The Feast of the Goat (20 page)
“President Balaguer, you were one of the negotiators with Haiti following those events,” said Trujillo, continuing his survey. “How many were there?”
The small, gray figure of the President of the Republic, half swallowed up by his chair, stretched his benign head forward. After observing the gathering from behind his nearsighted man’s glasses, the soft, well-modulated voice emerged, the one that recited poems at poetry competitions, celebrated the crowning of Miss Dominican Republic (he was always the Royal Poet), made speeches to the crowds on Trujillo’s political tours, or expounded on the government’s policies in the National Assembly.
“The exact figure could never be determined, Excellency.” He spoke slowly, with a professorial air. “A prudent estimate is between ten and fifteen thousand. In our negotiations with the Haitian government, we agreed on a symbolic figure: 2,750. In this way, each affected family would, in theory, receive a hundred pesos of the 275,000 in cash paid by Your Excellency’s government as a gesture of goodwill and for the sake of Haitian-Dominican harmony. But, as you will remember, that is not what happened.”
He fell silent, a hint of a smile on his round little face narrowing the small, pale eyes behind his thick glasses.
“Why didn’t the compensation reach the families?” asked Simon Gittleman.
“Because the President of Haiti, Sténio Vincent, was a thief and kept the money.” Trujillo laughed. “Only 275,000? As I recall, we agreed on 750,000 to make them stop protesting.”
“That is true, Excellency,” Dr. Balaguer replied immediately, with the same calm, perfect diction, “750,000 pesos were agreed on, but only 275,000 in cash. The remaining half million was to be remitted in annual payments of 100,000 pesos over a period of five years. However, and I remember this quite clearly, I was interim Minister of Foreign Affairs at the time, and I and Don Anselmo Paulino, who advised me during the negotiations, imposed a clause according to which the payments were contingent upon the presentation, before an international tribunal, of the death certificates issued for the 2,750 recognized victims during the first two weeks of October 1937. Haiti never fulfilled this requirement. And consequently the Dominican Republic was exempted from paying the remaining sum. Reparations never went beyond the initial remittance. Your Excellency made the payment out of your own patrimony, so that it did not cost the Dominican state a cent.”
“A small amount to end a problem that might have wiped us out,” concluded Trujillo, who was serious now. “It’s true, some innocent people died. But we Dominicans recovered our sovereignty. Since then our relations with Haiti have been excellent, thank God.”
He wiped his lips and took a sip of water. They had begun to serve coffee and to offer liqueurs. He did not drink coffee, and never drank alcohol at lunch, except in San Cristóbal, on the Fundación Ranch or in Mahogany House, in the company of intimates. Along with the images his memory brought back of those bloody weeks in October 1937, when his office received reports of the horrifying dimensions the hunting down of Haitians had reached along the border and throughout the entire country, the hateful figure again appeared of that stupid, terrified girl watching his humiliation. He felt insulted.
“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 couple expressed their thanks to those present with smiles and nods.
“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 with Bishop Reilly going to end, Your Excellency?”
He made a contemptuous gesture:
“There is no trouble, Simon. The bishop has taken the side of our enemies. The people were angry, he became frightened, and he ran to hide behind the nuns at Santo Domingo Academy. What he’s doing there with so many women is his business. We’ve placed guards there so he won’t be lynched.”
“It would be good if this could be resolved soon,” the former Marine insisted. “In the United States, many ill-informed Catholics believe the statements made by Monsignor Reilly. That he’s being threatened, that he had to take refuge because of a campaign of intimidation, all the rest of it.”
“It’s not important, Simon. Everything will be straightened out and our relations with the Church will be excellent again. Don’t forget that my government has always been filled with devout Catholics, and that Pius XII awarded me the Great Cross of the Papal Order of St. Gregory.” And abruptly he changed the subject: “Did Petán take you to visit the Dominican Voice?”
“Of course,” replied Simon Gittleman; Dorothy nodded, with a broad smile.
The center that belonged to his brother, General José Arismendi (Petán) Trujillo, had begun twenty years earlier with a small radio station. The Voice of Yuna had grown into a formidable complex, the Dominican Voice, the first television station, the largest radio station, the best cabaret and musical theater on the island (Petán insisted it was the best in the Caribbean, but the Generalissimo knew it had not managed to unseat the Tropicana in Havana). The Gittlemans had been impressed by the magnificent facilities; Petán himself had been their guide, and he had them attend the rehearsal for the Mexican ballet that would perform tonight at the cabaret. Petán wasn’t a bad person if you dug deep enough; when the Benefactor needed him, he could always count on him and his picturesque private army, “the mountain fire beetles.” But, like his other brothers, he had done him more harm than good: because of him and a stupid fight, he had been forced to intervene, and, to maintain the principle of authority, eliminate that magnificent giant—and his classmate at the Haina Officers’ Training School besides—General Vázquez Rivera. One of his best officers—a Marine, damn it—who had always served him loyally. But the family, even if it was a family of parasites, failures, fools, and scoundrels, came before friendship and political gain: this was a sacred commandment in his catalogue of honor. Without abandoning his own line of thought, the Generalissimo listened to Simon Gittleman telling him how surprised he had been to see the photographs of film, show business, and radio celebrities from all over the Americas who had come to the Dominican Voice. Petán had them displayed on the walls of his office: Los Panchos, Libertad Lamarque, Pedro Vargas, Ima Súmac, Pedro Infante, Celia Cruz, Toña la Negra, Olga Guillot, María Luisa Landín, Boby Capó, Tintán and his brother Marcelo. Trujillo smiled: what Simon didn’t know was that Petán, besides brightening the Dominican night with the stars he brought in, also wanted to fuck them, the way he fucked all the girls, single or married, in his small empire of Bonao. The Generalissimo let him do what he wanted there as long as he didn’t go too far in Ciudad Trujillo. But that crazy prick Petán sometimes fucked around in the capital, convinced that the performers hired by the Dominican Voice were obliged to go to bed with him if he wanted them to. Sometimes he was successful; other times, there was a scandal, and he—he was always the one—had to put out the fire, making a millionaire’s gifts to artists who had been offended by that moronic delinquent; Petán had no manners with ladies. Ima Súmac, for example, an Incan princess with an American passport. Petán’s brashness forced the intervention of the ambassador of the United States. And the Benefactor, distilling bile, paid damages to the Incan princess and obliged his brother to apologize. The Benefactor sighed. With the time he had wasted filling in the deep holes that opened before the feet of his horde of relatives, he could have built a second country.