The memory of the storekeeper Lau remained vivid for Felícito. After thirty years it was made real every morning, each time he did qigong exercises. After so much time he still wondered about the story of Lau and his sister, why they’d left China, what vicissitudes they’d suffered before they washed up in Piura, condemned to their sad, solitary existence. Lau repeated frequently that one always had to find the center, something he, apparently, had never achieved. Felícito told himself that perhaps today, when he did what he was going to do, he’d recover his lost center.
He felt somewhat tired when he finished, his heart beating a little faster. He showered calmly, polished his shoes, put on a clean shirt, and went to the kitchen to prepare his usual breakfast of goat’s milk, coffee, and a slice of black bread that he toasted and spread with butter and dark honey. It was six thirty in the morning when he went out to Calle Arequipa. Lucindo was already on his corner, as if waiting for him. He dropped a sol in his tin can, and the blind man immediately acknowledged him.
“Good morning, Don Felícito. You’re leaving earlier today.”
“It’s an important day for me and I have a lot to do. Wish me luck, Lucindo.”
There weren’t many people on the street. It was pleasant to walk along the sidewalk and not be pursued by reporters. And even more pleasant to know that in principle he’d inflicted a necessary defeat on those journalists, poor devils, who never found out that Armida, the supposed kidnapping victim, the person most sought after by the Peruvian press, had spent an entire week — seven days and nights! — hidden in his house, right under their noses, without their suspecting. What a shame they’d never know they’d missed the scoop of the century. Because Armida, at the packed press conference she gave in Lima, flanked by the minister of the interior and the chief of police, didn’t reveal to the press that she’d taken refuge in Piura with her sister, Gertrudis. She only indicated vaguely that she’d stayed with friends to escape the siege by the press that had brought her close to a nervous breakdown. Felícito and his wife watched the conference — crowded with reporters, flashbulbs, and cameras — on television. He was impressed by the confidence his sister-in-law showed responding to questions, never revealing confusion, never whimpering, speaking calmly, engagingly. Her humility and simplicity, everyone said afterward, had found favor with the public, which from then on was less likely to believe the image of a greedy, gold-digging opportunist that had been circulated by the sons of Don Ismael Carrera.
Armida’s secret departure from the city of Piura at midnight, in a Narihualá Transport car with his son Tiburcio at the wheel, was a perfectly planned and executed operation that no one, beginning with the police and ending with the reporters, found out about. At first Armida wanted to bring in from Lima someone named Narciso, her late husband’s driver, in whom she had a great deal of confidence, but Felícito and Gertrudis convinced her that Tiburcio, in whom they had blind faith, should drive the car. He was a magnificent driver, a discreet person, and after all, her nephew. Señor Rigoberto, who encouraged Armida to return to Lima immediately and appear in public, eventually convinced her.
Everything worked out as planned. Don Rigoberto, his wife, and his son returned to Lima by plane. A couple of days later, after midnight, Tiburcio, who was happy to collaborate, appeared at the house on Calle Arequipa at the agreed-upon hour. Armida took her leave with kisses, tears, and thanks. After twelve hours of uneventful driving she arrived at her house in San Isidro, in Lima, where her lawyer, bodyguards, and the authorities were waiting for her, happy to announce that the widow of Don Ismael Carrera had reappeared safe and sound after her weeklong mysterious disappearance.
When Felícito reached his office on Avenida Sánchez Cerro, the first buses, vans, and jitneys of the day were preparing to leave for all the provinces of Piura and the neighboring departments of Tumbes and Lambayeque. Narihualá Transport was gradually recovering its old customers. People who had avoided the company because of the spider episode, afraid they would fall victim to some kind of violence by the supposed kidnappers, were now forgetting about the matter and trusting once again in the good service offered by its drivers. He finally had settled with the insurance company, which had agreed to pay half the cost of reconstruction following the damage caused by the fire. Repair work would begin soon. Though it would be with an eyedropper, the banks would give him credit again. Day by day normalcy was being restored. He breathed with relief: Today he’d bring to an end that unfortunate matter.
He worked all morning on ordinary problems, spoke to mechanics and drivers, paid some bills, made a deposit, dictated letters to Josefita, had two cups of coffee, and at nine thirty, taking the portfolio prepared by Dr. Hildebrando Castro Pozo, went to the police station to pick up Sergeant Lituma, who was waiting for him at the entrance. A taxi took them to the men’s prison in Río Seco, outside the city.
“Are you nervous about this meeting, Don Felícito?” the sergeant asking during the trip.
“I don’t think I am,” he replied, hesitating. “We’ll see when I have him in front of me. You never know.”
In the prison, they had to go to the checkpoint, where guards searched Felícito’s clothes to verify that he wasn’t carrying weapons. The warden himself, a stooped, lugubrious man in shirtsleeves who dragged both his voice and his feet, led them to a small room that was protected by metal grating as well as a heavy wooden door. The walls were covered by scrawls, obscene drawings, vulgarities. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Felícito recognized Miguel standing in the center of the room.
Only a few weeks had passed since he’d last seen him, but the boy had undergone a remarkable transformation. He not only seemed thinner and older, perhaps because his blond hair was long and uncombed and a beard now dirtied his face, but his expression had changed too; previously juvenile and smiling, it was now taciturn, exhausted, the expression of someone who’s lost the drive and even the desire to live because he knows he’s defeated. But perhaps the greatest change was in his clothing. He used to be well-dressed and smart with the flashy coquetry of a neighborhood Don Juan, unlike Tiburcio who always wore the jeans and guayabera of the drivers and mechanics, but now his shirt, open over his chest, had no buttons, his trousers were wrinkled and stained, and his shoes were muddy and had no laces. He wasn’t wearing socks.
Felícito stared into his eyes and Miguel held his glance for only a few seconds; then he began to blink, lowered his eyes, and kept them focused on the floor. Felícito thought that only now had he realized he barely reached Miguel’s shoulder, that his son was more than a head taller than him. Sergeant Lituma remained leaning against the wall, very still, tense, as if he wished he could become invisible. There were two metal chairs in the room, but all three men remained standing. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling among the “shit”s written on the walls and coarse drawings of cunts and pricks. The room smelled of urine. The prisoner wasn’t handcuffed.
“I haven’t come to ask if you’re sorry for what you’ve done,” Felícito said at last, looking at the tangle of dirty blond hair a meter away, satisfied that he was speaking firmly, not revealing the rage that overwhelmed him. “You can take care of that up there, when you die.”