“No, Excellency, just some vague hints. But ever since you dismissed him, General Díaz has been seething with resentment and that’s why I keep a close eye on him. There are these meetings at his house in Gazcue. You should always expect the worst from a resentful man.”
“It wasn’t the dismissal,” Trujillo said aloud as if talking to himself. “It was because I called him a coward. To remind him he had dishonored the uniform.”
“I was at that luncheon, Excellency. I thought General Díaz would get up and leave. But he stayed, turned pale, broke into a sweat. When he left he was staggering, like a drunk.”
“Juan Tomás was always very proud, and he needed a lesson,” said Trujillo. “He conducted himself like a weakling in Constanza. I don’t allow weak generals in the Dominican Armed Forces.”
The incident had occurred a few months after the defeat of the landings at Constanza, Maimón, and Estero Hondo, when all the members of the expeditionary force—including Cubans, North Americans, and Venezuelans, in addition to Dominicans—were either dead or in prison, and the regime discovered, in January 1960, a vast network of clandestine opposition called June 14, in honor of the invasion. Its members were students and young professionals of the middle and upper classes, many from families that were part of the regime. At the height of a cleanup operation against the subversive organization, in which the three Mirabal sisters and their husbands were very active—the mere thought of them made the Generalissimo’s blood boil—Trujillo held a luncheon in the National Palace for some fifty military and civilian figures prominent in the regime, in order to punish his boyhood friend and comrade in arms, who had held the highest positions in the Armed Forces during the Era and whom he had dismissed as commander of the Military Region of La Vega, which included Constanza, because he had not exterminated the last concentrations of invaders scattered across the mountains. General Juan Tomás Díaz had been asking in vain for an audience with the Generalissimo ever since. He must have been surprised to receive an invitation to the luncheon, after his brother Gracita sought asylum in the Brazilian embassy. The Chief did not greet him or say a word to him during the meal, and did not even glance at the corner where General Díaz was seated, far from the head of the long table, a symbolic indication of his fall from grace.
Suddenly, as they were serving the coffee, over the conversations buzzing around the long table, over the marble of the walls and the crystal of the blazing chandelier—the only woman present was Isabel Mayer, the Trujillista caudilla in the northeast—the thin, sharp voice known to all Dominicans rose, taking on the steel-barbed tone that foretold a storm:
“Aren’t you surprised, gentlemen, by the presence at this table, surrounded by the most outstanding military and civilian figures in the regime, of an officer stripped of his command because he was not equal to the task on the field of battle?”
Silence fell. The fifty heads flanking the huge quadrangle of embroidered tablecloths all froze. The Benefactor did not look toward General Díaz’s corner. He inspected the other diners one by one, a surprised expression on his face, his eyes very wide and his lips parted, asking his guests to help him solve the mystery.
“Do you know who I mean?” he continued, after a dramatic pause. “General Juan Tomás Díaz, Commander of the Military Region of La Vega at the time of the Cuban-Venezuelan invasion, was dismissed in the middle of the war for conduct unbecoming an officer in the face of the enemy. Anywhere else, such behavior is punished with a summary court-martial and a firing squad. Under the dictatorship of Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina, the cowardly general is invited to lunch at the Palace with the nation’s elite.”
He said the last sentence very slowly, syllable by syllable, to emphasize his sarcasm.
“If you’ll permit me, Excellency,” stammered General Juan Tomás Díaz, making a superhuman effort, “I’d like to recall that at the time of my dismissal, the invaders had been defeated. I did my duty.”
He was a strong, robust man, but he had shrunk in his seat. He was very pale and his mouth kept filling with saliva. He looked at the Benefactor, but he, as if he had not seen or heard him, glanced around for a second time at his guests and spoke again:
“And not only is he invited to the Palace. He goes into retirement with full salary and all the prerogatives of a three-star general, so that he can rest knowing he did his duty. And enjoy a well-deserved leisure on his cattle ranches, in the company of Chana Díaz, his fifth wife, who is also his niece, his brother’s daughter. What greater proof of the magnanimity of this bloodthirsty dictatorship?”
