The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [68]
He noticed that the Constitutional Sot was still trembling. Foam had gathered at the corners of his mouth. His little eyes, behind the two lumps of fat that were his eyelids, opened and closed frantically.
“There’s something else. What is it?”
“Last week, I reported that we had managed to avoid their blocking the payment from Lloyds of London for sugar sold in Great Britain and the Netherlands. Not too much. About seven million dollars, of which four go to your enterprises and the rest to the Vicini mills and the Romana Plantation. Following your instructions, I asked Lloyds to transfer those monies to the Central Bank. This morning they indicated that the order had been countermanded.”
“Who countermanded it?”
“General Ramfis, Chief. He telegraphed a request that the entire amount be sent to Paris.”
“And Lloyds of London is full of dumb shits who follow counterorders from Ramfis?”
The Generalissimo spoke slowly, making an effort not to explode. This stupid crap was taking up too much of his time. And besides, it hurt him to have all his family’s defects laid bare in front of strangers, no matter how trusted they were.
“They haven’t processed General Ramfis’s request yet, Chief. They’re confused, that’s why they called me. I reiterated that the money should be sent to the Central Bank. But, since General Ramfis has your authorization and has withdrawn funds on other occasions, it would be a good idea to let Lloyds know that there was a misunderstanding. A question of appearances, Chief.”
“Call him and tell him to apologize to Lloyds. Today.”
Chirinos shifted uneasily in his seat.
“If you order me to, I’ll do it,” he whispered. “But allow me to make a request, Chief. From your old friend. From the most faithful of your servants. I’ve already earned the ill will of Doña María. Don’t turn me into your older son’s enemy too.”
The discomfort he felt was so visible that Trujillo smiled.
“Call him, don’t be afraid. I won’t the yet. I’m going to live ten more years and complete my work. It’s the time I need. And you’ll stay with me, until the last day. You’re ugly, drunk, and dirty, but you’re one of my best collaborators.” He paused, and looking at the Walking Turd as tenderly as a beggar looking at his mangy dog, added something extraordinary, coming from him: “I only wish one of my brothers or sons was worth as much as you, Henry.”
The senator was overwhelmed and did not know how to respond.
“What you have said compensates for all my sleepless nights,” he stammered, bending his head.
“You’re lucky you never married, that you don’t have a family,” Trujillo continued. “You must have thought it was a misfortune not to have any children. Bullshit! The great mistake of my life has been my family. My brothers, my own wife, my children. Have you ever seen disasters like them? Their only horizon is booze, pesos, and fucking. Is there one of them capable of continuing my work? Isn’t it a shame that at a time like this, Ramfis and Radhamés are playing polo in Paris instead of standing at my side?”
Chirinos listened with downcast eyes, not moving, his face somber, expressing solidarity, not saying a word, undoubtedly afraid of compromising his future if he let slip a remark against the Chief’s sons and brothers. It was unusual for the Generalissimo to give himself over to such bitter reflections; he never talked about his family, not even to intimates, and certainly not in such harsh terms.
“The order stands,” he said, changing his tone and the subject at the same time. “Nobody, least of all a Trujillo, takes money out of the country while the sanctions are in effect.”
“Understood, Chief. In fact, even if they wanted to they couldn’t. Unless they carry out their dollars in suitcases, there are no transactions with foreign countries. Financial activity is at a standstill. Tourism has disappeared. Our reserves are dwindling every day. Do you flatly reject the State’s taking over some enterprises? Not even the ones in the worst shape?”
“We’ll see.” Trujillo yielded slightly.