The Neighborhood

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  A short while later a messenger arrived from the Criminal Court of the Lima District with two announcements of judicial actions filed against the magazine for this week’s issue. One came from the Luciano Casasbellas Law Offices, representing Engineer Enrique Cárdenas, and the other from a religious association, Good Habits, denouncing them for “public obscenity and corruption of youth.” Julieta left the citations on Rolando Garro’s desk, which she confirmed was, as always, maniacally neat. She returned to her desk to look over her notebook. She made a list of subjects that could be investigated with a view to an article and began to take notes, navigating past the snares, on a case of trafficking boys and girls in Puno, near the Bolivian border. There were accusations that a gang of bandits was kidnapping children born in indigenous Bolivian communities and selling them to Peruvian gangsters at the border who, in turn, resold them to couples, generally foreigners who couldn’t have children and didn’t want to wait the many years that procedures for legal adoptions required in Peru. At about one o’clock she looked up from the computer because she saw that the entire editorial staff had congregated around her desk: the three reporters, the two fact-checkers, and, of course, the photographer for Exposed. Their expressions were grave. Ceferino, very pale, was gasping for breath.

  “It’s past the time for giving out assignments, which was twelve o’clock,” said Pepín Sotillos, the oldest of the reporters on the weekly, showing her his watch. “And it’s after one.”

  “It’s strange, yes, I agree,” said Shorty. “I had an appointment with him at eleven. Nobody’s talked to the boss this morning?”

  No, nobody. Sotillos had called him several times on his cell, but it was turned off. Shorty saw her colleagues’ long, uneasy faces. It was really very strange, the boss might have many defects but lack of punctuality wasn’t one of them; he was obsessive about always arriving on time, even early. And especially for the meeting that planned the work for the week. Julieta decided to mobilize the entire editorial staff. She gave Sotillos the task of calling hospitals and clinics in case he’d had an accident; she told Estrellita Santibáñez and Lizbeth Carnero, the horoscope editor and the adviser in sexual and romantic matters, to check the police stations and find out whether Señor Rolando Garro had been the victim of an accident. And she would run over to the chief’s little house in Chorrillos; the address was in his engagement book.

  She went out and was going to take a cab but checked her wallet and thought that the little she had with her might not be enough to go and come back, and so she went to wait for the bus. It took almost an hour to reach the little house on José Olaya Avenue where the editor of Exposed lived. It was one of the old Chorrillan ranch houses of the previous century, a kind of cube made of cement and wood with a large grating that separated the door from the sidewalk. She rang the bell for some time but no one answered. Finally she decided to ask in the nearby houses if anyone had seen him. Her search was hopeless. The house to the left was empty; on the right, it took a very long time for anyone to come to the door. The woman who opened a peephole said she didn’t even know that her neighbor was named Rolando Garro. When Shorty returned to the magazine offices it was already 2:30. No one had learned anything. The only thing certain was that there was no record in hospitals, clinics, or police stations of the chief having suffered an accident.

  They spent a long time in confusion, exchanging ideas, not knowing what to do. Finally they decided to go home and meet again at four to see whether by then there would be any news about the editor.

  Shorty had taken just a few steps toward the bus stop when she felt somebody grab her arm. It was the photographer. Ceferino was so nervous he could barely speak:

  “I always knew this was dangerous, that this exposé could give us a lot of problems,” he said, stumbling over his words. “What do you think happened, Julieta? Are they holding the boss prisoner? Have they done anything to him?”

  “We don’t know yet that anything’s happened,” she responded, in a fury. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe something urgent turned up suddenly, some plan of his, or a party, I don’t know. A little patience, Ceferino. We’ll see this afternoon. He’ll probably turn up and everything will be explained. Don’t get ahead of yourself, and above all, don’t do anything stupid. You’ll have time to be scared later. Now, let go of me, please. I’m tired and I want to go home. To think calmly and rest a little. It’s better to have a cool head for what may happen.”

  The photographer let her go but still managed to murmur as she was walking away:

  “This smells very bad to me, Julieta. His disappearance means something serious.”

  “Shit-eating coward,” she thought without responding. An hour later, when she reached her house in Five Corners, instead of preparing something to eat she lay down in her bed. She was alarmed, too, though she would have hidden that from Ceferino and the reporters on the weekly. Rolando Garro never just disappeared like this without letting anybody know, least of all on the day when work assignments were made for the week, and materials for the next issue were discussed. Could his disappearance be connected to the exposé of Engineer Cárdenas? If this was a real disappearance, most likely he was safe. Now she felt very tired. It wasn’t the morning’s activity, however, but concern, misgivings, suspicions regarding what could have happened to the boss that had her stupefied with fatigue.

  When she awoke and looked at the clock, it was four in the afternoon. She had slept close to an hour. The first time in her life she had taken a siesta. She washed her face and returned to the offices of Exposed. All her colleagues were there, with long faces. None of them had heard anything at all about Rolando Garro.

  “We’ll go to the police and file a complaint,” Shorty decided. “Something’s happened to the chief, no doubt about it. Let’s have the police look for him, then.”

