“Hold it right there, the election may have been easy for Landa, who ran unopposed,” Senator Arévalo said, “but in my district there were two slates and it cost me half a million soles to win, which is no joke.”
“You see, Hipólito got excited and he whacked you,” Ludovico said. “Who was it, who are they, where. Before Hipólito gets excited again, Trinidad.”
“It’s not my fault that the other slate in Chiclayo had Aprista
signatures
on its petitions.” Senator Landa laughed. “The Electoral Court turned it down, I didn’t.”
What happened to the banners? Trifulcio said suddenly, his eyes full of surprise. He had his pinned to his shirt like a flower. He pulled it off with one hand, showed it to the crowd with a challenging gesture. A few banners here and there rose up over the straw hats and the paper hats many had made to protect themselves from the sun. Where were the others, what did they think they were for, why didn’t they bring them out? Quiet, boy, the man who gave the orders said, everything’s working out fine. And Trifulcio: they took their drinks, but they forgot about the banners, sir. And the man who gave the orders: leave them alone,
everything
’s fine. And Trifulcio: it’s just that the ungrateful bastards make me mad, sir.
“What did your papa die of, son?” Ambrosio asks.
“This election hurly-burly may have made Landa younger, but it’s turned my hair gray,” Senator Arévalo said. “I’ve had enough elections for a while. I’m going to get laid five times tonight.”
“A heart attack,” Santiago says. “Or from the rages I made him have.”
“Five?” Senator Landa laughed. “You won’t have any ass left, Emilio.”
“And now Hipólito’s got all aroused,” Ludovico said. “Oh, mama, now you’re really going to get it, Trinidad.”
“Don’t say that, child,” Ambrosio says. “Don Fermín loved you so much. He always said Skinny’s the one I love the best.”
Solemn, martial, Don Emilio Arévalo’s voice floated over the square, went down the unpaved streets, was lost in the planted fields. He was in shirtsleeves, waving his arms, and his ring flashed beside Trifulcio’s face. He raised his voice, had he become angry? He looked at the crowd: quiet faces, eyes reddened with alcohol, boredom, or heat, mouths smoking or yawning. Had he become angry because they weren’t listening?
“You’ve become infected from rubbing elbows with the rabble so much during the campaign,” Senator Arévalo said. “I hope you won’t make jokes like that when you speak in the senate, Landa.”
“So much that he went through hell when you ran away from home, son,” Ambrosio says.
“Well, the gringo gave me his complaints, this is what they were all about,” Don Fermín said. “The elections are over, it makes a bad
impression
on his government to have the opposition candidate still in jail. Those gringos believe in formalities, you understand.”
“Every day he went to your Uncle Clodomiro’s and asked about you,” Ambrosio says. “What do you hear from Skinny, how’s Skinny?”
But suddenly Don Emilio stopped shouting and smiled and spoke as if he was happy. He smiled, his voice was soft, he was moving his hand, he looked as if he were holding a
muleta
and the bull had passed by, brushing his body. The people on the platform were smiling, and
Trifulcio
, relieved, smiled too.
“There’s no longer any reason to keep him in jail, they’re going to release him any day now,” Senator Arévalo said. “Didn’t you tell that to the Ambassador, Fermín?”
“What do you know, you’ve started talking,” Ludovico said. “Or maybe you’d rather have Hipólito petting you than hitting you. What do you say, Trinidad?”
“And to the boardinghouse in Barranco where you were living,” Ambrosio says. “And asking the landlady what’s my son doing, how’s my son.”
“I don’t understand those shitty gringos,” Senator Landa said. “It seemed fine to them for Montagne to be put in jail before the elections, but now it doesn’t. They send us circus people for ambassadors, those people.”
“He used to go to the boardinghouse and ask about me?” Santiago asks.
“I told him that, of course, but last night I spoke to Espina and he has his doubts,” Don Fermín said. “We have to wait, if Montagne is let out now people might think he was put in jail so that Odría could win the elections without any opposition, that the business of the plot was all a lie.”
“That you’re Haya de la Torre’s right-hand man?” Ludovico asked. “That you’re the real headman of APRA and Haya de la Torre is your flunky, Trinidad?”
“Of course, son, all the time,” Ambrosio says. “He’d give the landlady a tip so she wouldn’t tell you.”
“Espina’s a hopeless dumbbell,” Senator Landa said. “He evidently thinks there’s someone who swallowed the tale of a plot. Even my maid knows that Montagne was put in jail to leave the field to Odría.”
