The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [211]
The next day, on his way to the Palace, he read on the inside pages of El Caribe about the flight of “Trujillo’s assassins, after treacherously taking the lives of the three guards who were escorting them back to La Victoria.” Still, the scandal he feared did not occur; it was dimmed by other events. At ten in the morning, the door of his office was kicked open. Submachine gun in hand, and with clusters of grenades and revolvers at his waist, General Petán Trujillo burst into the room, followed by his brother Héctor, also dressed as a general, and twenty-seven armed men from his personal guard, whose faces looked not only thuggish but drunk. The revulsion this ill-mannered mob produced in him was stronger than his fear.
“I cannot offer you seats, I do not have that many chairs, forgive me,” the small President apologized, sitting very straight. He seemed composed, and there was an urbane smile on his round little face.
“The moment of truth has arrived, Balaguer,” roared the savage Petán, spraying saliva. He flourished his submachine gun in a menacing way, and waved it in the President’s face. He did not draw back. “Enough bullshit and hypocrisy. Just like Ramfis finished off those sons of bitches yesterday, we’re going to finish off the ones still walking around free. Beginning with the Judases, you treacherous dwarf!”
This vulgar imbecile was also drunk. Balaguer hid his indignation and apprehension with complete self-control. Calmly, he indicated the window:
“I ask you to accompany me, General Petán.” Then he spoke to Héctor. “You too, please.”
He walked to the window and pointed at the ocean. It was a brilliant morning. Facing the coastline one could see very clearly, gleaming in the sun, the silhouettes of three American warships. Their names were not visible, but one certainly could admire the long cannons on the Little Rock, a cruiser equipped with missiles, and on the aircraft carriers Valley Forge and Franklin D. Roosevelt, all aimed at the city.
“They are waiting for you to take power to begin firing,” said the President, very slowly. “They are waiting for you to give them an excuse to invade us again. Do you want to go down in history as the Dominicans who allowed a second Yankee occupation of the Republic? If that is what you want, shoot and make me a hero. My successor will not sit in this chair for even an hour.”
Since they had permitted him to say what he had said, he told himself, it was unlikely they would kill him. Petán and Blacky were whispering, talking at the same time and not understanding a word. The thugs and bodyguards looked at one another in confusion. Finally, Petán ordered his men to leave. When he found himself alone in the office with the two brothers, he concluded he had won the game. They sat down in front of him. Poor devils! How uncomfortable they looked! They did not know where to begin. He had to make the task easier for them.
“The country is waiting for a gesture from you,” he said amiably. “Hoping you will act with the generosity and patriotism of General Ramfis. Your nephew has left the country in the interest of peace.”
Petán, ill-humored and direct, interrupted him:
“It’s very easy to be a patriot when you have millions overseas and the properties Ramfis owns. But me and Blacky don’t have houses outside the country, or stocks, or bank accounts. All we own is here, in this country. We were the only assholes who obeyed the Chief when he prohibited taking money overseas. Is that fair? We’re not idiots, Mr. Balaguer. All the lands and goods we have here they’re going to confiscate.”
He felt relieved.
“That can be remedied, gentlemen,” he reassured them. “Of course it can. A magnanimous gesture such as the one the Nation asks of you must be compensated.”
From this moment on, it was nothing but a tedious financial negotiation, which confirmed for the President the contempt he