The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [97]
“Where is Senator Agustín Cabral, the famous Egghead?” Simon Gittleman gestured toward the Constitutional Sot: “I see Senator Chirinos but not his inseparable partner. What happened to him?”
The silence lasted many seconds. The diners raised their little cups of coffee to their mouths, sipped, and looked at the tablecloth, the floral arrangements, the crystal, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“He is no longer a senator and he does not set foot in this Palace,” the Generalissimo declaimed with the slowness characteristic of his cold rages. “He is alive, but as far as this regime is concerned, he has ceased to exist.”
The former Marine was uncomfortable as he drained his glass of cognac. He must be close to eighty years old, the Generalissimo estimated. He carried his years magnificently: he kept himself erect and slim, with thinning hair in a crew cut, not an ounce of fat or loose skin on his neck, energetic in his gestures and movements. The web of fine wrinkles that surrounded his eyelids and extended down his weather-beaten face betrayed his age. He grimaced and tried to change the subject.
“How did Your Excellency feel when you gave the order to eliminate thousands of illegal Haitians?”
“Ask your former President Truman how he felt when he gave the order to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Then you’ll know what I felt that night in Dajabón.”
Everyone celebrated the Generalissimo’s sally. The tension provoked by the former Marine when he mentioned Agustín Cabral was dissipated. Now it was Trujillo who steered the conversation in another direction.
“A month ago, the United States suffered a defeat at the Bay of Pigs. The Communist Fidel Castro captured hundreds of men. What consequences will it have in the Caribbean, Simon?”
“That expedition of Cuban patriots was betrayed by President Kennedy,” he murmured sorrowfully. “They were sent to the slaughterhouse. The White House prohibited the air cover and artillery support they had been promised. The Communists used them for target practice. But, if you’ll permit me, Your Excellency. I was glad it happened. It will be a lesson to Kennedy, whose government is infiltrated by fellow travelers. Maybe he’ll decide to get rid of them. The White House won’t want another failure like the Bay of Pigs. Which reduces the danger of his sending Marines to the Dominican Republic.”
As he said these final words, the former Marine became emotional and made a noticeable effort to maintain his self-control. Trujillo was surprised: had his old instructor from Haina been on the verge of tears at the idea of a landing by his comrades in arms to overthrow the Dominican regime?
“Excuse my weakness, Your Excellency,” Simon Gittleman murmured, regaining his composure. “You know I love this country as if it were my own.”
“This country is yours, Simon,” said Trujillo.
“The idea that because of leftist influences, Washington might send Marines to fight the government that is the United States’ best friend, seems diabolical to me. That is why I spend time and money trying to open my countrymen’s eyes. That is why Dorothy and I have come to Ciudad Trujillo, to fight alongside Dominicans if the Marines land.”
A burst of applause that made the plates, glasses, and silverware resound greeted the Marine’s impassioned speech. Dorothy smiled, nodding in solidarity with her husband.
“Your voice, Mr. Simon Gittleman, is the true voice of the United States,” the Constitutional Sot said in exaltation, firing a salvo of saliva. “A toast to this friend, this man of honor. To Simon Gittleman, gentlemen!”
“One moment.” The thin, high-pitched voice of Trujillo ripped the fervent atmosphere into shreds. The other guests looked at him, disconcerted, and Chirinos remained holding his glass in the air. “To our friends, our sister and brother, Dorothy and Simon Gittleman!”
Overwhelmed, the