When he finished speaking, the Benefactor’s head had looked all around the table. And now it stopped at the corner where General Juan Tomás Díaz was sitting. The Chief’s face was no longer the ironic, melodramatic one it had been a moment before. It was frozen in deadly seriousness. His eyes had taken on the solemn fixity, piercing and merciless, with which he reminded people who it was who ruled this country and the lives of Dominicans. Juan Tomás Díaz looked down.
“General Díaz refused to follow an order of mine and permitted himself to reprimand an officer who was carrying it out,” he said slowly, scornfully. “At the height of the invasion. When our enemies, armed by Fidel Castro, by Muñoz Marín, Betancourt and Figueres, that envious mob, had rudilessly landed and murdered Dominican soldiers, determined to have the heads of every one of us sitting at this table. That was when the military commander of La Vega discovered he was a compassionate man. A delicate man, an enemy of violent passions, who could not bear to watch the shedding of blood. And he permitted himself to disregard my order to shoot in the field every invader captured with a gun in his hand. And to insult an officer who, respectful of the chain of command, gave their just deserts to those who came here to install a Communist dictatorship. The general permitted himself, in that time of danger for the Fatherland, to sow confusion and weaken the morale of our soldiers. That is why he is no longer part of the Army, even though he still puts on the uniform.”
He stopped speaking in order to take a drink of water. But as soon as he had, instead of continuing, he stood abruptly and took his leave, bringing the luncheon to an end: “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Juan Tomás didn’t try to leave, because he knew he wouldn’t have reached the door alive,” said Trujillo. “Well, what conspiracy is he involved in?”
Nothing very concrete, really. For some time, at his house in Gazcue, General Díaz and his wife, Chana, had been receiving many visitors. The pretext was seeing movies, shown outdoors in the courtyard, with a projector run by the general’s son-in-law. Those attending were a strange mixture. From well-known men in the regime, like the host’s father-in-law and brother, Modesto Díaz Quesada, to former officials who were distant from the government, like Amiama Tió and Antonio de la Maza. Colonel Abbes García had made one of the servants a calié a few months ago. But the only thing he found out was that the gentlemen talked constantly while they watched the films, as if they were interested in the movies only because they could muffle their conversations. In short, these weren’t the kinds of meetings where bad things were said about the regime between drinks of rum or whiskey, the kind worth keeping in mind. Except that yesterday, General Díaz had a secret meeting with an emissary of Henry Dearborn, the supposed Yankee diplomat who, as Your Excellency knows, is the head of the CIA in Ciudad Trujillo.
“He probably asked a million dollars for my head,” Trujillo remarked. “The gringo must be dizzy with so many shiteaters asking for financial aid to finish me off. Where did they meet?”
“In the Hotel El Embajador, Excellency.”
The Benefactor thought for a moment. Would Juan Tomás be capable of organizing something serious? Twenty years ago, maybe. He was a man of action back then. But he had become a pleasure seeker. He liked drinking and cockfights too much, and eating, having a good time with his friends, getting married and unmarried—he wouldn’t risk it all trying to overthrow him. The gringos were leaning on a weak
branch. Bah, there was nothing to worry about.
“I agree, Excellency, for the moment I think General Díaz presents no danger. I’m following his every move. We know who visits him and who he visits. His telephone is tapped.”
Was there anything else? The Benefactor glanced at the window: it was still dark, even though it would soon be six o’clock. But it was no longer silent. In the distance, along the periphery of the National Palace, separated from the street by a vast expanse of lawn and trees and surrounded by a high spiked fence, an occasional car passed, blowing its horn, and inside the building he could hear the cleaning staff, mopping, sweeping, waxing, shaking out the dust. He would find offices and corridors clean and shining when he had to cross them. This idea produced a sense of well-being.
“Excuse me for insisting, Excellency, but I’d like to reestablish security arrangements. On Máximo Gómez and the Malecón, when you take your walk. And on the highway, when you go to Mahogany House.”
