Generally he found him in good humor, and Willy would welcome him with the same joke: “How nice to know you’re alive and haven’t kicked the bucket yet, Juanito!” But this time Willy was serious and frowning; he embraced his friend without saying anything. “I was worried about that phone call last night, old man,” Juan said. “What’s going on?” Willy only covered his mouth and indicated with his hand that they should leave his shop. His face was marked by moles, and he was a grizzled man, still strong for his seventy-plus years; he wore faded overalls, a gray sleeveless sweater, and worn moccasins without socks. Half embracing him, he pushed Juan Peineta, moving him away from the small building of wood and adobe, with a corrugated roof, where his gambling operation took place and where he lived alone or, as he would say, with “bargain-priced women.”
“Why don’t we go into your house to rest a little while, Willy?” Juan Peineta suggested. “You’re acting very mysterious, compadre, and I’m exhausted by the walk.”
“Let’s go and talk far from here, Juanito,” the Ruletero answered in a low voice, looking all around. Blinking, he added: “This place has become dangerous. Not only for me. For you, too, compadre. I’ll explain soon.”
Silent, scowling, with a worried air that made Juan Peineta much more upset than he already was, Willy had him walk several blocks through a myriad of narrow unpaved streets, half-built one- or two-story houses, all of which were crowded with very poor people, barefoot or in slippers, the men in undershirts and many women with handkerchiefs on their heads, the kind that the devout of some evangelical sects tend to wear.
Juan noticed that his friend was favoring his left foot: Was he limping because he had stumbled?
“It seems it’s rheumatism and there’s nothing you can do about it,” the Ruletero replied with a bad-tempered grimace. “A woman in the neighborhood, half a witch who cures with herbs, is giving me baths, so far with no results. I now have an old man’s ailments, Juanito. You have a messed-up memory; I have my messed-up legs.”
What was wrong with Willy? He wasn’t the man he always was, the high-spirited jokester Juan had known for more than thirty years, the one who seemed to let everything roll right off his back, who never lost his good humor for anything or anybody. He was edgy, suspicious, and frightened. Juan saw that before stepping into any of the cheap taverns where they stopped, Willy hesitated so he could sniff them out first. At several he decided not to go in, without giving any kind of explanation to Juan Peineta.
“It worries me to see you like this, Willy,” he said finally, as they continued their search for a place where they could sit down quietly and talk. “What the devil’s wrong, brother, why are you so suspicious and jumpy?”
Instead of answering, Willy, very seriously, raised a finger to his lips indicating that Juan should shut his mouth and be quiet. There’d be time to talk later.
Willy finally found what he was looking for. A tiny bar where, though it was daytime, a faint lightbulb burned, covered in flies, with half a dozen empty tables. They sat down near the door and Willy ordered a really cold beer—Pilsen Callao, of course—and two clean glasses.
“Are you finally going to tell me what the hell is going on, Willy? Why the devil are you acting so strange, brother?”
Willy fixed his large yellowish eyes on him in a look filled with apprehension.
“They’re cooking up something that I don’t like at all, brother,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing around with a suspicious look, something Juan didn’t recognize in him either. There was a long pause before he added: “I’m going to tell you everything, because I have the feeling they’ve involved you in this mess, too. It’s about…”
But he stopped talking because the barefoot man serving them approached with the beer and glasses. He filled them, with a very high head, and Willy continued speaking only when the bartender was at a distance, behind the small counter:
“It’s about the reporter they killed, that one you hated so much, Juanito.”
“Rolando Garro?” Juan Peineta gave a start in his chair and crossed himself. “Shall I tell you something, Willy? I was very happy they killed him, why should I lie to you. Because he ruined my life, as you know. But I’m sorry about it. You shouldn’t be happy about other people’s misfortunes, even when it’s a guy as wicked as Garro. I went to confession and the priest really lit into me. I don’t hate him anymore. I feel sorry for him instead. God in heaven knows what to do with him. It seems his death was horrible.”
