The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [69]
The senator consulted his notebook, bringing it close to his eyes. He adopted a tragicomic expression.
“There’s a paradoxical situation in the United States. What shall we do with our so-called friends? The congressmen, politicians, and lobbyists who receive stipends for defending our country. Manuel Alfonso kept them up until he got sick. After that, they stopped. Some people have made discreet requests for payment.”
“Who ordered them to be suspended?”
“Nobody, Chief. It’s a good question. The accounts dedicated to that purpose, in New York, are dwindling too. They can’t be added to, given the circumstances. It comes to several million pesos a month. Will you continue to be so generous with gringos who can’t help us lift the sanctions?”
“I always knew they were leeches.” The Generalissimo made a contemptuous gesture. “But they’re also our only hope. If the political situation changes in the United States, they can use their influence to have the sanctions eased or lifted. And, in the short term, they can get Washington to at least pay us for the sugar already received.”
Chirinos did not look hopeful. He shook his head solemnly.
“Even if the United States agreed to hand over what they’ve held back, it wouldn’t do much good, Chief. What’s twenty-two million dollars? Money for basic investment and the importation of crucial commodities for just a few weeks. But if you’ve made up your mind, I’ll inform Consuls Mercado and Morales to resume payments to those parasites. By the way, Chief. The funds in New York might be frozen. If the proposal of three members of the Democratic Party is successful, they’ll freeze the accounts of nonresident Dominicans in the United States. I know they appear as corporate accounts at Chase Manhattan and Chemical. But suppose the banks don’t respect our confidentiality? Allow me to suggest that we transfer them to a country that’s more secure. Canada, for example, or Switzerland.”
The Generalissimo felt a hollow in his stomach. It wasn’t anger that produced acid, it was disappointment. In the course of his long life, he had never wasted time licking his wounds, but what was happening now with the United States, the country to whom his regime had always given its vote at the UN no matter why it was needed, that really upset him. What had been the point of giving a royal welcome and a medal to every Yankee who set foot on the island?
“It’s hard to understand the gringos,” he murmured. “I can’t get it into my head that they’re treating me this way.”
“I never trusted those jerks,” echoed the Walking Turd. “They’re all alike. You can’t even say that this harassment is Eisenhower’s fault. Kennedy is hounding us too.”
Trujillo pulled himself together—“Back to work, damn it,” he thought—and changed the subject again.
“Abbes García has everything ready to get that bastard Bishop Reilly out from behind the nuns’ skirts,” he said. “He has two proposals. Deport him, or have the people lynch him and teach a lesson to plotting priests. Which do you prefer?”
“Neither one, Chief.” Senator Chirinos recovered his self-assurance. “You know my opinion. We have to soften the conflict. The Church is two thousand years old, and nobody has ever defeated it. Look at what happened to Perón when he challenged it.”
“He told me that himself, sitting right where you are now,” Trujillo acknowledged. “Is that your advice? To bend over for those sons of bitches?”
“You should corrupt them with gifts and concessions, Chief,” explained the Constitutional Sot. “Or maybe scare them, but don’t do anything irreparable, and leave the door open for a reconciliation. What Johnny Abbes proposes would be suicide. Kennedy would send the Marines in a heartbeat. That’s my opinion. You’ll make the decision, and it will be the right one. I’ll defend it with pen and tongue. As always.”
The poetic flights that the Walking Turd was prone to amused the Benefactor. This latest one pulled him out of the dejection that was beginning to get the better of him.
“I