The Feast of the Goat (35 page)

“The mess with those shiteating priests,” Trujillo grumbled. “Does it have a solution or not?”

“Of course it does, Chief.” Modesto’s tongue protruded; along with his forehead and neck, his bald head dripped perspiration. “But, if you’ll permit me, the problems with the Church don’t matter. They’ll take care of themselves if the main issue is resolved: the gringos. Everything depends on them.”

“Then there is no solution. Kennedy wants my head. Since I have no intention of giving it to him, we’ll be at war for a long time.”

“It isn’t you the gringos are afraid of, Chief, but Castro. Especially after the disaster at the Bay of Pigs. Now more than ever they’re terrified that Communism will spread through Latin America. This is the moment to show them that the best defense in the region against the Reds is you, not Betancourt or Figueres.”

“They’ve had enough time to realize that, Modesto.”

“You have to open their eyes, Chief. The gringos are slow sometimes. It’s not enough to attack Betancourt, Figueres, or Muñoz Marín. It would be more effective to give some very discreet help to the Venezuelan and Costa Rican Communists. And the Puerto Rican independence movement. When Kennedy sees guerrillas beginning to disrupt those countries, and compares that to the peace and quiet we have here, he’ll get the idea.”

“We’ll talk later.” The Generalissimo cut him off abruptly.

Hearing him talk about things in the past had a bad effect on him. No gloomy thoughts. He wanted to maintain the good mood he had when he started his walk. He forced himself to think about the girl with the flowers. “Dear God, do this for me. Tonight I need to fuck Yolanda Esterel right. So I can know I’m not dead. Not an old man. And can go on doing your work for you, moving this damn country of assholes forward. I don’t care about the priests, the gringos, the conspirators, the exiles. I can clear away all that shit myself. But I need your help to fuck that girl. Don’t be a miser, don’t be stingy. Give me your help, give it to me.” He sighed, with the disagreeable suspicion that the one he was pleading with, if he existed, must be observing him in amusement from the dark blue backdrop where the first stars had begun to appear.

His route along Máximo Gómez simmered with memories. The houses he was leaving behind were symbols of outstanding people and events in his thirty-one years of power. Ramfis’s house, on the lot where Anselmo Paulino’s had been; he had been his right hand for ten years until 1955, when he confiscated all his property, kept him in prison for a time, then sent him off to Switzerland with a check for seven million dollars for services rendered. Across from the house of Angelita and Pechito León Estévez had once stood the residence of General Ludovino Fernández, a workhorse who spilled a good deal of blood for the regime; he was obliged to kill him when he succumbed to political inconstancy. Next to Radhamés Manor were the gardens of the embassy of the United States, for more than twenty-eight years a friendly house that had turned into a nest of vipers. There was the field he had built so that Ramfis and Radhamés could have fun playing baseball. There, like twin sisters, stood Balaguer’s house and the nunciature, another building that had turned irritating, ungrateful, vile. And beyond that, the imposing mansion of General Espaillat, his former head of secret services. Facing it, a little farther on, was the house of General Rodríguez Méndez, Ramfis’s companion in dissipation. Then the embassies, deserted now, of Argentina and Mexico, and the house of his brother Blacky. And, finally, the residence of the Vicini family, the sugarcane millionaires, with its vast expanse of lawn and well-tended flower borders, which he was passing now.

As soon as he crossed the broad Avenida to walk along the Malecón, right next to the sea, on his way to the obelisk, he could feel the spatter of foam. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened to the shrieking and flapping wings of flocks of seagulls. The wind filled his lungs. A purifying bath that would give him back his strength. But he mustn’t be distracted; he still had work ahead of him.

“Call Johnny Abbes.”

Detaching himself from the cluster of civilians and military men—the Generalissimo was walking quickly toward the cement column, a copy of the Washington Monument—the inelegant, flaccid figure of the head of the SIM took his place beside him. Despite his girth, Johnny Abbes García kept pace without difficulty.

“What’s going on with Juan Tomás?” he asked, not looking at him.

“Nothing important, Excellency,” the head of the SIM replied. “Today he went to his farm in Moca, with Antonio de la Maza. They brought back a bull calf. The general and his wife, Chana, quarreled because she said that cutting up and cooking a calf is a lot of work.”

