Because of these attributes, the perpetual parliamentarian Henry Chirinos had been everything one could be during the thirty years of the Era: deputy, senator, Minister of Justice, member of the Constitutional Tribunal, ambassador plenipotentiary and chargé d’affaires, governor of the Central Bank, president of the Trujillonian Institute, member of the Central Council of the Dominican Party, and, for the past few years, the position that required the greatest confidence, supervisor of the Benefactor’s business operations. As such, Agriculture, Commerce, and Finance were subordinate to him. Why entrust such enormous responsibility to a confirmed alcoholic? Because, in addition to being a shyster, he knew about economics. He had done well as the head of the Central Bank, and in Finance, for a few months. And because, in recent years, due to ambushes from all sides, the Benefactor needed someone in the post who was absolutely reliable and could be told about the family’s entanglements and disputes. And for that, this alcoholic greaseball was invaluable.
How did it happen that an uncontrollable drinker had not lost his skill in legal intrigue, or his capacity for work, the only one, perhaps, after the fall into disgrace of Anselmo Paulino, that the Benefactor could compare to his own? The Walking Turd could work ten or twelve hours without stopping, drink himself blind, and the next day be in his office in Congress, in the Ministry, or in the National Palace, fresh and lucid, dictating legal reports to the stenographers or expounding with florid eloquence on political, legal, economic, and constitutional matters. Besides all that, he wrote acrostic, celebratory poems, historical articles and books, and was one of the best-sharpened pens used by Trujillo to distill the poison of “The Public Forum” in El Caribe.
“How are the businesses doing?”
“Very badly, Chief.” Senator Chirinos took a deep breath. “At this rate, they’ll soon be at death’s door. I’m sorry to tell you this, but you don’t pay me to deceive you. If the sanctions aren’t lifted soon, it’ll be catastrophic.”
He opened his bulky briefcase, took out rolls of papers, and notebooks, and proceeded to analyze the principal enterprises, beginning with the plantations of the Dominican Sugar Corporation and continuing with Dominican Air, the cement factory, the lumber companies and the sawmills, the import-export offices and commercial establishments. The music of names and figures lulled the Generalissimo, who was barely listening: Atlas Commercial, Caribbean Motors, Tobacco Products S.A., Dominican Cotton Consortium, Chocolate Manufacturing Company, Dominican Footwear Manufacturers, Granulated Salt Distributors, Vegetable Oil Processors, Dominican Cement Factory, Dominican Record Production, Dominican Battery Factory, Sack and Cordage Company, Read Iron Works, El Marino Iron Works, Dominican-Suisse Manufacturing, Dairy Processing, Altagracia Liquor Industries, National Glass Industries, National Paper Industries, Dominican Mills, Dominican Paints, Retreading Plant, Quisqueya Motors, Salt Refinery, Dominican Textile Mills, San Rafael Insurance, Real Estate Corporation, El Caribe newspaper. The Walking Turd left for last the businesses in which the Trujillo family had minority interests, barely mentioning that there was no “positive movement” here either. He said nothing that the Benefactor did not already know: what was not paralyzed by a lack of investment and replacement parts was operating at a third, even a tenth, of capacity. The catastrophe had already arrived, in spades. But at least—the Benefactor sighed—what the gringos thought would be the final blow had not succeeded: cutting off his supply of oil and replacement parts for cars and planes. Johnny Abbes García had arranged for fuel to come in through Haiti, crossing the border as contraband. The surchargé was high but the consumer didn’t pay for it; the regime was absorbing the subsidy. The State could not tolerate this hemorrhaging for much longer. Because of the restrictions on foreign currency and the paralysis of exports and imports, its economic life had come to a standstill.
“Practically speaking, there is no income in any of the enterprises, Chief. Only expenditures. Since they were flourishing before, they can survive for now. But not indefinitely.”
He sighed melodramatically, as he did when he gave a funeral eulogy, another of his great specialties.
