The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa

Hermó-genes García—at school, and later as a cadet and an officer, about Trujillo’s gaze. A gaze that no one could endure without lowering his own eyes, intimidated and annihilated by the force radiating from those piercing eyes that seemed to read one’s most secret thoughts and most hidden desires and appetites, and made people feel naked. Amadito laughed at the stories. The Chief might be a great statesman whose vision, will, and capacity for work had made the Dominican Republic a great country. But he wasn’t God. His gaze could only be the gaze of a mortal man.
    It was enough for him to walk into the office, click his heels, and announce himself in the most martial voice his throat could produce—“Second Lieutenant García Guerrero, at your service, Excellency!”—to feel electrified. “Come in,” said the sharp voice of the man who sat at the other end of the room behind a desk covered in red leather, writing and not looking up. The young man took a few steps and stood at attention, not moving a muscle or thinking, looking at the meticulously groomed gray hair and impeccable attire—blue jacket and vest, white shirt with immaculate collar and starched cuffs, silvery tie secured with a pearl—and at his hands, one resting on a sheet of paper that the other covered with rapid strokes of blue ink. On his left hand he saw the ring with the precious iridescent stone, which, according to the superstitious, was an amulet given to him when he was a young man, a member of the Constabulary Guard pursuing the “bandits” who rebelled against the United States’ military occupation, by a Haitian wizard who assured him that as long as he kept it on he would be invulnerable to enemies.
    “A good service record, Lieutenant,” he heard him say.
    “Thank you very much, Excellency.”
    The silver-colored head moved and those large staring eyes, without brightness and without humor, met his. “I’ve never been afraid in my life,” the boy later confessed to Salvador. “Until that gaze fell on me, Turk. It’s true. As if he were digging up my conscience.” There was a long silence while those eyes examined his uniform, his belt, his buttons, his tie, his visored hat. Amadito began to perspire. He knew that the slightest carelessness in dress provoked such disgust in the Chief that he could erupt into violent recriminations.
    “A service record this good cannot be stained by marriage to the sister of a Communist. In my government, friends and enemies don’t mix.”
    He spoke quietly, not releasing him from his penetrating gaze. Amadito thought that at any moment the thin, high-pitched voice would crack.
    “Luisa Gil’s brother is one of the June 14 subversives. Did you know that?”
    “No, Excellency.”
    “Now you know.” He cleared his throat and added, without changing his tone: “There are a lot of women in this country. Find another one.”
    “Yes, Excellency.”
    He saw him make a gesture of assent, ending the interview.
    “Permission to withdraw, Excellency.”
    He clicked his heels and saluted. He left with a martial step, hiding the anguish that paralyzed him. A soldier obeyed orders, especially if they came from the Benefactor and Father of the New Nation, who had taken a few minutes of his time to speak to him in person. If he had given that order to him, a privileged officer, it was for his own good. He had to obey. He did, clenching his teeth. His letter to Luisa did not contain a single word that was not true: “With a heavy heart, and though I suffer because of it, I must renounce my love for you and tell you, sadly, that we cannot marry. My superiors forbid it because of your brother’s anti-Trujillista activities, something you hid from me. I understand why you did. But by the same token I hope you also understand the difficult decision I find myself obliged to make, against my will. I will always think of you with love, but we will not see each other again. I wish you good luck.