He fell silent because Willy the Ruletero didn’t seem to be listening. When he saw that Juan Peineta wasn’t talking he returned to reality from the introspection or daydream that absorbed him.
“You read that they found him dead here, in this neighborhood, didn’t you?”
Juan Peineta nodded.
“Very close to the monument to Felipe Pinglo, almost at Five Corners. Yes, yes. But why are you asking me that, Willy?”
“Because it isn’t true,” said the Ruletero, lowering his voice even more. “They didn’t find him. They brought him in a car that could only belong to the police. Or to State Security. They’re the only ones who dare to come into this neighborhood at night. They took his corpse out of the car, as destroyed as it was, and left it at the door of my gambling parlor. Don’t you think that’s strange, Juanito? Don’t you think it’s a real coincidence that they chose my place to toss the corpse of the reporter? Let me ask you what exactly their intention was.”
“Are you sure about what you’re telling me, Willy?”
“I saw them,” his friend said, nodding, giving a little bang to the table. “Cars don’t drive down my street at night, brother. They’re shitting with fear that they’ll be held up. The ones who drove there could only be cops or soldier boys. Police or State Security. When I heard the car’s engine, I watched from the window. And I saw everything with these eyes.”
“But wasn’t it the millionaire they arrested who gave the order to kill him, Willy?” The former reciter was surprised.
“I’m not telling you anything I didn’t see,” declared the Ruletero, drumming nervously on the tabletop; several flies rose into the air. “I don’t know who killed him. The only thing I know is that they didn’t find him dead in Five Corners, they brought him in a car when he was already dead, and threw his body in front of my shop. Who knows why? And the ones who brought him could only have been cops or soldier boys from State Security, that’s something I’m sure about. The patrol cars showed up two or three hours later. I didn’t let them know, of course. The only thing I did was get all the gamblers out by the false door, turn out the lights, get into bed, and pretend I was asleep. What I’m telling you I haven’t told anyone else. You must understand that it’s something to worry about, isn’t it, Juanito?”
“But why, brother?” Juan Peineta tried to reassure him. “Why would you worry about something that doesn’t concern you?”
“Why do you think they decided to leave Garro’s body at the door of my parlor? Coincidence? Coincidences don’t exist, brother. Everything that happens has its reason, even more so when there’s a murder involved.”
“In other words, you think they did it on purpose to involve you in his death. Don’t be so afraid, Willy. For sure they left it there for no reason, just because, just how they would have left it anywhere else.”
“Wait till I finish the story, brother,” said Willy, giving him a pitying look. “This is just the beginning. I’m telling you they left it there for a reason that has to do with me. And with you, too, Juanito. With you, yes, just what I said. I thought I might have been wrong when they arrested the miner, that Enrique Cárdenas, accusing him of planning the crime, because Garro was blackmailing him with the photos of his orgy in Chosica. But, but…”
He stopped speaking and looked at Juanito for a long time as if he were at his wake and was contemplating his corpse. Juanito became alarmed.
“What is it, Willy?” he asked. “Why did you suddenly stop talkin
g and why are you looking at me that way?”
“Because it seems this whole business has much more to do with you than with me, brother. I’m sorry I have to give you this bad news. It’s the truth. With you, not with me. I’m in on this just in passing, as they say. Just because I’m your friend.”
It seemed to Juan Peineta that the chair he sat in suddenly rose up and fell to the floor, shaking all his bones. His head began to hurt, a shiver ran down his spine. What did all this mean? He didn’t understand anything. Had he forgotten something important? He searched his memory without finding anything.
“What are you saying, Willy?” he murmured. “With me?”
“That’s why I called last night and asked you so urgently to come and see me,” Willy whispered, bringing his face very close to his friend. “You can’t talk about these things on the phone. The good news is that they don’t even know that you live in the Hotel Mogollón. Isn’t it incredible? Well, it’s the truth: they don’t know.”
“Who?” stammered Juan Peineta. “Who is it you’re talking about?”
“Who would it be, Juanito,” Willy said mockingly. “The cops or the soldier boys of State Security. They’re the only ones, I already told you that.”