“Let me remind you that not a single worker, farmer, or employee has been laid off, even though the economic war has gone on for more than a year. These enterprises provide sixty percent of the jobs in the country. Think of how serious this is. Trujillo cannot go on supporting two-thirds of Dominican families when all of his businesses are half paralyzed because of the sanctions. And so…”
“And so…”
“Either you give me authorization to reduce personnel in order to cut costs, hoping for better times…”
“Do you want an explosion of thousands of unemployed workers?” Trujillo categorically cut him off. “Add a social problem to the ones I already have?”
“There is an alternative, one that has been used in exceptional circumstances,” Senator Chirinos replied with a Mephistophelian little smile. “And isn’t this one? Well, then. The State, in order to guarantee employment and economic activity, assumes control of strategic enterprises. The State nationalizes, say, a third of manufacturing firms and a half of farming and livestock enterprises. There are still enough funds for that in the Central Bank.”
“What the hell do I gain by that?” an irritated Trujillo interrupted. “What do I gain if dollars move from the Central Bank to an account in my name?”
“What you gain is that from now on, the damage signified by three hundred enterprises operating at a loss doesn’t come out of your pocket, Chief. I repeat, if this goes on, they’ll all be bankrupt. My advice is technical. The only way to avoid the dissolution of your patrimony because of the economic blockade is to transfer the losses to the State. It isn’t good for anybody if you’re ruined, Chief.”
Trujillo had a feeling of fatigue. The sun was growing hotter, and like all visitors to his office, Senator Chirinos was perspiring. From time to time he wiped his face with a blue handkerchief. He too would have liked the Generalissimo to have an air conditioner. But Trujillo detested the fake air that chilled you, the false atmosphere. He tolerated only a fan, on extremely hot days. Besides, he was proud of being the man-who-never-sweats.
He was silent for a moment, meditating, and his face soured.
“You’re another one who thinks, in the back of your piggish brain, that I take over farms and businesses for profit,” he said in a weary tone. “Don’t interrupt. If you don’t know me yet, after so many years at my side, what can I expect from the rest? They believe I’m interested in power in order to get rich.”
“I know very well that isn’t so, Chief.”
“Do you need me to explain it again, for the hundredth time? If those businesses didn’t belong to the Trujillo family, those jobs wouldn’t exist. And the Dominican Republic would still be the backward African country it was when I picked it up and put it on my shoulders. You haven’t realized that yet.”
“I realize that perfectly, Chief.”
“Are you stealing from me?”
Chirinos gave another start, and the ashen color of his face darkened. He blinked in alarm.
“What are you saying, Chief? As God is my witness…”
“I know you aren’t,” Trujillo reassured him. “And why don’t you steal, even though you have the power to make or break us financially? Out of loyalty? Maybe. But more than anything else, out of fear. You know that if you steal from me and I find out, I’d turn you over to Johnny Abbes, and he’d take you to La Cuarenta, sit you on the Throne, and burn you to a crisp before he threw you to the sharks. All the things that tickle the overheated imaginations of the head of the SIM and the little team he’s put together. That’s why you don’t steal from me. And that’s why the managers, administrators, accountants, engineers, veterinarians, foremen, et cetera, et cetera, in the companies you oversee, that’s why they don’t steal from me either. That’s why their work is conscientious and efficient, that’s why the enterprises have prospered and multiplied and turned the Dominica
n Republic into a modern, prosperous country. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Chief.” The Constitutional Sot gave another start. “You’re absolutely right.”
“On the other hand,” Trujillo continued, as if he hadn’t heard him, “you’d steal everything you could lay your hands on if you were doing the work you do for the Vicini family, the Valdéz family, the Armenteros family, instead of the Trujillo family. And you’d steal even more if the enterprises belonged to the State. Then you’d really line your pockets. Now can your brain grasp the reason for all the businesses, all the land, all the livestock?”
“To serve the nation, I know that better than anybody, Excellency,” Senator Chirinos swore. He was frightened, and Trujillo could see it in the way he clutched the briefcase tight against his belly, and the increasingly unctuous manner in which he spoke. “I didn’t mean to suggest anything to the contrary, Chief. God forbid!”
“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 m
oving, 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?”
The Feast of the Goat Page 15