“Why do you think I closed the door?” Rigoberto stopped her, raising an admonishing hand, not letting her speak. “Don’t you see that Fonchito and I are busy?”
“But they’re here, señor,” the maid said. “They’ve planted themselves at the door, and even though I told them you’re busy, they want to come in.”
“They?” Don Rigoberto gave a start. “The twins?”
“I didn’t know what else to tell them or what to do,” Justiniana said, very upset, speaking quietly and gesticulating. “I’m really sorry. They say it’s very urgent and will take only a few minutes of your time. What should I tell them, señor?”
“All right, show them into the living room,” Rigoberto said in a resigned voice. “You and Lucrecia stay alert in case something happens and you have to call the police.”
When Justiniana withdrew, Don Rigoberto grasped Fonchito’s arms and looked deep into his eyes. He regarded him with affection but also with an anxiety that was apparent in his uncertain, imploring speech.
“Foncho, Fonchito, my dear son, I beg you, I implore you for the sake of all you hold dear. Tell me that everything you’ve told me isn’t true. That you made it up. That it hasn’t happened. Tell me Edilberto Torres doesn’t exist, and you’ll make me the happiest creature on earth.”
He saw the boy’s face become demoralized as he bit his lips until they turned purple.
“Okay, Papa,” he heard him say, with an intonation no longer that of a child but of an adult. “Edilberto Torres doesn’t exist. I invented him. I’ll never talk about him to you again. Can I go now?”
Rigoberto agreed. He watched Fonchito leave the study and noted that his hands were trembling. Rigoberto’s heart was icy. He loved his son very much but, he thought, in spite of all his efforts, he’d never understand him, Fonchito would always be an unfathomable mystery to him. Before facing the hyenas, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He’d never get out of this labyrinth, more and more passageways, basement chambers, turns, and switchbacks. Is this what life was, a labyrinth that, no matter what you did, brought you ineluctably into the clutches of Polyphemus?
In the living room, Ismael Carrera’s sons stood waiting for him. Both were dressed in suits and ties, as usual, but contrary to his expectations, they hadn’t come to do battle. Was the defeated, victimized attitude they displayed authentic or merely a new tactic? What were they up to? Both greeted him with affection, patting him on the shoulder and making an effort to display contrition. Escobita was the first to apologize.
“I behaved very badly the last time we were here, uncle,” he whispered, downcast, wringing his hands. “I lost my temper, I said stupid things and insulted you. I was upset, half crazy. I beg your pardon. I’m in a state of confusion, I haven’t slept for weeks, I take pills for my nerves. My life’s become a calamity, Uncle Rigoberto. I swear we’ll never disrespect you again.”
“All of us are confused, and no wonder,” Don Rigoberto acknowledged. “The things that are happening make us all lose our tempers. I feel no rancor toward you. Sit down and let’s talk. To what do I owe this visit?”
“We can’t stand any more, uncle.” Miki came forward. He’d always seemed the more serious and judicious of the two, at least when it came time to speak. “Life has become unbearable for us. I suppose you know that. The police think we’ve kidnapped or killed Armida. They interrogate us and ask the most offensive questions. Snitches follow us day and night. They ask for bribes, and if we don’t give them something they come in and search our apartments at any hour. As if we were common criminals, what do you think of that?”
“And the papers and the television, uncle!” Escobita interjected. “Have you seen the filth they throw at us? Every day and every night on all the newscasts. We’re rapists, we’re drug addicts, and given that background we’re probably responsible for the disappearance of that damn chola. It’s so unfair, uncle!”
“If you begin by insulting Armida, who’s now your stepmother whether you like it or not, you’re off to a bad start, Escobita,” Don Rigoberto reprimanded him.
“You’re right, I’m sorry, but I’m already half crazed,” Escobita apologized. Miki was again obsessively biting his nails; he did it finger by finger, unceasingly, unmercifully. “You don’t know how awful it’s become to read the paper, or listen to the radio, or watch television. They slander you day and night, call you a degenerate, a bum, a cocaine addict, and I don’t know how many other vile things. What a country we live in, uncle!”
“And it’s no use filing lawsuits or appeals for legal protection, they say those are attacks on freedom of the press,” Miki complained. He smiled for absolutely no reason, then became serious again. “Well, we already know that journalism survives on scandals. Worst of all is the police. Doesn’t it seem monstrous to you that on top of what Papa did to us, now they’re trying to make us responsible for the disappearance of that woman? We’re under a travel ban during the investigation. We can’t even leave the country, right when the Open is starting in Miami.”
“What’s the Open?” Don Rigoberto asked, intrigued.
“The tennis championships, the Sony Ericsson Open,” Escobita explained. “Didn’t you know that Miki is a wizard with the racket, uncle? He’s won a pile of prizes. We’ve offered a reward to whoever helps locate Armida. And just between us, we can’t even pay it. We don’t have the money, uncle. We’re flat broke. Miki and I don’t have a goddamn penny left. Just debts. And since we’ve become contagious, no bank, no moneylender, no friend is willing to cough up a cent.”
“We don’t have anything left to sell or pawn, Uncle Rigoberto,” said Miki. His voice trembled so much that he spoke with long pauses and blinked constantly. “Not a cent, no credit, and as if that wasn’t enough, we’re suspected of kidnapping or murder. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”
“You’re our last hope.” Escobita grasped his hand and squeezed it firmly, nodding, with tears in his eyes. “Don’t fail us, please, uncle.”
Don Rigoberto couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. The twins had lost the haughtiness and certainty that had characterized them, they seemed defenseless, frightened, pleading for his compassion. How things had changed in so short a time!
“I’m very sorry for everything that’s happening to you, nephews,” he said, using that word sincerely for the first time. “I know somebody else’s suffering is no consolation, but at least think about this: With all the bad things happening to you, it must be much worse for poor Armida. Don’t you agree? Whether they’ve killed or kidnapped her, what a terrible thing for her, don’t you think? Then too, I believe I’ve also been the victim of a good number of injustices — your accusations, for example, of my complicity in the supposed deception that led to Ismael marrying Armida. Do you know how many times I’ve had to go to make a statement to the police and the investigating judge? Do you know how much lawyers are costing me? Do you know that months ago I had to cancel the trip with Lucrecia to Europe that we’d already paid for? I still can’t start collecting my pension from the insurance company because you two stalled the process. In short, if it’s a question of counting misfortunes, the three of us are neck and neck.”
They listened to him with heads lowered, silent, dejected, confused. Don Rigoberto heard strange music outside on the Barranco Seawalk. Was it the old knife grinder’s penny whistle again? These two seemed to summon him. Miki chewed his nails and Escobita swung his left foot in a slow, symmetrical motion. Yes, it was the knife grinder’s tune. It made him happy to hear it.