The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [95]
“I came to make a report to the head of my regiment, Excellency,” General Román said in confusion, after a silence during which his memory struggled to identify that long-ago episode. “Last night a gang of Haitian criminals slipped across the border. Early this morning they attacked three farms in Capotillo and Parolí and stole all the cattle. And left three men dead.”
“You risked your career, appearing before me in that condition,” the Generalissimo reproached him with retroactive irritation. “All right. It’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. The Ministers of War and Government, and all the military present, come here. The rest of you, please step aside.”
He had raised his thin, piercing voice to a hysterical pitch, as he used to when he gave instructions in the barracks. He was obeyed immediately, in the midst of voices buzzing like wasps. The military formed a dense circle around him; gentlemen and ladies withdrew to the walls, leaving an empty space in the center of the room decorated with streamers, paper flowers, and little Dominican flags. A resolute President Trujillo gave the order:
“Beginning at midnight, the forces of the Army and the police will proceed to exterminate without mercy every person of Haitian nationality who is in Dominican territory illegally, except for those on the sugar plantations.” He cleared his throat and his gray gaze moved around the circle of officers: “Is that clear?”
The heads nodded, some with an expression of surprise, others with glints of savage joy in their eyes. They clicked their heels when they left.
“Head of the Dajabón Regiment: detain and put on bread and water the officer who presented himself here in that disgraceful condition. Let the party continue. Enjoy yourselves!”
On Simon Gittleman’s face, admiration mixed with nostalgia.
“His Excellency never hesitated when it was time to act,” said the former Marine to the entire table. “I had the honor of training him at the school in Haina. From the first moment I knew he would go far. But I never imagined it would be this far.”
He laughed, and amiable chuckles echoed him.
“They never trembled,” Trujillo repeated, displaying his hands again. “Because I gave the order to kill only when it was absolutely necessary for the good of the country.”
“I read somewhere, Your Excellency, that you ordered the soldiers to use machetes, not guns. Was that to save ammunition?” Simon Gittleman asked.
“To sugarcoat the pill, anticipating international reaction,” Trujillo corrected him slyly. “If they only used machetes, the operation could appear to be a spontaneous action by campesinos, without government intervention. We Dominicans are lavish, we’ve never skimped on anything, least of all ammunition.”
The entire table celebrated the witticism with laughter. Simon Gittleman as well. But then he returned to the same subject.
“Is it true about the parsley, Your Excellency? That to distinguish Dominicans from Haitians you made all the blacks say perejil? And the ones who couldn’t pronounce it properly had their heads cut off?”
“I’ve heard that story.” Trujillo shrugged. “It’s just idle gossip.”
He lowered his head, as if a profound thought suddenly demanded a great effort of concentration. It hadn’t happened; his eyes were still sharp and they did not detect the telltale stain on his fly or between his legs. He gave a friendly smile to the former Marine:
“Like the stories about the number of dead,” he said mockingly. “Ask the people sitting at this table and you’ll hear all kinds of figures. For example, you, Senator, how many were there?”
Henry Chirinos’s dark face came to attention, swelling with satisfaction at being the first one the Chief asked.
“Difficult to know.” He gestured, as he did when giving speeches. “It has been greatly exaggerated. Between five and eight thousand, at most.”
“General Arredondo, you were in Independencia at the time, cutting throats. How many?”
“About twenty thousand, Excellency,” replied the obese General Arredondo, who looked caged inside his