The Neighborhood

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  Marisa was frightened.

  “What is it, Quique? What did Luciano say?” she asked. “Even more problems?”

  Enrique looked at her as if only now was he aware that she was sitting across from him, or as if he didn’t recognize her.

  “Rolando Garro’s been murdered,” she heard him say in a voice from beyond the grave. He had the deranged eyes of a madman. “With horrible savagery, it seems. I don’t know how many stab wounds, and besides that, his face was smashed in. They just found his body dumped on the street, in Five Corners. Do you know what this means, Marisa?”

  He attempted to stand but slipped; he tried to hold on to the back of his chair, he couldn’t, and he collapsed, falling first to his knees and then stretched out on the rug in the reception room. When Marisa kneeled down to help him she saw that Quique’s eyes were closed, his forehead wet with perspiration, and he was frothing at the mouth and shivering.

  “Quique, Quique!” she shouted, holding his face, moving him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Her voice was very loud, and Quintanilla, the butler, and the maid came running into the reception room.

  “Help me lift him,” she told them. “Let’s put him on the sofa. Nice and slow, let’s not bang him. We have to call Dr. Saldaña. Hurry, hurry, please look up his number in the address book.”

  The three of them picked him up, and when the butler and the maid were putting a cold towel on his forehead and Marisa was trying to reach Dr. Saldaña on the phone, Quique half opened his eyes, in a daze. “What happened, what happened?” he asked, his voice husky. Marisa dropped the phone, ran to the sofa, and embraced her husband. She was pale and weeping.

  “Ay, Quique, what a fright,” she said. “You fainted, I thought you were dying. I was calling Dr. Saldaña. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No, no, I’m feeling better now,” he stammered, grasping his wife’s hand and kissing it. He kept it at his lips and added: “It was the tension of these past few days, darling. And then this terrible news.”

  “There’s nothing terrible about it, it’s news we should celebrate,” Marisa exclaimed; she had left her hand in her husband’s and allowed him to keep kissing it. “Why do you care that they’ve killed the wretch who got us involved in this mess, the editor of that filthy magazine? I’m glad they killed him.”

  “I love you, I need you, my love,” he said, raising his head and searching for Marisa’s cheek to kiss. “We shouldn’t wish for anybody’s death, darling. Not even that crook’s. But imagine what his murder means for me. Right now, this is going to revive the damn scandal.”

  “How do you feel?” she asked, touching his forehead; rage had disappeared from her face; she looked at him with concern and compassion. “No, you don’t have any fever.”

  “I’m better now,” he said, sitting up. “Luciano’s waiting for me at his office, I have to go see him.”

  “Fix yourself up a little, Quique,” she said, smoothing his shirt with both hands. “You’re all disheveled from the fall. And your shirt and suit are shameful, they’re all wrinkled.”

  “You were afraid,” he said, smoothing his hair and brushing off his jacket and trousers. “Yes, don’t say you weren’t, darling. You were afraid when I passed out. Which means you still love me a little, don’t you, Blondie?”

  “Of course I was frightened,” Marisa conceded, pretending to a severity she no longer felt. “But I don’t love you at all. I’m disappointed in you and always will be. And I’ll never forgive you.”

  She said this so mechanically, in a way that was so unconvincing, that Quique dared to take her by the waist and pull her toward him. Marisa didn’t offer much resistance. He brought his mouth up to her ear. Seeing what was happening, Quintanilla and the maid exchanged a glance and decided to withdraw.

  “I’m going to see Luciano to talk about this infernal matter,” he whispered, kissing her and nibbling at her ear. “And then I’m coming back here to make love to you. Because you look very beautiful and I’ve never wanted to hold you naked in my arms as much as I do right now, Blondie.”

  He found her lips and his wife let him kiss her on the mouth, but she didn’t respond and kept her lips closed while he kissed her.

  “Are you going to do the same disgusting things that you did to those whores in the photographs?” Marisa asked as she walked with him to the front door.

  “I’m going to make love to you all night, because I don’t think you’ve ever looked as beautiful as you do today,” he whispered, opening the door. “I’ll be back very soon, don’t fall asleep on me, please, for the sake of what you love most.”

  He left with the chauffeur—he hadn’t driven himself since the Exposed scandal—and told him to drive to Luciano’s office. He thought that because of this tragedy he’d at least be able to return to his Golf Club apartment, his bed, his home, his things, and to making love with Marisa. What he had just told his wife wasn’t pretense. It was true; Blondie had become more beautiful with this crisis; while they argued, he had suddenly desired her and now, he was certain, tonight he would take his pleasure with Marisa again as he had in the best times. How long since they had made love? Three weeks at least, since the awful day when Rolando Garro brought those photographs to his office. And now that worm was dead, killed in an awful way in Barrios Altos. What was going to happen? Whatever it was, the scandal would surface again, and once again he’d be on the front pages of the newspapers, on the radio stations and television channels. He shivered: once again that bath of revolting publicity, repugnant insinuations, having to be careful about what he said, where he went, whom he saw, just to evade people’s damned morbid curiosity.

  “Did you finally make up with Marisa?” Luciano asked as soon as he greeted him in his office. “At least now she’s letting you back in the house again.”

  “Yes, at least in that I’ve made some progress,” Quique agreed. “What about Garro’s murder? Do they know who did it or why he was killed?”

