Sometimes he would spend a long time with his mother, recounting the day’s events even if she couldn’t understand him. Today he merely said a few tender words and returned to Máximo Gómez, impatient to breathe in the scent of the ocean.
As soon as he came out onto the broad Avenida—the cluster of civilians and officers parted again—he began to walk. He could see the Caribbean eight blocks away, aflame with the fiery gold of sunset. He felt another surge of satisfaction. He walked on the right, followed by the courtiers who fanned out behind him in groups that occupied the roadway and sidewalk. At this hour traffic was prohibited on Máximo Gómez and the Avenida, although, on his orders, Johnny Abbes had made the security on the side streets almost invisible because intersections crawling with guards and caliés eventually gave him claustrophobia. No one crossed the barrier of military adjutants a meter from the Chief. Everyone waited for him to indicate who could approach. After half a block, breathing in the perfume of the gardens, he turned, looked for the balding head of Modesto Díaz, and signaled to him. There was some confusion because the fleshy Senator Chirinos, who was next to Modesto Díaz, thought he was the anointed one and hurried toward the Generalissimo. He was intercepted and sent back to the crowd. For Modesto Díaz, who was very stout, keeping pace with Trujillo on these walks cost him a great effort. He was perspiring profusely. He held his handkerchief in his hand and from time to time wiped his forehead, his neck, and his fat cheeks.
“Good afternoon, Chief.”
“You have to go on a diet,” Trujillo advised. “Barely fifty and you’re breathing hard. Learn from me, seventy years old and in great shape.”
“My wife says the same thing every day, Chief. She fixes chicken broth and salads for me. But I don’t feel like eating that. I can give up everything except good food.”
His obese body could barely keep up with him. Modesto, like his brother, General Juan Tomás Díaz, had a broad face, flat nose, thick lips, and a complexion with unmistakable racial reminiscences, but he was more intelligent than his brother and most of the other Dominicans Trujillo knew. He had been president of the Dominican Party, a congressman, a minister; but the Generalissimo did not allow him to stay too long in the government, precisely because his mental acuity when expounding, analyzing, and solving a problem seemed dangerous, something that could puff up his pride and lead him to treason.
“What conspiracy has Juan Tomás gotten himself involved in?” He asked the question and turned to look at him. “You know what your brother and son-in-law are up to, I suppose.”
Modesto smiled, as if enjoying a joke:
“Juan Tomás? Between his estates and his businesses, his whiskey and the movies he shows in his garden, I doubt he has any time left for conspiracies.”
“He’s conspiring with Henry Dearborn, the Yankee diplomat,” Trujillo declared as if he had not heard him. “He should stop that bullshit; he went through a bad time once and he can go through another that’s even worse.”
“My brother isn’t fool enough to conspire against you, Chief. But even so, I’ll tell him.”
How pleasant: the sea breeze cleared his lungs, and he could hear the crash of waves breaking against the rocks and the cement wall of the Avenida. Modesto Díaz made a move to leave, but the Benefactor stopped him:
“Wait, I haven’t finished. Or can’t you take it anymore?”
“For you I’d risk a heart attack.”
Trujillo rewarded him with a smile. He always liked Modesto, who, in addition to being intelligent, was thoughtful, fair, affable, and unduplicitous. Still, his intelligence could not be controlled and used, like Egghead’s, the Constitutional Sot’s, or Balaguer’s. Modesto’s had an indomitable edge, an independence that could become seditious if he acquired too much power. He and Juan Tomás were also from San Cristóbal, he had known them since they were boys, and in addition to awarding him posts, he had used Modesto on countless occasions as an adviser. He had subjected him to rigorous tests, and he had always come through successfully. The first one came in the late forties, after Trujillo visited the Livestock Show for pedigree bulls and dairy cows that Modesto Díaz organized in Villa Mella. What a surprise: his farm, not very large, was as clean, modern, and prosperous as the Fundación Ranch. More than the impeccable stables and splendid cows, it was Modesto’s arrogant satisfaction as he showed his breeding farm to him and the other guests that wounded the Chief’s sensibilities. The following day he sent the Walking Turd, with a check for ten thousand pesos, to formalize the transfer of ownership. Without the slightest hesitation at having to sell his most prized possession at a ridiculously low price (just one of his cows cost more), Modesto signed the contract and sent a handwritten note to Trujillo expressing his gratitude that “Your Excellency considers my small cattle-breeding enterprise worthy of being developed by your experienced hand.” After considering whether those lines contained some punishable irony, the Benefactor decided they did not. Five years later, Modesto Díaz had another large, beautiful ranch in a remote region of La Estrella. Did he think it was so far away it would go unnoticed? Weak with laughter, he sent Egghead Cabral with another check for ten thousand pesos, claiming he had so much confidence in his cattle-raising talents that he was buying the farm sight unseen. Modesto signed the bill of sale, pocketed the symbolic sum, and thanked the Generalissimo in another affectionate note. To reward his docility, Trujillo subsequently granted him the exclusive concession to import washing machines and electric mixers, which allowed the brother of General Juan Tomás Díaz to recoup his losses.
“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 unt
il 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 o
f 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:
The Feast of the Goat Page 36