“Have Balaguer and Juan Tomás seen each other in the past few days?” Trujillo interrupted.

Since Abbes García did not answer immediately, he turned to look at him. The colonel shook his head.

“No, Excellency. As far as I know, they haven’t seen each other for some time. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing concrete.” The Generalissimo shrugged. “But just now, in his office, when I mentioned Juan Tomás’s conspiracy, I noticed something strange. I
felt
something strange. I don’t know what it was. Nothing in your reports to justify any suspicions of the President?”

“Nothing, Excellency. You know I have him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. He doesn’t make a move, he doesn’t receive anyone, he doesn’t make a phone call without our knowing about it.”

Trujillo nodded. There was no reason to distrust the puppet president: his hunch could have been wrong. This plot didn’t seem serious. Antonio de la Maza was one of the conspirators? Another resentful man who consoled himself for his frustrations with whiskey and huge meals. They’d be gorging on marinated unborn calf this evening. Suppose he burst into Juan Tomás’s house in Gazcue? “Good evening, gentlemen. Do you mind sharing your barbecue with me? It smells so good! The aroma reached all the way to the Palace and led me here.” Would their faces be filled with terror or joy? Would they think that his unexpected visit marked their rehabilitation? No, tonight he’d go to San Cristóbal, make Yolanda Esterel cry out, and feel healthy and young tomorrow.

“Why did you let Cabral’s daughter leave for the United States two weeks ago?”

This time Colonel Abbes García really was surprised. He saw him run his hand over his pudgy cheeks, not knowing how to answer.

“Senator Agustín Cabral’s daughter?” he mumbled, playing for time.

“Uranita Cabral, Egghead’s daughter. The nuns at Santo Domingo gave her a scholarship to the United States. Why did you let her leave the country without consulting me?”

It seemed to him that the colonel was shrinking. He opened and closed his mouth, not knowing what to say.

“I’m sorry, Excellency,” he exclaimed, lowering his head. “Your instructions were to follow the senator and arrest him if he tried to seek asylum. It didn’t occur to me that the girl, having spent a night at Mahogany House and with an exit permit signed by President Balaguer…The truth is, it didn’t even occur to me to mention it to you, I didn’t think it was important.”

“Those things should occur to you,” Trujillo berated him. “I want you to investigate the personnel on my secretarial staff. Somebody hid a memo from Balaguer about that girl’s trip. I want to know who it was and why he did it.”

“Right away, Excellency. I apologize for this oversight. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not,” and Trujillo dismissed him.

The colonel gave him a military salute (it made him want to laugh) and rejoined the other courtiers. He walked a few blocks without calling anyone; he was thinking. Abbes García had only partially followed his instructions to withdraw the guards and
caliés
. At the corners he didn’t see the fortified wire barricades, or the small Volkswagens, or the uniformed police with submachine guns. But from time to time, at the intersections along the Avenida, he could detect in the distance a black Beetle with the heads of
caliés
at the windows, or tough-looking civilians leaning against lampposts, pistols bulging under their armpits. Traffic had not been stopped along Avenida George Washington. People leaned out of trucks and cars and waved to him: “Long live the Chief!” Absorbed in the effort of the walk, which had made his body deliciously warm and his legs a little tired, he waved back his thanks. There were no adult pedestrians on the Avenida, only ragged children, shoeshine boys and vendors of chocolates and cigarettes, who looked at him openmouthed. As he passed, he patted their heads or tossed them some coins (he always carried change in his pockets). A short while later, he called the Walking Turd.

Senator Chirinos approached, panting like a hunting dog, and perspiring more than Modesto Díaz. The Benefactor felt encouraged. The Constitutional Sot was younger than he, and a short walk demolished him. Instead of responding to his “Good afternoon, Chief,” he asked:

“Did you call Ramfis? Did he give his explanations to Lloyds of London?”

“I spoke to him twice.” Senator Chirinos was dragging his feet, and the soles and tips of his misshapen shoes stumbled over paving stones raised by the roots of ancient palms and almond trees. “I explained the problem to him and repeated your orders. Well, you can imagine. But finally he accepted my reasoning. He promised to write to Lloyds, clarify the misunderstanding, and confirm that payment should be transferred to the Central Bank.”

