The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [204]
Barely five weeks had passed since the death of the Generalissimo, and the changes were considerable. Joaquín Balaguer could not complain: in that brief time, he had transformed himself from a puppet president, a nonentity, into an authentic Head of State, an office recognized by all factions, and, in particular, by the United States. They had been hesitant at first, but after he explained his plans to the new consul, they now took more seriously his promise to move the country gradually toward full democracy while maintaining order and not allowing any advantage to the Communists. Every two or three days he had meetings with the efficient John Calvin Hill—a diplomat with the body of a cowboy, who spoke plainly and to the point—whom he had just convinced that, at this stage, it was necessary to have Ramfis as an ally. The general had accepted his plan of gradual opening. He had control of the military, and consequently those thuggish brutes Petán and Héctor, as well as the more primitive adherents of Trujillo in the Armed Forces, were kept in check. Otherwise, they would already have deposed the President. Perhaps Ramfis believed that with the concessions he granted Balaguer—the return of certain exiles, the appearance of timid criticism of the Trujillo regime on the radio and in the papers (the most belligerent, La Unión Cívica, was published for the first time in August), increasingly visible public meetings of opposition forces, the rightist National Civic Union of Viriato Fiallo and Ángel Severo Cabral, and the leftist June 14 Revolutionary Movement—he could have a political future. As if anyone named Trujillo could ever figure again in the public life of this nation! For the moment, best not to disabuse him of his error. Ramfis controlled the weapons and had the support of the military; shaking up the Armed Forces until Trujillism had been eradicated would take time. Relations between the government and the Church were excellent again; he sometimes had tea with the apostolic nuncio and Archbishop Pittini.
The problem that could not be resolved in a manner acceptable to international opinion was the question of “human rights.” There were daily protests on behalf of political prisoners, victims of torture, the disappeared, the murdered, at La Victoria, El Nueve, La Cuarenta, and prisons and garrisons in the interior. His office was inundated with manifestos, letters, telegrams, reports, diplomatic communications. He could not do much. Or, rather, anything, except make vague promises and look away. He kept his part of the bargain to give Ramfis a free hand. Even if he had wanted to, he could not have broken his word. The Generalissimo’s son had sent Doña María and Angelita to Europe, and tirelessly continued the search for accomplices, as if multitudes had taken part in the conspiracy to kill Trujillo. One day, the young general asked him point-blank:
“Do you know that Pedro Livio Cedeño tried to implicate you in the plot to kill Papa?”
“I am not surprised,” the impassive President said with a smile. “The best defense the assassins have is to compromise everyone. Especially those who were close to the Benefactor. The French call it ‘intoxication.’”
“If only one other assassin had corroborated it, you’d have suffered the same fate as Pupo Román.” Ramfis seemed sober despite the smell of alcohol on his breath. “Right now he’s cursing the day he was born.”
“I do not want to know about it, General,” Balaguer interrupted, holding up a tiny hand. “You have the moral right to avenge the crime. But do not give me any details, I beg you. It is easier to deal with the criticisms I receive from all around the world if I am not aware that the excesses they denounce are true.”
“All right. I’ll only inform you of the capture of Antonio Imbert and Luis Amiama, if we do capture them.” Balaguer saw his handsome actor’s face contort, as it always did whenever he mentioned the only two participants in the plot who were not imprisoned or dead. “Do you think they’re still in the country?”
“In my judgment, yes,” Balaguer