The Feast of the Goat

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “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.

  Yes, of all the outrages committed by Petán, the one he would never forgive was that stupid fight with the head of the Army General Staff. The giant Vázquez Rivera had been Trujillo’s good friend since they trained together in Haina; he possessed an uncommon strength that he cultivated by practicing every sport. He was one of the officers who contributed to the realization of Trujillo’s dream: transforming the Army, born of the small National Police, into a professional, disciplined, efficient force, a replica in miniature of the U.S. Army. And then, when it had been accomplished, the stupid fight. Petán held the rank of major and served in the leadership of the Army General Staff. He disobeyed an order when he was drunk, General Vázquez Rivera reprimanded him, and Petán became insulting. The giant took off his insignia, pointed to the courtyard, and suggested they forget about rank and resolve the matter with their fists. It was the most ferocious beating of Petán’s life, and with it he paid for all the ones he had given to so many poor bastards. Saddened, but convinced that the family’s honor obliged him to act as he did, Trujillo demoted his friend and sent him to Europe on a merely symbolic mission. A year later, the Intelligence Service informed him of the resentful general’s subversive plans: he was visiting garrisons, meeting with former subordinates, hiding arms on his small farm in Cibao. He had him arrested, sent to the military prison at the mouth of the Nigua River, and some time later secretly condemned to death by a military tribunal. To drag him to the gallows, the commander of the fortress had to use twelve prisoners serving sentences for common crimes. So there would be no witnesses to the titanic end of General Vázquez Rivera, Trujillo ordered the twelve outlaws shot. Despite the time that had passed, he sometimes felt, as he did now, a certain nostalgia for that companion of his heroic years, the one he had to sacrifice because Petán was an imbecile and a troublemaker.

  Simon Gittleman was explaining that the committees he had established in the United States had begun collecting money for a major campaign: that very day they would publish full-page advertisements in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Time, the Los Angeles Times, and all the publications that were attacking Trujillo and supporting the OAS sanctions, to refute the accusations and argue in favor of reopening relations with the Dominican regime.

  Why had Simon Gittleman asked about Agustín Cabral? He made an effort to control the irritation that overpowered him as soon as he thought about Egghead. There could be no evil intent. If anyone admired and respected Trujillo, it was the former Marine, dedicated body and soul to defending his regime. He must have mentioned the name through an association of ideas, when he saw the Constitutional Sot and recalled that Chirinos and Cabral were—in the eyes of someone who was not privy to the workings of the regime—inseparable companions. Yes, they had been. Trujillo often gave them joint assignments. As he had in 1937, when he named them Director General of Statistics and Director General of Migration and sent them to travel along the border and report on the infiltration of Haitians. But the friendship between the two men was always relative: it ceased as soon as consideration or flattery from the Chief came into play. It amused Trujillo—an exquisite, secret game that he could permit himself—to observe the subtle maneuvers, the secretive stabbings, the Florentine intrigues devised against one another by the Walking Turd and Egghead, but also by Virgilio Álvarez Pina and Paíno Pichardo, Joaquín Balaguer and Fello Bonnelly, Modesto Díaz and Vicente Tolentino Rojas, and everyone else in his close circle—to displace a comrade, move ahead, be closer to and deserve greater attention, a clo
ser hearing, more jokes, from the Chief. “Like women in a harem competing to be the favorite,” he thought. And in order to keep them always on the alert, to keep them from becoming moth-eaten and to avoid routine and ennui, he alternated them on the list, sending one, then the other, into disgrace. He had done it with Cabral: distanced him, made him aware that everything he was, everything he was worth, everything he had, he owed to Trujillo, that without the Benefactor he was nobody. A trial he had forced all his collaborators, close or distant, to endure. Egghead had handled it badly and become desperate, like a woman in love abandoned by her man. Because he wanted to straighten things out too soon, he was making serious mistakes. He would have to swallow a lot more shit before he came back into existence.

  Could it be that Cabral, knowing Trujillo was going to decorate the former Marine, had begged Gittleman to intercede on his behalf? Was that the reason he had mentioned, in so inopportune a way, the name of someone who was out of favor with the regime, as every Dominican who read “The Public Forum” knew? Well, perhaps Simon Gittleman didn’t read El Caribe.

  His blood froze: urine was coming out. He felt it, he thought he could see the yellow liquid pouring out of his bladder without asking permission of that useless valve, that dead prostate incapable of containing it, then moving toward his urethra, running merrily through it and coming out in search of air and light, through his underwear, his fly, the crotch of his trousers. He felt faint. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, shaken by indignation and impotence. Unfortunately, instead of Virgilio Álvarez Pina, he had Dorothy Gittleman on his right and Simon on his left, and they couldn’t help him. Virgilio could. He was president of the Dominican Party, but, in fact, since Dr. Puigvert, brought in secret from Barcelona, had diagnosed the damn infection in his prostate, his really important function had been to act quickly when one of these acts of incontinence occurred, to spill a glass of water or wine on the Benefactor and then beg a thousand pardons for his clumsiness, or, if it happened on a podium or during a parade, to place himself like a screen in front of the stained trousers. But the imbeciles in charge of protocol had placed Virgilio Álvarez four seats away. Nobody could help him. When he stood up he would suffer the horrific mortification of letting the Gittlemans and some of the guests see that he had pissed in his pants without realizing it, like an old man. Rage kept him from moving, from pretending he was going to take a drink and spilling the glass or pitcher that was in front of him.