealed a failure in the order of the universe. He spent a long time looking at his father’s corpse, his face twisting into grimaces he could not control; it seemed as if his facial muscles were trying to shake off a spiderweb sticking to his skin. “I won’t be as generous as you were with your enemies,” he heard him say at last. Then Dr. Balaguer, who was at his side, dressed in strict mourning, whispered in his ear: “It is indispensable that we speak for a few minutes, General. I know this is a very difficult moment for you. But there are matters that cannot be put off.” Ramfis nodded, regaining his self-control. They went, alone, to the President’s office. On the way, they could see through the windows the huge, growing crowd, swelling with the arrival of groups of men and women from the outskirts of Ciudad Trujillo and nearby towns. The line, in rows of four or five, was several kilometers long, and the armed guards could scarcely control it. They had been waiting for hours. There were heartrending