The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [98]
“Kennedy won’t send in the Marines, Simon,” said the Generalissimo, when the echoes of the toast died down. “I don’t think he’s that stupid. But if he does, the United States will suffer its second Bay of Pigs. Our Armed Forces are more modern than Castro’s. And here, with me leading them, they will fight to the last Dominican.”
He closed his eyes, wondering if his memory would allow him to recall the citation exactly. Yes, he had it, it came to him, complete, from the commemoration of the twenty-ninth anniversary of his first election. He recited it, and was listened to in reverential silence:
“ ‘Whatever surprises the future may hold in store for us, we can be certain that the world may see Trujillo dead, but not a fugitive like Batista, an escapee like Pérez Jiménez, or a prisoner before the bar like Rojas Pinilla. The Dominican statesman follows a different ethic and comes from a different lineage.’”
He opened his eyes and sent a pleased gaze around the table, and his guests, after listening to the citation with great attention, made gestures of approval.
“Who wrote the words I’ve just quoted?” asked the Benefactor.
They examined each other, looking around with curiosity, misgiving, alarm. Finally, their eyes converged on the amiable round face, abashed by modesty, of the diminutive writer upon whom the first magistracy of the Republic had fallen when Trujillo forced his brother Blacky to resign in the vain hope of avoiding the OAS sanctions.
“I marvel at the memory of Your Excellency,” Joaquín Balaguer whispered, displaying excessive humility, as if stunned by the honor being shown him. “It makes me proud that you remember a modest speech of mine delivered on the third of August last.”
Behind his lashes, the Generalissimo observed how the faces of Virgilio Álvarez Pina, the Walking Turd, Paíno Pichardo, and all the generals contorted with envy. They were suffering. They were thinking that the timid, discreet poet, the shy professor and jurist, had just won a few points in their eternal competition to receive the favors of the Chief, to be recognized, mentioned, chosen, distinguished over the rest. He felt tenderness for his diligent scions, whom he had maintained for thirty years in a state of perpetual insecurity.
“Those are not mere words, Simon,” the Benefactor affirmed. “Trujillo is not one of those leaders who abandon power when the bullets fly. I learned what honor is at your side, in the Marines. I learned that one is a man of honor at every moment. And men of honor don’t run. They fight, and if they have to die, they die fighting. Not Kennedy or the OAS, not Betancourt the repulsive black faggot or Fidel Castro the Communist, none of them is going to make Trujillo run from the country that owes everything it is to him.”
The Constitutional Sot began to clap, but when many hands were lifted to follow suit, Trujillo’s gaze cut short the applause.
“Do you know what the difference is between those cowards and me, Simon?” he continued, looking into the eyes of his old instructor. “I was trained in the Marine Corps of the United States of America. I’ve never forgotten it. You taught me, in Haina and in San Pedro de Macorís. Do you remember? Those of us from that first class of the Dominican National Police are made of iron. Rancorous people said DNP stood for ‘Dominican Niggers Panic.’ The truth is, that class of men changed the country, they created it. I’m not surprised at what you’re doing for this nation. Because you’re a real Marine, like me. A loyal man. Who dies without bowing his head, looking at the sky, like Arabian horses. Simon, no matter how badly your country behaves, I bear it no grudge. Because I owe what I am to the Marines.”
“One day the United States will regret being ungrateful to its Caribbean partner and friend.”
Trujillo took a few sips of water. Conversations resumed. The waiters offered more coffee, more cognac and other liqueurs, cigars. The Generalissimo listened to Simon Gittleman again:
“How is this trouble