A couple of months earlier he had abruptly ordered a halt to security operations. Why? Perhaps because during one of his excursions at dusk, as he was coming down Máximo Gómez on the way to the ocean, he saw police barricades at every intersection blocking pedestrian and car access to the Avenida and the Malecón while he was on his walk. And he imagined the flood of Volkswagens with caliés that Johnny Abbes had unleashed on the area all around his route. He felt stifled, claustrophobic. It had also happened at night, on his way to the Fundación Ranch, when all along the highway he saw the Beetles and the military barricades guarding his passage. Or was it the fascination that danger had always held for him—the indomitable spirit of a Marine—that led him to defy fate at the moment of greatest danger for the regime? In any case, it was a decision he would not revoke.
“The order stands,” he repeated in a tone that allowed no discussion.
“As you wish, Excellency.”
He looked into the colonel’s eyes—Abbes immediately lowered them—and he skewered him, with a humorous barb:
“Do you think the Fidel Castro you admire so much walks the streets like me, without protection?”
The colonel shook his head.
“I don’t believe Fidel Castro is as romantic as you are, Excellency.”
Romantic? Him? Maybe with some of the women he had loved, maybe with Lina Lovatón. But, outside the sentimental arena, in politics, he had always felt classical. Rational, serene, pragmatic, with a cool head and a long view.
“When I met him, in Mexico, he was preparing the expedition of the Granma. They thought he was a crazed Cuban, an adventurer not worth taking seriously. From the very first, what struck me was his total lack of emotion. Even though in his speeches he seems tropical, exuberant, passionate. That’s for his audience. He’s just the opposite. An icy intelligence. I always knew he’d take power. But allow me to clarify something, Excellency. I admire Castro’s personality, the way he’s been able to play the gringos for fools, allying himself with the Russians and the Communist countries and using them against Washington, like the bumpers on a car. But I don’t admire his ideas, I’m not a Communist.”
“You’re a capitalist through and through,” Trujillo said mockingly, with a sardonic laugh. “Ultramar did very well, importing products from Germany, Austria, and the socialist countries. Exclusive distributorships never lose money.”
“Something else to thank you for, Excellency,” the colonel admitted. “The truth is, I never would have thought of it. I never had any interest in business. I opened Ultramar because you ordered me to.”
“I prefer my collaborators to make a profit instead of stealing,” the Benefactor explained. “Profits help the country, they create jobs, produce wealth, raise the morale of the people. But stealing demoralizes it. I imagine that since the sanctions things are going badly for Ultramar too.”
“Practically paralyzed. I don’t care, Excellency. Now my twenty-four hours a day are dedicated to keeping our enemies from destroying this regime and killing you.”
He spoke without emotion, in the same opaque, neutral tone he normally used to express himself.
“Should I conclude that you admire me as much as you do that asshole Castro?” Trujillo asked, searching out those small, evasive eyes.
“I don’t admire you, Excellency,” Colonel Abbes murmured, lowering his eyes. “I live for you. Through you. If you’ll permit me, I am your watchdog.”
It seemed to the Benefactor that when Abbes García said these words, his voice had trembled. He knew Abbes was in no way emotional, not fond of the effusiveness that was so frequent in the mouths of his other courtiers, and so he continued to scrutinize him with his knifelike gaze.
“If I’m killed, it will be by someone very close, a traitor in the family, so to speak,” he said, as if talking about someone else. “For you, it would be a great misfortune.”
“And for the country, Excellency.”
“That’s why I’m still in the saddle,” Trujillo agreed. “Otherwise I would have retired, as I was advised to do by my Yankee friends who were sent down here by President Eisenhower: William Pawley, General Clark, Senator Smathers. ‘Go down in history as a magnanimous statesman who turned the helm over to younger men.’ That’s what Roosevelt’s friend Smathers told me. It was a message from the White House. That’s why they came. To ask me to leave and to offer me asylum in the United States. ‘Your patrimony will be safe there.’ Those assholes confuse me with Batista, with Rojas Pinilla and Pérez Jiménez. They’ll only get me out when I’m dead.”
