The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [207]
For a long time, Ramfis did not reply. Was he drunk? On drugs? Was it one of those mental crises that brought him to the brink of madness? With large bluish shadows around his blazing, restless eyes, he was grimacing in a strange way.
“I explained to you what I would do,” Balaguer added. “I have strictly abided by our agreement. You approved my project. But, of course, what I told you then still stands. If you prefer to take the reins, you do not need to bring in tanks from San Isidro. I will give you my resignation right now.”
Ramfis gave him a long look filled with ennui.
“Everybody’s asking me to do it,” he murmured without enthusiasm. “My uncles, the regional commanders, the military, my cousins, Papa’s friends. But I don’t want to sit where you’re sitting. I don’t want the job, Dr. Balaguer. Why would I? So they can repay me the way they did him?”
He fell silent, profoundly dejected.
“So then, General, if you do not want power, help me to exercise it.”
“More than I already have?” Ramfis asked mockingly. “If it weren’t for me, my uncles would have taken you out and shot you a long time ago.”
“It is not enough,” Balaguer said. “You see the turmoil in the streets. The meetings of the Civic Union and June 14 grow more violent every day. This will get worse if we do not gain the upper hand.”
The color returned to the face of the Generalissimo’s son. He waited, his head craned forward, as if wondering whether the President would dare to request the thing he suspected he wanted.
“Your uncles have to leave,” Dr. Balaguer said softly. “As long as they are here, neither the international community nor public opinion will have faith in the change. Only you can convince them.”
Was he going to insult him? Ramfis looked at him in astonishment, as if he could not believe what he had heard. There was another long pause.
“Are you going to ask me to leave too, leave this country that Papa made, so that people will swallow all the bullshit about a new era?”
Balaguer waited several seconds.
“Yes, you too,” he murmured, his heart in his mouth. “You too. Not yet. After you arrange for your uncles to leave. After you help me consolidate the government and make the Armed Forces understand that Trujillo is no longer here. This is not news to you, General. You always knew. Knew that the best thing for you, your family, and your friends, is for this project to move forward. With the Civic Union or June 14 in power, it would be worse.”
He did not pull out his revolver, he did not spit at him. He turned pale again and made that lunatic face. He lit a cigarette and exhaled several times, watching the smoke disappear.
“I would have left a long time ago, left this country of assholes and ingrates,” he muttered. “If I had found Amiama and Imbert, I wouldn’t be here. They’re the only ones missing. Once I keep the promise I made to Papa, I’ll go.”
The President informed him that he had authorized the return from exile of Juan Bosch and his colleagues from the Dominican Revolutionary Party, the PRD. It seemed to him that the general did not listen to his argument that Bosch and the PRD would become involved in a fierce struggle with the Civic Union and June 14 for leadership of the anti-Trujillista movement. And would, in this way, perform a service for the government. Because the real danger lay in the gentlemen of the Civic Union, people of wealth, conservatives with influence in the United States, such as Severo Cabral; Juan Bosch knew this, and would do everything reasonable—and perhaps some unreasonable things too—to block access to the government of so powerful a rival.
There were some two hundred real or supposed accomplices to the conspiracy remaining in La Victoria, and once the Trujillos had gone, it would be a good idea to grant them amnesty. But Balaguer knew that Trujillo’s son would never allow the executioners who were still alive to go free. He would vent his rage on them, as he had with General Román, whom he tortured for four months before announcing