They had shown up three or four days after the mysterious car came in the night and left the destroyed corpse of Rolando Garro in front of Willy the Ruletero’s gambling parlor. They were in civilian clothes and had crew cuts, and so, as soon as he saw them, Willy knew right away they were military. They shook his hand and smiled with that slightly false smile of police and security agents when they’re on duty. They showed him credentials encased in plastic where Willy could make out seals, a Peruvian flag, and minuscule, undetectable photographs.
“This is an informal visit, Willy,” said the one who seemed the older of the two visitors. “I’m Captain Félix Madueño. I don’t exist, by the way. I mean, we haven’t come, we’re not here. You’re intelligent and understand me, don’t you?”
Willy only smiled as he filled with apprehension. This was beginning badly. Had they come to shake him down or what?
“This looks like a gambling parlor for the starving,” remarked the other one, pointing at the chipped walls, the dirty windows, the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, the rickety tables, the tamped-down dirt floor. “And yet, Willy, we know that millions of soles are gambled here every night.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s that much,” a smiling Willy said very prudently. “In any case, there’s no limit on bets as long as the play is honest. That’s the house rule.”
“Don’t look so worried, Willy,” said the one who had spoken first. “We didn’t come to ask you about your business or your clients, the gamblers who spend everything they have here.”
“And what they don’t have, too,” said the other one.
“We’re interested in your friend Juan Peineta.”
“Really, Willy?” the former reciter asked, more and more surprised and frightened. He didn’t believe what he was hearing, it seemed to him that any moment now Willy would burst into laughter and say: “It was a joke, brother, to see if you’d shit your pants.” “They knew my name? They came to talk to you about me?”
“Yes, nobody but him,” the older one had said, nodding, the one who had said his name was Captain Félix Madueño. “We know that you’re very good friends, aren’t you?”
“Of course he’s my friend,” Willy had agreed. “When I had the theater, in Cantagallo, Juanito would recite his poems between the performances of folkloric music. He did it very well. He was an artist.”
“And he also comes to visit you here and you have lunch together from time to time, isn’t that so?” the other one declared.
“Yes, from time to time he comes around here to remember the old days,” said Willy. “I haven’t seen him for a long while, wherever he is. I hope he hasn’t died.”
“We need his address and telephone number,” said the one who had spoken first, in a somewhat acid tone. “Would you do us the favor, Ruletero?”
“Do you know what surprised me most, Juanito?” said Willy in answer to the stupefied expression of the former declaimer. “That the agents of State Security, who knew so many things, that we were friends, that you came from time to time to have lunch with me, didn’t have the slightest idea that you’ve been living for years in the Hotel Mogollón. Don’t you think that’s incredible?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Juan Peineta, speaking with difficulty, as if something were caught in his throat. “That’s underdevelopment, Willy. And you, what did you tell them?”
“I don’t think he has a fixed residence, he lives here and there, where his friends put him up, I suppose, or in those charity shelters that some convents have. I’d be surprised if he had a phone.”
“Do you want to fuck around with us, Willy?” said the younger man in an aggressive tone, but still smiling. “Do we look like assholes to you, the king of the gambling parlors?”
“Of course not, chief.” Willy swore with his fingers forming a cross. “If Juanito had a fixed address, I’d give it to you, of course I would. But I doubt he’s ever had one. Not to mention a phone. Juan Peineta’s on his last legs, he doesn’t have a place to lay his head, didn’t you know that? He’s like a stray dog. Ever since he stopped being one of the Three Jokers, his life has been going downhill. He reached bottom a while ago. He lives on charity, just in case you didn’t know. Besides, he’s losing his memory, sometimes he doesn’t even know who he is.”
“Poor Juan Peineta,” said the older one sardonically, handing him a piece of paper. “Do us a favor, Willy. Find out his address for me and call me at this number. Ask for Captain Félix Madueño or for Sergeant Major Arnilla.”
“Keep this our secret, Willy,” said the younger man. “And, of course, now that we’re leaving, you won’t be dumb enough to go and tell your friend we’re looking for him.”
