At Narihualá Transport he went to a quiet corner to make the call without Josefita hearing. A man’s voice answered immediately and seemed disconcerted when Felícito asked for Señor Don Rigoberto.
“Who’s calling?” the man asked, after a silence.
“I’m calling for a woman friend,” replied Felícito.
“Yes, yes, that’s me. What friend are you talking about?”
“A friend of yours who prefers not to say her name, for reasons you understand,” said Felícito. “I imagine you know who I mean.”
“Yes, I think so,” said Señor Rigoberto in a hoarse voice. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine, and sends you her regards. She’d like to talk to you, in person, if that’s possible.”
“Yes, of course, naturally,” the man said right away, without hesitating. “Very happy to. How should we do this?”
“Can you travel to the place she comes from?” asked Felícito.
There was a long silence, and another forced clearing of the throat.
“I could, if necessary,” he said finally. “When?”
“Whenever you like,” replied Felícito. “The sooner the better, of course.”
“I understand,” said Señor Rigoberto. “I’ll get tickets immediately. This afternoon.”
“I’ll reserve a hotel room for you,” said Felícito. “Could you call me on this cell when you’ve decided on the date you’ll be traveling? I’m the only one who uses it.”
“Very good, we’re agreed, then.” Señor Rigoberto said goodbye. “Happy to meet you and see you soon, sir.”
Felícito Yanaqué worked all afternoon at Narihualá Transport. From time to time he thought about Armida’s story, and wondered how much of it was true and how much was exaggerated. Was it possible that a rich man, owner of a large company, would marry his maid? He could barely wrap his mind around it. But was it much more unbelievable than a son stealing his father’s mistress and then the two of them trying to extort him? Greed drove men crazy, it was a known fact. As night was falling, Dr. Hildebrando Castro Pozo appeared in his office with a large sheaf of papers in a lime-green folder.
“As you can see it didn’t take much time, Don Felícito,” he said, handing him the folder. “These are the documents that have to be signed, there where I’ve written an X. Unless he’s an imbecile, he’ll be delighted to do it.”
Felícito reviewed them carefully, asked some questions that the attorney answered, and was satisfied. He thought he’d made a good decision, and even if this didn’t resolve all the problems plaguing him, at least it would lift a great weight from his shoulders. And the uncertainty that had followed him for so many years would evaporate forever.
When he left the office, instead of going straight to his house he made a detour and stopped at the police station on Avenida Sánchez Cerro. Captain Silva wasn’t there, but Sergeant Lituma received him. He was a little surprised at the sergeant’s solicitude.
“I want to talk to Miguel right away,” Felícito Yanaqué repeated. “I don’t care if you or Captain Silva are present at the interview.”
“That’s fine, Don Felícito, I imagine there won’t be any problem,” said the sergeant. “I’ll talk to the captain first thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Felícito as he took his leave. “Give my best to Captain Silva and tell him that my secretary, Señora Josefita, sends her regards.”
XVIII
Don Rigoberto, Doña Lucrecia, and Fonchito arrived in Piura at midmorning on the LAN Perú flight, and took a taxi to Hotel Los Portales on the Plaza de Armas. The reservations made by Felícito Yanaqué—a double room and an adjacent single — suited them perfectly. As soon as they’d settled in, the three of them went out for a walk. They took a turn around the Plaza de Armas, shaded by tall old tamarinds and colored at intervals by the bright red blossoms of poincianas.
It wasn’t very hot. They stopped for a while to look at the central monument, La Pola, a bold marble woman who represented liberty, a gift from President José Balta in 1870, and had a glance at the dreary cathedral. Then they sat down in a pastry shop, El Chalán, to have a cold drink. Rigoberto and Lucrecia, intrigued and somewhat skeptical, observed their environs and people they didn’t know. Would they really have the secret meeting with Armida as planned? They wanted to intensely, of course, but all the mystery surrounding this trip made it difficult for them to take any of it too seriously. At times they thought they were playing one of those games old people play in order to feel young.
“No, it can’t be a joke or a trap,” Don Rigoberto declared one more time, trying to convince himself. “The gentleman I spoke to on the phone made a good impression on me, as I’ve said. Undoubtedly humble, provincial, somewhat timid, but well intentioned. A good person, I’m certain. I have no doubt he was speaking for Armida.”
“Doesn’t it seem as if the whole situation is kind of unreal?” Doña Lucrecia replied with a nervous little laugh. She held a mother-of-pearl fan and fanned her face constantly. “It’s hard to believe the things that are happening to us, Rigoberto. Coming to Piura, telling everybody we needed a rest. Nobody believed it, of course.”
Fonchito didn’t seem to be listening. He sipped his eggfruit frappe from time to time, his eyes fixed on the table, totally indifferent to what his father and stepmother were saying, as if absorbed by a secret worry. He’d been this way since his last encounter with Edilberto Torres, which was why Don Rigoberto had decided to bring him to Piura, though he would miss a few days of school because of the trip.
“Edilberto Torres?” Don Rigoberto gave a start in his desk chair. “Him again? Talking about Bibles?”
“In the flesh, Fonchito,” said Edilberto Torres. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me. I don’t believe you’re so ungrateful.”
“I’ve just confessed and am doing the penance the priest gave me,” stammered Fonchito, more surprised than frightened. “I can’t talk to you now, señor, I’m very sorry.”
“In Fátima Church?” repeated Don Rigoberto, incredulous, swinging around as if suddenly possessed by Saint Vitus’s dance and dropping the book on Tantric art he was reading. “He was there? Inside the church?”
“I understand and beg your pardon,” said Edilberto Torres, lowering his voice, pointing at the altar with his index finger. “Pray, pray, Fonchito, it helps. We’ll talk afterward. I’m going to pray too.”
“Yes, in Fátima Church,” Fonchito confirmed, pale, his eyes a little wild. “My friends and I, the ones from the Bible group, went there for confession. The others had finished, and I was the last to go into the confessional. There weren’t many people left in the church. And suddenly I realized he was there, I don’t know for how long. Yes, right there, sitting next to me. I was really frightened, Papa. I know you don’t believe me, I know you’ll say I invented our meeting this time too. Talking about the Bible, yes.”
“All right, fine,” Don Rigoberto decided. “Now we should go back to the hotel. We’ll have lunch there. Señor Yanaqué said he’d get in touch with me some time this afternoon. If that’s really his name. An odd name, it sounds like the stage name of one of those rock singers covered with tattoos, doesn’t it?”
“It seems like a very Piuran last name to me,” Doña Lucrecia offered. “Maybe it’s Tallan.”