“Has he done it?” Trujillo interrupted brusquely.

“That’s why I called him a second time, Chief. He wants a translator to correct his telegram. His English is imperfect and he doesn’t want mistakes. He’ll send it without fail. He told me he’s sorry about what happened.”

Did Ramfis think he was getting too old to obey him? There was a time when he wouldn’t have put off following an order of his with such a trivial excuse.

“Call him again,” he ordered, in a bad humor. “If he doesn’t straighten out this business with Lloyds today, he’ll have to deal with me.”

“Right away, Chief. But don’t worry, Ramfis has understood the situation.”

He dismissed Chirinos and resigned himself to finishing his walk alone so as not to dash the hopes of others who yearned to exchange a few words with him. He waited for his human train and joined it, positioning himself with Virgilio Álvarez Pina and the Minister of the Interior and Religious Practice, Paíno Pichardo. The group also included Razor Espaillat, the Chief of Police, the editor of
El Caribe
, and the new President of the Senate, Jeremías (Monkey) Quintanilla, to whom he offered his congratulations and best wishes for success. The man gleamed with happiness as he poured out his thanks. At the same swift pace, still walking east on the side of the street that hugged the ocean, he asked, in a loud voice:

“Come, gentlemen, tell me the latest anti-Trujillista stories.”

A wave of laughter celebrated his witticism, and a few moments later they were all chattering like parrots. Pretending to listen, he nodded and smiled. At times he caught sight of the dejected face of General José René (Pupo) Román. The Minister of the Armed Forces could not hide his anguish: what would the Chief reproach him for? You’ll find out soon enough, imbecile. Moving from group to group so that no one would feel overlooked, he crossed the well-tended gardens of the Hotel Jaragua, where he heard the sounds of the orchestra that played for cocktail hour, and a block after that he passed under the balconies of the Dominican Party. Clerks and secretaries and the people who had gone there to ask for favors came out to applaud him. When he reached the obelisk, he looked at his watch: an hour and three minutes. It was growing dark. The gulls had stopped circling and had gone back to their hiding places on the beach. A handful of stars were visible, but big-bellied clouds hid the moon. At the foot of the obelisk, the new Cadillac, driven for the first time last week, was waiting for him. He said a collective goodbye (“Good evening, gentlemen, thank you for your company”) while, at the same time, not looking at him, with an imperious gesture, he pointed General José René Román to the car door that the uniformed chauffeur held open:

“You, come with me.”

General Román—an energetic click of his heels, a hand at the visor of his cap—quickly obeyed. He climbed into the car and sat on the edge of the seat, very erect, his hat on his knees.

“To San Isidro, the base.”

As the official car drove toward the center of the city in order to cross to the eastern bank of the Ozama on the Radhamés Bridge, Trujillo contemplated the landscape, as if he were alone. General Román did not dare say a word, waiting for the storm to break. It began to loom when they had covered about three of the ten miles that separated the obelisk from the air base.

“How old are you?” he asked, without turning to look at him.

“I just turned fifty-six, Chief.”

Román—everyone called him Pupo—was tall, strong, and athletic, with a very close crew cut. He played sports and maintained an excellent physique, without a trace of fat. He replied very quietly, humbly, trying to placate him.

“How many years in the Army?” Trujillo continued, looking out the window, as if he were questioning someone who wasn’t there.

“Thirty-one, Chief, ever since my graduation.”

He allowed a few seconds to go by without saying anything. Finally he turned toward the head of the Armed Forces, with the infinite contempt the man always inspired in him. In the shadows, which had deepened rapidly, he could not see his eyes, but he was sure that Pupo Román was blinking, or had his eyes half closed, like children when they wake at night and squint fearfully into the darkness.

“And in all those years you haven’t learned that a superior answers for his subordinates? That he is responsible for their mistakes?”

“I know that very well, Chief. If you tell me what this is about, perhaps I can give you an explanation.”

“You’ll see what it’s about,” said Trujillo, with the apparent calm his collaborators feared more than his shouting. “You bathe with soap every day?”

“Of course, Chief.” General Román tried to laugh, but since the Generalissimo was still very serious, he fell silent.