“Don’t kid us like that, pappy,” Hipólito said. “Do you want me to stick my prick in your mouth, or what, Trinidad?”
“The boss thought you’d get mad if you found out,” Ambrosio says.
“The truth is that arresting Montagne was a bad step,” Senator Arévalo said. “I don’t know why they allowed an opposition candidate if they were going to take a step backward at the last minute and put him in jail. The political advisers are to blame. Arbeláez, that idiot Ferro, and even you, Fermín.”
“You can see how much your papa loved you, son,” Ambrosio says.
“Things didn’t turn out the way they were expected to, Don Emilio,” Don Fermín said. “We could have had a scare with Montagne. Besides, I wasn’t in favor of putting him in jail. In any case, now we have to try to patch things up.”
He was shouting now and his arms were like those of a windmill, and his voice rose and thundered like a great wave that suddenly broke Long live Peru! A volley of applause on the platform, a volley on the square. Trifulcio was waving his banner, Long Live Don Emilio Arévalo, now a lot of banners did appear among the heads, Long Live General Odría, now they did. The loudspeakers scratched for a second, then they flooded the square with the National Anthem.
“I told Espina what I thought when he announced to me that he was going to arrest Montagne on the pretext of a plot,” Don Fermín said. “Nobody’s going to swallow it, it’s going to hurt the General, don’t we have people we can trust on the Electoral Court, at the polling places? But Espina’s an imbecile, no political tact.”
“So, the headman, so, a thousand Apristas are going to attack
Headquarters
and rescue you,” Ludovico said. “You think that by acting crazy you’re going to make fools out of us, Trinidad.”
“I’m not being nosy, but why did you run away from home that time, son?” Ambrosio asks. “Weren’t you well off at home with your folks?”
Don Emilio Arévalo was sweating; he was shaking the hands that converged on him from all sides, he wiped his forehead, smiled, waved, embraced the people on the platform, and the wooden frame swayed as Don Emilio approached the steps. Now it was your turn, Trifulcio.
“Too well off, that’s why I left,” Santiago says. “I was so pure and thick-headed that it bothered me having such an easy life and being a nice young boy.”
“The funny thing is that the idea of putting him in jail didn’t come from the Uplander,” Don Fermín said. “Or from Arbeláez or Ferro. The one who convinced them, the one who insisted was Bermúdez.”
“So pure and so thick-headed that I thought that by fucking myself up a little I would make myself a real little man, Ambrosio,” Santiago says.
“That all of it was the work of an insignificant Director of Public Order, an underling, I can’t swallow either,” Senator Landa said. “
Uplander
Espina invented it so he could toss the ball to someone else if things turned out badly.”
Trifulcio was there, at the foot of the stairs, defending his place with his elbows, spitting on his hands, his gaze fanatically fastened on Don Emilio’s feet, which were approaching, mixed in with others, his body tense, his feet firmly planted on the ground: his turn, it was his turn.
“You have to believe it because it’s the truth,” Don Fermín said. “And don’t tar him so much. Whether you like it or not, that underling is becoming the man the General trusts the most.”
“There he is, Hipólito, I’m making a present of him to you,” Ludovico said. “Get those ideas of being headman out of his brain once and for all.”
“Then it wasn’t because you had different political ideas from your papa?” Ambrosio asks.
“He believes him implicitly, he thinks he’s infallible,” Don Fermín said. “When Bermúdez has an opinion, Ferro, Arbeláez, Espina and even I can go to the devil, we don’t exist. That was evident in the Montagne affair.”
“My poor old man didn’t have any political ideas,” Santiago says. “Only political interests, Ambrosio.”
Trifulcio took a leap, his feet were already on the last step, he gave a shove, another, and he crouched down and was going to lift him up. No, no, friend, a smiling, modest and surprised Don Emilio said, thank you very much but, and Trifulcio let go of him, drew back confused, his eyes blinking, but, but? and Don Emilio seemed confused too, and in the group tight around him there were nudges, whispering.
“The fact is that even though he may not be infallible, he does have balls,” Senator Arévalo said. “In a year and a half he’s wiped the map clean of Apristas and Communists and we were able to hold elections.”
“Are you still the headman of APRA, pappy?” Ludovico asked. “Fine, very good. Go right ahead, Hipólito.”
“The Montagne affair was this way,” Don Fermín said. “One fine day Bermúdez disappeared from Lima and came back two weeks later. I’ve covered half the country, General, if Montagne runs in the election, you’ll lose.”