  The entire editorial staff of Exposed moved to the Surquillo police station, which was very close to the offices of the magazine, right on Calle Dante. They asked to speak to the chief. He kept them standing in the little courtyard at the entrance, next to a large statue of the Virgin, for close to half an hour. Finally he had them come into his office. It was old man Sotillos who explained that they were upset because Señor Rolando Garro, their boss, had not been seen for the past twenty-four hours; there was no precedent for his disappearing like this, without saying a word, precisely on the day when he met with all the reporters to hand out assignments for the week. The mustached chief, a police colonel who put on airs, had them file a complaint, which all of them signed. He promised that he would begin the inquiry immediately and would let them know as soon as he had any information.

  When they left the station, fearing that the mustached colonel wouldn’t do anything, they decided to go to the firm of the lawyer for Exposed. Both Sotillos and Shorty knew Dr. Julius Arispe, who received them immediately in his office on España Avenue though it was close to seven in the evening. He was an amiable man who shook hands with everybody. He would brush his nose from time to time, as if he were frightening away a fly. He listened carefully to what Shorty said and said yes, the matter was alarming, especially when it had to do with a prestigious journalist like Señor Garro; he would alert the minister of the interior, who, aside from everything else, was a personal friend of his.

  When they left the law offices, night had fallen. What else could they do? At that hour, nothing. They agreed to meet the next day at ten o’clock at the Exposed offices. They said goodbye and Shorty heard Ceferino Argüello approaching to talk to her alone. She stopped him dead:

  “Not now, Ceferino,” she said in a hard voice. “I know you’re scared to death. I know you think the boss’s disappearance has to do with your photos of the orgy in Chosica. I’m worried too, and frightened. But for now, there’s nothing more to say about the matter. Not a single word until we know what to do about Señor Garro. Understood, Ceferino? I’m very nervous, so don’t bother me anymore, please. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
/>
  She walked away from him and, remembering that she hadn’t eaten anything all day, when she reached Five Corners sat down in the same filthy coffee shop where she’d had breakfast that morning. But before ordering anything, she got up and continued walking to her house. Why order anything if she wasn’t hungry? She wouldn’t be able to swallow any food she put in her mouth. She walked very quickly along the Junín Alleyway because it was dark, and this was the time for buying and selling drugs, prostitution, and holdups in the neighborhood. As she walked past a grate, a dog came out to bark, and frightened her.

  In her house, she turned on the television and kept changing channels to see whether they said anything about her boss on the news. Not a word. After she turned off the TV, she continued to sit in the living room, lit by a single bulb that shed a greasy light among the piles of newspapers and magazines that crowded the room. What could have happened to him? A silvery cobweb hung from the ceiling, over her head. A kidnapping? Difficult. Rolando Garro didn’t have a cent, what money could they get out of him? Blackmail by the terrorists? Unlikely. Exposed didn’t get involved in politics, though it sometimes did publish personal exposés of politicians. Could it be true that the editor did these by order of the Doctor, the head of Fujimori’s Intelligence Service? That rumor had been making the rounds for a long time, but Shorty had never dared to ask Rolando Garro about something so delicate. If the Shining Path or the MRTA wanted a journalist, they would have taken the editor of El Comercio, or a television channel, or the RPP conglomerate, not the owner of a publication as small as Exposed.

  She was sitting there, in the shadows, without the energy to go to bed, when a minute or an hour later—she had no idea how much time had passed—she heard someone knocking at her front door. She started in her chair with fright and her hands were wet with perspiration. They knocked again, this time in a peremptory way.

  “Who is it?” she asked, not opening the door.

  “Police,” said a man’s voice. “We’re looking for Señorita Julieta Leguizamón. Is that you?”

  “Why are you looking for her?” she asked. Her heart had begun to beat very rapidly.

  “We’re from the Ministry of the Interior, señorita,” the same voice replied. “Open up, please, and I’ll explain everything. You have nothing to fear.”

  She opened the door, very frightened, and saw a man in uniform with another man in civilian clothes. In the distance, behind the small houses in the lane, on the street, there was a police car with all its lights on.

  “Captain Félix Madueño, at your service,” said the official, raising his hand to his kepi. “Are you the journalist Julieta Leguizamón?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” she concurred, trying to control her voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “You have to accompany us to make an identification,” the captain said. “We’re sorry to bother you at this hour, señorita, but it’s very urgent.”

  “An identification?” she asked.

  “A group of you filed a complaint this afternoon regarding the disappearance of Señor Rolando Garro, the editor of Exposed, in the Surquillo police station. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, yes, our boss,” said Shorty. “Do you have news about him?”

  “Perhaps,” the captain intimated. “That’s why we need to make this identification. It won’t take very long. Don’t worry: we’ll bring you back home.”

  Only when she was sitting in the back seat of the car, which pulled away toward Grau Avenue, did Shorty have the courage to ask something that she suspected:

  “Where are we going, Captain?”

  “To the morgue, señorita.”

