Don’t be angry with me.”
Had the beautiful, happy, slender girl from La Romana forgiven him? Though he hadn’t seen her again, he hadn’t replaced her in his heart. Luisa had married a prosperous farmer from Puerto Plata. But if she eventually forgave him for breaking off their engagement, she never could have forgiven him for the other thing, if she ever found out about it. He would never forgive himself. And even if, in a few moments, the bullet-ridden body of the Goat were lying at his feet—he wanted to empty his pistol into those cold iguana eyes—he would not forgive him either. “At least Luisa will never know.” Not her, not anybody except those who planned the ambush.
And, of course, Salvador Estrella Sadhalá devastated by hatred, alcohol, and despair, Lieutenant García Guerrero had come directly to his house at 21 Mahatma Gandhi, in the small hours of that morning, from the brothel of Pucha Vittini, alias Pucha Brazobán, at the top of Calle Juana Saltitopa, where he had been taken, afterward, by Colonel Johnny Abbes and Major Roberto Figueroa Carrión, so that with a few drinks and a good piece of ass he could forget the unpleasantness. “Unpleasantness,” “sacrifice for the Fatherland,” “test of will,” “blood offering to the Chief”: those were the things they had said to him. Then they congratulated him for having earned a promotion. Amadito took a drag of his cigarette and tossed it onto the road: a tiny explosion of fireworks when it hit the asphalt. “If you don’t think about something else, you’re going to cry,” he told himself, mortified at the thought that Imbert, Antonio, and Salvador might see him burst into sobs. They would think he was afraid. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt. He had never been as sure about anything as he was about this. While the Goat lived, he would not, he’d be nothing but the ambulatory despair he had been since that January night in 1961 when the world collapsed around him, and he had run to 21 Mahatma Gandhi and taken refuge in Salvador’s friendship so he wouldn’t put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. He told him everything. Not right away. Because when Turk opened the door, surprised at dawn by the pounding that roused him, his wife, and his children from bed and from sleep, and found on the threshold Amadito’s broken silhouette reeking of alcohol, the young man could not say a word. He opened his arms and threw them around Salvador. “What is it, Amadito? Who died?” They took him to his bedroom, put him to bed, let him give vent to his feelings, babbling incoherently. Urania Mieses prepared mint tea that she fed to him by the spoonful, as if he were a little boy.
“Don’t tell us anything you’ll be sorry for,” Turk interrupted.
Over his pajamas he wore a kimono with ideograms. He sat at a corner of the bed, looking at Amadito with affection.
“I’ll leave you alone with Salvador.” His Aunt Urania kissed him on the forehead and stood up. “So you can talk more freely, so you can tell him what it would make you sad to tell me.”
Amadito thanked her. Turk turned off the overhead light. The shade on the bedside lamp had a design that the light of the bulb turned red. Clouds? Animals? The lieutenant thought that if a fire broke out, he wouldn’t move.
“Go to sleep, Amadito. Things will seem less tragic in the light of day.”
“It won’t make any difference, Turk. Day or night I’ll still make myself sick. It’ll be worse when I sober up.”
It began that afternoon, in the headquarters of the military adjutants, next to Radhamés Manor. He had just returned from Boca Chica, where Major Roberto Figueroa Carrión, liaison between the Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Generalissimo Trujillo, had sent him to deliver a sealed envelope to General Ramfis Trujillo at die Dominican Air Force Base. The lieutenant entered the major’s office to report on his mission, and Figueroa Carrión received him with a
Had the beautiful, happy, slender girl from La Romana forgiven him? Though he hadn’t seen her again, he hadn’t replaced her in his heart. Luisa had married a prosperous farmer from Puerto Plata. But if she eventually forgave him for breaking off their engagement, she never could have forgiven him for the other thing, if she ever found out about it. He would never forgive himself. And even if, in a few moments, the bullet-ridden body of the Goat were lying at his feet—he wanted to empty his pistol into those cold iguana eyes—he would not forgive him either. “At least Luisa will never know.” Not her, not anybody except those who planned the ambush.
And, of course, Salvador Estrella Sadhalá devastated by hatred, alcohol, and despair, Lieutenant García Guerrero had come directly to his house at 21 Mahatma Gandhi, in the small hours of that morning, from the brothel of Pucha Vittini, alias Pucha Brazobán, at the top of Calle Juana Saltitopa, where he had been taken, afterward, by Colonel Johnny Abbes and Major Roberto Figueroa Carrión, so that with a few drinks and a good piece of ass he could forget the unpleasantness. “Unpleasantness,” “sacrifice for the Fatherland,” “test of will,” “blood offering to the Chief”: those were the things they had said to him. Then they congratulated him for having earned a promotion. Amadito took a drag of his cigarette and tossed it onto the road: a tiny explosion of fireworks when it hit the asphalt. “If you don’t think about something else, you’re going to cry,” he told himself, mortified at the thought that Imbert, Antonio, and Salvador might see him burst into sobs. They would think he was afraid. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt. He had never been as sure about anything as he was about this. While the Goat lived, he would not, he’d be nothing but the ambulatory despair he had been since that January night in 1961 when the world collapsed around him, and he had run to 21 Mahatma Gandhi and taken refuge in Salvador’s friendship so he wouldn’t put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. He told him everything. Not right away. Because when Turk opened the door, surprised at dawn by the pounding that roused him, his wife, and his children from bed and from sleep, and found on the threshold Amadito’s broken silhouette reeking of alcohol, the young man could not say a word. He opened his arms and threw them around Salvador. “What is it, Amadito? Who died?” They took him to his bedroom, put him to bed, let him give vent to his feelings, babbling incoherently. Urania Mieses prepared mint tea that she fed to him by the spoonful, as if he were a little boy.
“Don’t tell us anything you’ll be sorry for,” Turk interrupted.
Over his pajamas he wore a kimono with ideograms. He sat at a corner of the bed, looking at Amadito with affection.
“I’ll leave you alone with Salvador.” His Aunt Urania kissed him on the forehead and stood up. “So you can talk more freely, so you can tell him what it would make you sad to tell me.”
Amadito thanked her. Turk turned off the overhead light. The shade on the bedside lamp had a design that the light of the bulb turned red. Clouds? Animals? The lieutenant thought that if a fire broke out, he wouldn’t move.
“Go to sleep, Amadito. Things will seem less tragic in the light of day.”
“It won’t make any difference, Turk. Day or night I’ll still make myself sick. It’ll be worse when I sober up.”
It began that afternoon, in the headquarters of the military adjutants, next to Radhamés Manor. He had just returned from Boca Chica, where Major Roberto Figueroa Carrión, liaison between the Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Generalissimo Trujillo, had sent him to deliver a sealed envelope to General Ramfis Trujillo at die Dominican Air Force Base. The lieutenant entered the major’s office to report on his mission, and Figueroa Carrión received him with a
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