The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [38]
“General Díaz refused to follow an order of mine and permitted himself to reprimand an officer who was carrying it out,” he said slowly, scornfully. “At the height of the invasion. When our enemies, armed by Fidel Castro, by Muñoz Marín, Betancourt and Figueres, that envious mob, had rudilessly landed and murdered Dominican soldiers, determined to have the heads of every one of us sitting at this table. That was when the military commander of La Vega discovered he was a compassionate man. A delicate man, an enemy of violent passions, who could not bear to watch the shedding of blood. And he permitted himself to disregard my order to shoot in the field every invader captured with a gun in his hand. And to insult an officer who, respectful of the chain of command, gave their just deserts to those who came here to install a Communist dictatorship. The general permitted himself, in that time of danger for the Fatherland, to sow confusion and weaken the morale of our soldiers. That is why he is no longer part of the Army, even though he still puts on the uniform.”
He stopped speaking in order to take a drink of water. But as soon as he had, instead of continuing, he stood abruptly and took his leave, bringing the luncheon to an end: “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Juan Tomás didn’t try to leave, because he knew he wouldn’t have reached the door alive,” said Trujillo. “Well, what conspiracy is he involved in?”
Nothing very concrete, really. For some time, at his house in Gazcue, General Díaz and his wife, Chana, had been receiving many visitors. The pretext was seeing movies, shown outdoors in the courtyard, with a projector run by the general’s son-in-law. Those attending were a strange mixture. From well-known men in the regime, like the host’s father-in-law and brother, Modesto Díaz Quesada, to former officials who were distant from the government, like Amiama Tió and Antonio de la Maza. Colonel Abbes García had made one of the servants a calié a few months ago. But the only thing he found out was that the gentlemen talked constantly while they watched the films, as if they were interested in the movies only because they could muffle their conversations. In short, these weren’t the kinds of meetings where bad things were said about the regime between drinks of rum or whiskey, the kind worth keeping in mind. Except that yesterday, General Díaz had a secret meeting with an emissary of Henry Dearborn, the supposed Yankee diplomat who, as Your Excellency knows, is the head of the CIA in Ciudad Trujillo.
“He probably asked a million dollars for my head,” Trujillo remarked. “The gringo must be dizzy with so many shiteaters asking for financial aid to finish me off. Where did they meet?”
“In the Hotel El Embajador, Excellency.”
The Benefactor thought for a moment. Would Juan Tomás be capable of organizing something serious? Twenty years ago, maybe. He was a man of action back then. But he had become a pleasure seeker. He liked drinking and cockfights too much, and eating, having a good time with his friends, getting married and unmarried—he wouldn’t risk it all trying to overthrow him. The gringos were leaning on a weak branch. Bah, there was nothing to worry about.
“I agree, Excellency, for the moment I think General Díaz presents no danger. I’m following his every move. We know who visits him and who he visits. His telephone is tapped.”
Was there anything else? The Benefactor glanced at the window: it was still dark, even though it would soon be six o’clock. But it was no longer silent. In the distance, along the periphery of the National Palace, separated from the street by a vast expanse of lawn and trees and surrounded by a high spiked fence, an occasional car passed, blowing its horn, and inside the building he could