“I’d never do that,” Willy protested, banging the table with his fist. “I’ve always gotten along very well with the law.”
“Of course you have, Willy, you’re an exemplary citizen and everybody knows it,” said Sergeant Major Arnilla, holding out his hand. “Until the next time, compadre. Don’t forget, find that address for us. As soon as you can.”
“And they left,” said Willy. “Of course, I ran to call you at the Hotel Mogollón. Now you understand why I couldn’t leave any message: I had to tell you in person.”
Juan Peineta had the strange sensation this wasn’t happening, that it was a nightmare and at any moment he’d wake up and laugh at the fear he’d felt over what hadn’t happened and wasn’t going to happen. But there was his friend, Willy the Ruletero, looking at him sorrowfully. The man at the bar came over to ask whether they wanted him to prepare a corvina ceviche for them.
“Is it fresh?” Willy asked.
“They brought it in early this morning from Callao, right after it was caught.”
“Two nice corvina ceviches, then. And another beer, but nice and icy.”
“I don’t understand anything, Willy,” Juan stammered when the bartender walked away. “Why are these people from the police or the army looking for me?”
Willy pressed his hand, caught him by the arm, and squeezed it in a gesture of solidarity.
“I have no idea, brother,” he said, sadly. “But this doesn’t smell good to me, Juanito. I suspect somebody has involved you or else wants to involve you in some ugly business. Especially because they came to see you only a few days after those guys left the body of that reporter who fucked up your life in the doorway of my parlor. Everybody knows you hated him, that you’ve been sending letters to the papers denouncing him for years. Don’t you see the connection there might be among all these things?”
“What do you mean, Willy? What things are connected? It doesn’t make sense. What that bastard Garro did to me happened ten or twelve years ago. Maybe not so long ago, but more than five years, at least.”
“I kno
w, Juanito,” said Willy; he wanted to reassure him, but everything he told Juan alarmed him even more. “The things the police do don’t follow any logic. But one thing is very clear. They’re cooking up something very ugly against you. I don’t know what it is, but it’s certain that if those guys get their hands on you, something bad will happen. It’s lucky they don’t know where you are. You have to get away and disappear for a while, brother.”
“Get away, Willy?” Juan was openmouthed. “Where? And with what? I don’t have a red cent, brother. Where would I get away to?”
Willy nodded and gave him another fraternal pat on the arm.
“As much as I’d like to, I couldn’t put you up, Juanito. They’d find you right away at my place. Look, think, turn it around a little, and something will occur to you. But please, don’t tell me where you’re going to hide, if you find a hiding place. I wouldn’t want to know so I won’t have to lie again to those cops, or whatever they are, if they question me about where you are.”
Juan Peineta kept looking at his friend without knowing what to say. Was this happening to him? Was he really awake? A person whose life had been reduced to living in a miserable hole, who received a ridiculous pension, who had to go to the dining room of the Barefoot Carmelites so he wouldn’t become tubercular. Could it get even worse? Hunted by the police or State Security, him, Juan Peineta? It was so absurd, so illogical, that he didn’t know what to say or do.
“I have nothing to hide, Willy,” he finally said. “The best thing would be for me to meet with these guys who came to see you and ask them why they’re looking for me, what they want with me. It can only be some confusion, a misunderstanding. Don’t you think so, brother?”
“I would advise you not to be so stupid, Juanito,” said Willy, looking at him sadly. “If they’re looking for you, it’s dangerous for you. If there’s some confusion or a misunderstanding, for you or for me, or for anybody who isn’t a big fish, things can turn out very badly. Well, you must know what you’re doing. I’ve told you this because I respect you, you’re an old friend, and I don’t have many left. I think you’re the last one. I wouldn’t like them to get you involved in something ugly, or even make you disappear. You know very well they disappear people here and nothing happens because the terrorists are to blame for everything. You’ll see what you’ll do. The only thing I ask is that if they detain you, you won’t tell them that I called and told you what I told you.”
The Neighborhood Page 15