The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [213]
“The caliés took away Manuel this morning, not long after you left his house,” said an extremely agitated Gladys de los Santos. “Sooner or later they’ll get it out of him that you’re here. You have to go, right away.”
Yes, but where? Gladys had passed by the Imberts’ house, and the street was crawling with guards and caliés; no doubt about it, they had arrested his wife and daughter. It seemed as if invisible hands were beginning to tighten around his throat. He hid his anguish so as not to increase the terror of Dr. De los Santos, who was a changed woman, so perturbed she could not stop blinking her eyes.
“There are caliés in Beetles and trucks full of guards everywhere,” she said. “They’re searching cars, asking everybody for papers, going into houses.”
Nothing had been reported yet on television or radio, or in the papers, but rumors were flying. The human tom-tom was sending the news all over the city that Trujillo had been killed. People were frightened and confused about what might happen. For close to an hour he racked his brain: where could he go? He had to leave now. He thanked Dr. De los Santos for her help and went out, his hand on the pistol in his right trouser pocket. He walked for some time, in no particular direction, until he thought of his dentist, Dr. Camilo Suero, who lived near the Military Hospital. Camilo and his wife, Alfonsina, let him in. They could not hide him, but did help him go over other possibilities. And then the image came into his mind of Francisco Rainieri, an old friend, the son of an Italian, and an ambassador of the Order of Malta; Francisco’s wife, Venecia, and his wife, Guarina, had tea together and played canasta. Perhaps the diplomat could help him seek asylum in one of the legations. Taking every precaution, he called the Rainieris’ residence and passed the receiver to Alfonsina, who pretended to be Guarina Tessón, the maiden name of Imbert’s wife. She asked to speak to Queco. He came to the phone immediately, and she was startled by his extremely cordial greeting:
“How are you, my dear Guarina? I’m delighted to hear from you. You’re calling about tonight, aren’t you? Don’t worry. I’ll send the car for you. At seven sharp, if that’s all right. Just give me your address again, all right?”
“Either he’s a mind reader or he’s gone crazy or I don’t know what,” said Alfonsina when she hung up the receiver.
“And now, what do we do until seven o’clock, Alfonsina?”
“Pray to Our Lady of Altagracia,” she said, and crossed herself. “If the caliés come, just use your gun.”
At exactly seven a shiny blue Buick, with diplomatic plates, stopped at the door. Francisco Rainieri was at the wheel. He pulled away as soon as Antonio Imbert sat down beside him.
“I knew the message was from you because Guarina and your daughter are at my house,” said Rainieri by way of greeting. “There aren’t two women named Guarina Tessón in Ciudad Trujillo, it could only have been you.”
He was very calm, even cheerful, wearing a freshly ironed guayabera and smelling of lavender water. He drove Imbert to a distant house, along remote streets, taking a huge detour because there were roadblocks along the main streets where vehicles were stopped and searched. Less than an hour had passed since the official announcement of Trujillo’s death. The atmosphere was heavy with apprehension, as if everyone were expecting an explosion. Elegant as always, the ambassador did not ask a single question regarding Trujillo’s assassination or the other conspirators. Very casually, as if he were talking about the next tennis championship at the Country Club, he remarked:
“With things the way they are, it’s unthinkable that any embassy would give you asylum. And it wouldn’t do much good. The government, if there