He paid the check and the three of them left the pastry shop. When they crossed the Plaza de Armas, Rigoberto had to push aside the shoeshine boys and lottery-ticket sellers who kept offering their services. Now it was definitely hotter. The sun was white in a cloudless sky, and all around them trees, benches, flagstones, people, dogs, cars seemed to be burning.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” murmured Fonchito, pierced by sorrow. “I know I’m giving you bad news, I know this is a difficult time for you, with the death of Señor Carrera and the disappearance of Armida. I know it’s rotten for me to do this. But you asked me to tell you everything, to tell you the truth. Isn’t that what you want, Papa?”
“I’ve had some financial problems, like everyone else these days, and my health is none too good,” said Señor Edilberto Torres, downcast and sad. “I’ve gone out very little recently. That’s the reason you haven’t seen me in so many weeks, Fonchito.”
“Did you come to this church because you knew I’d be here with my friends from the Bible-study group?”
“I came here to meditate, to ease my mind and see things more calmly, with greater perspective,” explained Edilberto Torres, but he didn’t look serene. He was trembling, as if suffering great anguish. “I do this frequently. I know half the churches in Lima, perhaps even more. This atmosphere of withdrawal, silence, and prayer does me good. I even like the pious old women and the smell of incense and antiquity that permeates the small chapels. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, and proud of it. I also pray and read the Bible, Fonchito, even though that surprises you. More proof that I’m not the devil, as your papa believes.”
“He’s going to be sad when he finds out I’ve seen you,” the boy said. “He thinks you don’t exist, that I invented you. And my stepmother does too. They really believe it. That’s why my papa was so enthusiastic when you said you could help him with the legal problems he had. He wanted to see you, meet with you. But you disappeared.”
“It’s never too late,” declared Señor Torres. “I’d be delighted to meet with Rigoberto and ease any concerns he has about me. I’d like to be his friend. I’d guess we’re about the same age. The truth is I don’t have friends, only acquaintances. I’m certain he and I would get along very well.”
“I’ll have a dried-beef stew,” Don Rigoberto told the waiter. “It’s a typical Piuran dish, isn’t it?”
Doña Lucrecia ordered grilled sea bass with a mixed salad, and Fonchito only a ceviche. The dining room at the Hotel Los Portales was almost empty, and some slow-moving fans kept the air cool. They drank lemonade with lots of ice.
“I want to believe you, I know you don’t lie to me, that you’re an honest kid with decent feelings,” Don Rigoberto concurred, his expression exasperated. “But this individual has become a burden in my life and in Lucrecia’s. It’s clear we’ll never be free of him, that he’ll pursue us to the grave. What did he want this time?”
“For us to have a conversation about profound things, a dialogue between friends,” said Edilberto Torres. “God, the afterlife, the world of the spirit, transcendence. Since you’re reading the Bible, I know those topics interest you, Fonchito, and I know too that you’re somewhat disappointed by your readings in the Old Testament. That you were expecting something else.”
“And how do you know that, señor?”
“A little bird told me,” Edilberto Torres said with a smile, but there was no joy at all in his smile, only the usual hidden anxiety. “Pay no attention to me, I’m joking. All I wanted to say is that the same thing happens to everybody who begins reading the Old Testament. Keep it up, keep it up, don’t be discouraged, and you’ll see that very soon your impression will change.”
Don Rigoberto gave another start behind his desk. “How did he know you’re disappointed by your biblical reading? Is that true, Fonchito? Are you?”
“I don’t know if I’m disappointed,” Fonchito admitted, somewhat sharply. “It’s just that everything’s so violent. Beginning with God, with Yahweh. I never would have imagined He was so fierce, hurling so many curses, commanding adulterous women to be stoned, ordering those who failed to perform the rituals to be killed. That He’d have the foreskins of the enemies of the Hebrews cut off. I didn’t even know what foreskin meant until I read the Bible, Papa.”
“Those were barbarous times, Fonchito,” Edilberto Torres reassured him, pausing frequently as he spoke without changing his taciturn expression. “All that happened thousands of years ago, in the days of idolatry and cannibalism. A world where tyranny and fanaticism reigned. Besides, you shouldn’t take what the Bible says literally. A good deal that appears there is symbolic, poetic, exaggerated. When fearsome Yahweh disappears and Jesus Christ appears, God will become gentle, pitying, and compassionate, you’ll see. But for that you have to get to the New Testament. Patience and perseverance, Fonchito.”
“He told me again that he wants to see you, Papa. Anyplace, anytime. He’d like to be friends with you, since you’re the same age.”
“I heard that story the last time that ghost materialized next to you, on the jitney,” Don Rigoberto said mockingly. “Wasn’t he going to help me with my legal problems? And what happened? He vanished into thin air! It’ll be the same thing this time. Well, son, I don’t understand you. Do you or don’t you like the Bible readings you’re doing now?”
“I don’t know if we’re doing it the right way.” The boy avoided answering. “Because, though sometimes we like it a lot, other times everything gets very complicated with all the nations the Jews fight in the desert. It’s impossible to remember so many exotic names. We’re more interested in the stories. They’re not like religious stories, more like adventures from Arabian Nights. Pecas Sheridan, one of my friends, said the other day that this wasn’t a good way to read the Bible, that we weren’t taking full advantage of it. That it would be better to have a guide. A priest, for example. What do you think, señor?”
“This tastes pretty good,” said Don Rigoberto, chewing a mouthful of his dried-beef stew. “I like the chifles a lot, that’s what they call fried plantain slices here. But I’m afraid with all this heat it’ll be a little hard to digest.”
After they finished their dishes they ordered ice cream and were just beginning their dessert when they saw a woman come into the restaurant. Standing in the doorway, she scrutinized the place, looking for someone. She was no longer young, but there was something fresh and bright about her, the youthful traces in her plump, smiling face, her bulging eyes and wide, heavily painted mouth. Her false, fluttering lashes were charming, her round, gaily colored earrings danced, and she had on a very tight white dress with a flower print; her generous hips did not keep her from moving with agility. After looking over the three or four occupied tables, she headed resolutely for the one where the three of them were sitting. “Señor Rigoberto, right?” she asked, smiling. She shook hands with each one and sat down in the empty chair.
“My name’s Josefita and I’m Señor Felícito Yanaqué’s secretary,” she introduced herself. “Welcome to the land of the tondero dance and the ‘hey waddya think.’ Is this your first time in Piura?”
She spoke not only with her mouth but also with her expressive, darting green eyes, moving her hands constantly.
“The first, but it won’t be the last,” Don Rigoberto replied pleasantly. “Señor Yanaqué couldn’t come?”
“He preferred not to, because, as you probably know, Don Felícito can’t set foot on the streets of Piura without a swarm of reporters following him.”
“Reporters?” Don Rigoberto was amazed, opening his eyes very wide. “And may I ask why they’re following him, Señora Josefita?”