The Benefactor became distracted again, thinking about Guadalupe, Lupe to her friends, the fat, mannish Mexican Johnny Abbes married during that mysterious, adventurous period of his life in Mexico when he was sending detailed reports to Razor on the activities of the Dominican exiles, and at the same time frequenting revolutionary circles, like the one made up of Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, and the July 26 Cubans, who were preparing the expedition of the Granma, and people like Vicente Lombardo Toledano, closely connected to the Mexican government, who had been his protector. The Generalissimo had never had time to question him calmly about that period in his life, when the colonel discovered his vocation and talent for espionage and clandestine operations. A juicy life, no doubt about it, full of anecdotes. Why had he ever married that awful woman?
“There’s something I always forget to ask you,” he said with the vulgarity he used when speaking to his collaborators. “How did you ever marry such an ugly woman?”
He did not detect the slightest sign of surprise on Abbes García’s face.
“It wasn’t for love, Excellency.”
“I always knew that,” said the Benefactor, smiling. “She isn’t rich, so you didn’t do it for money.”
“It was gratitude. Lupe saved my life once. She’s killed for me. When she was Lombardo Toledano’s secretary and I had just come to Mexico. Thanks to Vicente I began to understand politics. Much of what I’ve done wouldn’t have been possible without Lupe, Excellency. She doesn’t know the meaning of fear. And until now her instincts have never failed.”
“I know she’s tough, and knows how to fight, and carries a pistol and goes to whorehouses like a man,” said the Generalissimo, in excellent humor. “I’ve even heard that Puchita Brazobán saves girls for her. But what intrigues me is that you’ve been able to make babies with that freak.”
“I try to be a good husband, Excellency.”
The Benefactor began to laugh, the sonorous laughter of other days.
“You can be amusing when you want to be,” he congratulated him. “So you took her out of gratitude. And you can get it up whenever you want to.”
“In a manner of speaking, Excellency. The truth is, I don’t love Lupe and she doesn’t love me. At least not in the way people understand love. We’re united by something stronger. Dangers shared shoulder to shoulder, staring death in the face. And lots of blood, on both of us.”
The Benefactor nodded. He understood what he meant. He wo
uld have liked to have a wife like that hag, damn it. He wouldn’t have felt so alone when he had to make certain decisions. It was true, there were no ties like blood. That must be why he felt so tied to this country of ingrates, cowards, and traitors. Because in order to pull it out of backwardness, chaos, ignorance, and barbarism, he had often been stained with blood. Would these assholes thank him for it in the future?
Again he felt demoralized and crushed. Pretending to check his watch, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at his trousers. No stain at all on the crotch or on his fly. Knowing that did not raise his spirits. Again the memory of the girl at Mahogany House crossed his mind. An unpleasant episode. Would it have been better to shoot her on the spot, while she was looking at him with those eyes? Nonsense. He never had fired a gun gratuitously, least of all for things in bed. Only when there was no alternative, when it was absolutely necessary to move this country forward, or to wash away an insult.
“If you’ll permit me, Excellency.”
“Yes?”
“President Balaguer announced last night on the radio that the government would free a group of political prisoners.”
“Balaguer did what I ordered him to do. Why?”
“I’ll need a list of those who’ll be freed. So we can give them haircuts, shave them, dress them in decent clothes. I imagine they’ll be interviewed by the press.”
“I’ll send you the list as soon as I look it over. Balaguer thinks these gestures are useful in diplomacy. We’ll see. In any case, he made a good presentation.”
He had Balaguer’s speech on his desk. He read the underlined paragraph aloud: “The work of His Excellency Generalissimo Dr. Rafael L. Trujillo Molina has achieved a solidity that allows us, after thirty years of peaceful order and consecutive leadership, to offer America an example of the Latin American capacity for the conscious exercise of true representative democracy.”
The Feast of the Goat Page 9