The Feast of the Goat (14 page)

“But, it’s true, not all the Trujillos are like me.” The Benefactor eased the tension with a disillusioned expression. “My brothers, my wife, my children, none of them has the passion for this country that I do. They’re a greedy bunch. Worst of all, these days they waste my time, forcing me to make sure they don’t ignore my orders.”

He adopted the belligerent, direct gaze he used to intimidate people. The Walking Turd shrank into his seat.

“Ah, I see, one of them has disobeyed,” he murmured.

Senator Henry Chirinos nodded, not daring to speak.

“Did they try to take out currency again?” he asked, his voice turning cold. “Who was it? The old woman?”

The flabby face, dripping with perspiration, nodded again, as if against its will.

“She called me aside last night, during the poetic soiree.” He hesitated and thinned his voice until he had almost extinguished it. “She said she was thinking about you, not about herself or the children. To make sure you have a peaceful old age, if something happens. I’m sure it’s true, Chief. She adores you.”

“What did she want?”

“Another transfer to Switzerland.” The senator choked up. “Only a million this time.”

“I hope for your sake you didn’t go along with it,” Trujillo said dryly.

“I didn’t,” stammered Chirinos, his apprehension deforming his words, his body shaken by a light tremor. “The captain gives the orders, not the soldier. And with all the respect and devotion Doña María deserves, my first loyalty is to you. This is a very delicate situation for me, Chief. Because of my refusals, I’m losing Doña María’s friendship. For the second time in a week I’ve had to turn down a request of hers.”

Was the Bountiful First Lady another one who thought the regime would collapse? Four months ago she had told Chirinos to transfer five million dollars to Switzerland; now it was another million. She thought that any day now they would have to run, that they needed hefty overseas accounts to enjoy a golden exile. Like Pérez Jiménez, Batista, Rojas Pinilla, or Perón, that trash. The old miser. As if their backs weren’t more than covered. For her, it was never enough. She had been greedy when she was young, and had gotten worse with age. Was she going to take those accounts with her to the next world? It was the one area in which she dared to defy her husband’s authority. Twice this week. She was plotting behind his back, that was it, pure and simple. That was how she bought the house in Spain, without Trujillo’s knowing anything about it, after their official visit to Franco in 1954. That was how she opened and fed numbered accounts in Switzerland and New York, which he learned about eventually, sometimes by accident. In the past, he hadn’t paid much attention to it, limiting himself to cursing her a few times and then shrugging his shoulders at the whims of an old, menopausal woman to whom, because she was his legitimate wife, he owed some consideration. Now, it was different. He had given categorical orders that no Dominican, including the Trujillo family, could take a single peso out of the country as long as the sanctions were in effect. He was not going to allow the rats to flee, trying to escape a ship that really would sink if the entire crew, beginning with the officers and the captain, ran away. No, damn it. Relatives, friends, enemies—they all stayed here, with everything they owned, to fight or leave their bones on the field of honor. Like the Marines, damn it. Stupid old bitch! How much better it would have been if he had left her and married one of the magnificent women he had held in his arms; the beautiful, docile Lina Lovatón, for example; he had sacrificed her, too, for this ungrateful country. He’d have to tell off the Bountiful First Lady this afternoon, remind her that Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina wasn’t Batista, or that pig Pérez Jiménez, or that hypocrite Rojas Pinilla, or even the slick-haired General Perón. He wasn’t going to spend his last years as a retired statesman overseas. He’d live until his final moment in this country, which, thanks to him, had stopped being a tribe, a mob, a caricature, and become a Republic.

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. “Leave your proposal with me, I’ll study it. Anything else that’s urgent?”

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 know,” he said with a smile. “You’re loyal and that’s why I appreciate you. Tell me, confidentially. How much do you have overseas in case you need to get out right away?”

For the third time the senator became agitated, as if his seat had turned into a bucking horse.

“Very little, Chief. Well, relatively speaking, I mean.”

“How much?” Trujillo insisted, affectionately. “And where?”

“About four hundred thousand dollars,” he admitted rapidly, lowering his voice. “In two separate accounts. In Panama. Opened before the sanctions, of course.”

“That’s peanuts,” Trujillo admonished him. “With the posts you’ve held, you should have been able to save more.”

“I’m not a saver, Chief. Besides, you know I never cared about money. I’ve always had all I needed to live.”

“To drink, you mean.”

“To dress well, to eat well, to drink well, and to buy the books I want,” the senator agreed, looking at the ceiling and the crystal lamp in the office. “Thank God, with you I’ve always had interesting work to do. Should I repatriate that money? I’ll do it today if you tell me to.”

“Leave it where it is. If I need a hand when I’m in exile, you can help me out.”

He laughed, in good humor. But as he laughed he suddenly recalled the scared little girl at Mahogany House, a compromising, accusatory witness who ruined his mood. It would have been better to shoot her, hand her over to the guards, let them raffle her off, or share her. The memory of that stupid little face watching him suffer reached all the way into his soul.

“Who’s taken the most precautions?” he asked, hiding his distress. “Who has the most money overseas? Paíno Pichardo? Alvarez Pina? Egghead Cabral? Modesto Díaz? Balaguer? Who’s accumulated the most? Because none of you believed me when I said the only way I’d leave here was in a coffin.”

“I don’t know, Chief. But if you’ll permit me, I doubt that any of them has much money outside the country. For a very simple reason. Nobody ever thought the regime could end, that we’d find ourselves obliged to leave. Who would ever think that one day the earth could stop moving around the sun?”