  She didn’t say anything else. She felt she didn’t have enough air, she opened her mouth and tried to fill her lungs with the cool breeze coming in through the partially opened small window. They drove along dark streets and finally she recognized Grau Avenue near the Dos de Mayo Hospital. She felt dizzy, as if she were suffocating, and was afraid she might faint at any moment. At times she closed her eyes, and as she did when she had insomnia, she counted numbers. She barely noticed that the car had stopped; she was vaguely aware that Captain Félix Madueño was helping her out and, holding her arm, led her down some damp, dismal passageways with walls that smelled of cresol and medicines, an odor that nauseated her and obliged her to control her retching. At last they entered a brightly lit room where there were many people, all men, some in white lab coats and face masks. Her legs trembled and she knew that if Captain Madueño let her go, she’d fall to the floor.

  “Here, this way,” someone said, and she felt herself carried, pushed, held up by men who scrutinized her with a mixture of insolence, compassion, and mockery.

  “Do you recognize him? Is this Rolando Garro?” another voice asked, one that Shorty hadn’t heard so far.

  It was a kind of table or board on two sawhorses, lit by a very white reflector light; the silhouette of the man under her eyes was stained all over with blood and dried mud.

  “We know this is difficult for you, because, as you’ll see, they bashed in his face with stones, or kicked it in. Can you recognize him? Is he who we think he is? Is this the journalist Rolando Garro?”

  She was totally paralyzed, she couldn’t move or say a word, she couldn’t even nod, her eyes fixed on that muddied, bloody, pestilential silhouette.

  “Of course she’s recognized him, of course it’s him,” she heard Captain Félix Madueño say. “But Doctor, it would be a good idea for you to give her a tranquilizer or something. Don’t you see what’s happened to her? Any minute now she’ll faint on us.”

  14

  Conjugal Disagreements and Agreements

  “Let me come back home, darling,” Quique pleaded; his voice was weak and his face upset. Marisa noted that in these few days her husband had lost several kilos. He wasn’t wearing a tie and his shirt was badly ironed. “I’m begging you, Marisa, I’m on my knees.”

  “I agreed to your coming here to talk about practical matters,” she replied drily. “But if you insist on talking about that subject, which is absolutely closed, you’d better go.”

  They were in the small reception room next to the terrace where they used to eat breakfast. It was growing dark. Lima had turned into a gloomy stain and a myriad of tiny lights lost in the distance, dissolving in the incipient fog. In front of him, on the little glass table, Quique had a half-full glass of mineral water.

  “Of course we’re going to talk about practical matters, Blondie,” he agreed, somewhere between plaintive and mournful. “But I can’t go on living at my mother’s when all my things are here. Please, reconsider, I beg of you.”

  “Just take them to your mother’s, Quique.” She raised her voice; she spoke with determination, not hesitating for a moment, staring into his eyes, not blinking. “You’re not returning to this house, at least while I’m living here. Get used to the idea once and for all. Because I’ll never forgive you for the despicable thing you did to me. I’ve already told you. I want a separation. I’m already separated from you…”

  “I didn’t do anything to you, I’m not the man in those photos, you have to believe me,” he pleaded. “I’m the victim of a monstrous slander, Marisa. I can’t believe that instead of helping me, my wife is supporting my enemies and taking their side.”

  “It’s you, don’t be such a liar and so cynical, Quique.” She cut him off with a flashing look. She was wearing a very low-cut blouse, her shoulders bare with a glimpse of breast, her skin very white, her blond hair loose, her feet in open sandals. “It’s fine if for legal reasons you deny that you’re the man in the photos. But you won’t deceive me, my boy. Have you forgotten how often in my life I’ve seen you naked? It’s you, doing those disgusting things and, even worse, letting yourself be photographed in those awful poses with those revolting whores. You’re the laughingstock of all Lima, and so am I, because of you. The most famous deceived wife in Peru, as Exposed says. Do you know how my parents and brothers and sisters
feel with everything you’ve put me through recently?”

  Enrique took a sip from the glass of mineral water. He tried to take his wife’s manicured hand, but she pulled it away, making a disgusted face.

  “I’m never going to separate from you, because I love you, darling,” he pleaded, almost whimpering. “I’ve always loved you, Marisa. You’re the only woman I’ve loved. And I’m going to win back your love, whatever it takes, I swear. Do you think I don’t regret in my soul that we’re involved in this scandal? Do you think that…?”

  He was interrupted by the ring of the cell phone in his pocket. He took it out and saw that Luciano was calling him.

  “Excuse me, Blondie,” he said to his wife. “It’s Luciano, it could be something urgent. Hello? Yes, Luciano, go on, I’m here with Marisa. Yes, of course you can talk. Is there any news?”

  Marisa saw that her husband, as he listened to what Luciano was saying, grew even paler; his face contorted, he opened his mouth, and a thread of saliva trickled out of the corner without his realizing it or wiping it away. What could have happened to make Quique behave this way? He blinked incessantly and his expression was idiotic. Luciano must have noticed that something strange was happening to Enrique, because Marisa heard her husband murmur twice: “Yes, yes, I hear you.” Finally she heard him say goodbye in a faint voice: “Yes, Luciano, I’ll go there right now.” But instead of standing up, Quique, as white as a sheet, continued to sit in the easy chair across from her, his eyes lost, stammering: “It can’t be, my God, it can’t be, on top of everything else.”