What are you waiting for, you imbecile, said the man who gave the orders, and Trifulcio shot an anguished glance at Don Emilio, who made him a signal of quick or hurry up. Trifulcio’s head lowered rapidly, crossed the fork made by his legs, and he lifted Don Emilio up like a feather.
“That was nonsense,” Senator Landa said. “Montagne never had a chance of winning. He didn’t have the money for a good campaign, we controlled the whole electoral apparatus.”
“And why did you think my old man was such a great person?” Santiago asks.
“But the Apristas would have voted for him, all the enemies of the government would have voted for him,” Don Fermín said. “Bermúdez convinced him. If I run under these conditions, I’ll lose. That’s how it ended up, that’s why they arrested him.”
“Because he was, son,” Ambrosio says. “So intelligent and such a gentleman and so everything else.”
He heard applause and cheers as he went along with his load on his back, surrounded by Téllez, Urondo, the foreman and the man who gave the orders, he also shouting Arévalo-Odría, secure, tranquil, holding the legs tight, feeling Don Emilio’s fingers in his hair, seeing the other hand that was giving thanks and shaking the hands that reached out to him.
“Leave him alone now, Hipólito,” Ludovico said. “Can’t you see that you’ve already sent him off to dreamland?”
“I didn’t think he was a great man, I thought he was a swine,” Santiago says. “And I hated him.”
“He’s faking,” Hipólito said. “Let me show you.”
The National Anthem had finished when they were through walking around the square. There was a roll of drums, silence, and a
marinera
started up. Among the heads and the food and drink stands Trifulcio saw a couple dancing: O.K., take him to the black truck, boy. To the truck, sir.
“The best thing would be for us to talk to him,” Senator Arévalo said. “You tell him about your talk with the Ambassador, Fermín, and we’ll tell him that the elections are over, poor Montagne is no danger to anybody, let him go and that gesture will win him support. That’s the way you have to work with Odría.”
“Child, child,” Ambrosio says. “How can you say that about him, son?”
“You really do know peasant psychology, senator,” Senator Landa said.
“You can see he’s not faking,” Ludovico said. “Leave him alone now.”
“But I don’t hate him anymore, not anymore now that he’s dead,” Santiago says. “He was one, but he didn’t know it, it was unconscious. Anyway, there’s a surplus of swine in this country, and I think he paid for it, Ambrosio.”
Put him down now, said the man who gave the orders, and Trifulcio squatted down: he watched Don Emilio’s feet touch the ground, watched his hands brush off his pant legs. He got into the van and behind him Téllez, Urondo and the foreman. Trifulcio sat in front. A group of men and women were looking, open-mouthed. Laughing, putting his head out the window, Trifulcio shouted at them: Long live Don Emilio Arévalo!
“I didn’t know that Bermúdez had so much influence in the Palace,” Senator Landa said. “Is it true that he’s got a mistress who’s a ballerina or something like that?”
“All right, Ludovico, don’t carry on so much,”’ Hipólito said. “I’ve already left him alone.”
“He’s just set her up in a house in San Miguel,” Don Fermín said. “The one who used to be Muelle’s mistress.”
“Did you also think the one you worked for before you were my old man’s chauffeur was a great man?” Santiago asks.
“The Muse?” Senator Landa said. “I’ll be damned, she’s quite a woman. Is she Bermúdez’ mistress? She’s a high-flying bird and if you want to keep her caged up you’ve got to have your pockets well lined.”
“I think he’s already got away from you. Shit,” Ludovico said. “Throw some water on him, do something, don’t just stand there.”
“So high-flying that she put Muelle in his grave.” Don Fermín laughed. “And a dyke and she takes drugs.”
“Don Cayo?” Ambrosio asks. “Never, son, he couldn’t come close to your papa.”
“He didn’t get away, he’s still alive,” Hipólito said. “What are you afraid of, I didn’t leave a scratch or a bruise on him. He passed out from fright, Ludovico.”
“Who isn’t queer these days, who doesn’t take drugs in Lima?”
Senator
Landa said. “We’re really getting civilized, aren’t we?”
“Weren’t you ashamed to work for that son of a bitch?” Santiago asks.
“It’s all set, then, we’ll see Odría tomorrow,” Senator Arévalo said. “Today they’ve put the presidential sash on him and we have to let him spend his day looking at himself in the mirror and enjoying it.”