  Luciano had received a call from the Doctor himself and had already had two interviews with him because of the scandal of the photographs and Garro’s attempt at blackmail.

  “He called to tell me that they found him stabbed to death with his face bashed in on a rubbish heap in Five Corners, up in Barrios Altos, at the entrance to a gambling den,” Luciano explained. “The police haven’t said anything yet. He wanted to warn me: because of this, it’s inevitable that the matter we’re trying to bury will flare up again. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s how it will be, Quique.”

  “Have they announced Garro’s murder yet?”

  “Not yet, but according to the Doctor, the police were going to make it public now, in a press conference. The item will appear on all the news programs tonight. You mustn’t make any statements. And by all means keep them from connecting this death to the scandal. Although, of course, they will.”

  Luciano stopped talking and was looking at Quique in a way that his friend thought was strange, scrutinizing him with a solemn, suspicious face. Had the head of the Intelligence Service said something else to him that Luciano was hiding?

  “What is it, Luciano? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  The lawyer came up to him, held him by both arms, and looked at him for a moment very seriously, in silence; his narrow, somewhat Asian eyes revealed alarm and doubts.

  “I’m going to ask you a question, Quique, and I need you to be absolutely frank with me.” He patted his arms affectionately. “I’m not asking this as your attorney. I’m asking because of all the years we’ve been friends.”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to ask me that question, Luciano,” he murmured, horrified.

  “I’m going to ask it all the same, Quique,” Luciano insisted. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  Quique felt dizzy and thought he would pass out again. He felt a strong pressure in his chest, everything around him was blurred, and he began to sway. He grabbed the edge of the
desk.

  “You think that?” he stammered. “I can’t believe it, Luciano. You’re asking me whether I killed that worm? If I had him killed? You’re asking me that? Do you think I’m capable of such a thing?”

  “Answer me, Quique.” Luciano had not let go of his shoulders. “Just tell me you had nothing to do with the murder of Rolando Garro.”

  “Of course I had absolutely nothing to do with the murder, Luciano! I can’t believe that you, who’ve known me my whole life, can think I’m capable of killing someone, of having someone killed.”

  “It’s all right, Quique.” Luciano sighed with relief. He attempted a smile. “I believe you, of course I believe you. But I wanted to hear you say it.”

  Luciano let go of his arms and indicated that they should sit in the easy chairs under the English engravings and the shelves of leather-bound books.

  “I have to know in full detail what you’ve done during these past forty-eight hours, Quique.”

  Luciano was still very serious, he spoke very calmly and held a notebook and pencil. He had recovered his usual serenity and calm; unlike Quique, who was so disheveled, Luciano wore a perfectly pressed red-and-white striped shirt, a wine-colored tie, and shoes that shone like mirrors. His cufflinks were silver.

  “But why, Luciano, will you tell me what’s going on once and for all?” Quique was very frightened now.

  “What’s going on, Quique, is that you’re the prime suspect for this crime,” said his friend, very calmly, speaking again in his usual affectionate voice, taking off his glasses and holding them. “You can’t be foolish enough not to realize that. Garro involved you in this major scandal, which has even had repercussions in other countries. He ruined your life, in a sense. He destroyed your marriage, your name, your prestige, you name it. Now all the dirty yellow press is going to pounce again, claiming that you paid an assassin to get your revenge. Don’t you understand?”

  Dazed, imbecilic, Enrique listened to him and had the feeling that Luciano was talking about someone else, not him.

  “I need you to sit there, at my desk, right now, and make me a list, as complete as possible, of the people you’ve seen, the places you’ve been during the past forty-eight hours. Right now, Quique, yes. We’re at the threshold of a new scandal and it’s better to be prepared to confront it. It’s absolutely necessary to establish all your alibis in case the worst happens. Go on, sit there, and make that list now.”

  He obeyed Luciano docilely and, sitting at his desk, for close to half an hour, Quique tried to put into writing everything he had done for the past two days. He thought it would be very easy, but as soon as he began to write, he discovered that he was especially confused about the times, and that there were gaps in his memory. When he finished, he handed the list to Luciano, who examined it carefully.

  “It may be that nothing will happen and this is all my imagination, Quique,” he reassured him. “I hope so. But, since you never know, we have to be prepared. If you remember anything else, even if it’s an insignificant detail, call me.”

  “In other words, the whole damned nightmare will come back,” the engineer said with a sigh. “Just when I thought the storm was beginning to calm down, this happens. Welcome, trouble, if you come alone, as the saying goes.”

  “Do you want a whiskey?” Luciano asked. “It might do you good.”

  “No, I prefer to get into bed,” said Quique. “I feel as if I just ran the New York marathon, old man.”

  “Okay, rest, Quique.” Luciano said goodbye. “And make peace once and for all with Marisa. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  When he reached his apartment, Quique said good night to the chauffeur and went up to the penthouse, somewhat uneasy, thinking that Marisa had probably set the alarm and locked the door. But no, he was able to enter his home without difficulty. The servants told him the señora had gone to bed and asked if he wanted them to fix him something to eat. He said he wasn’t hungry and wished them good night. Quintanilla, an Ayacuchan who had been with them for many years, murmured as he passed: “How good that you’ve come back, Don Enrique.”

  The bedroom was dark and he didn’t turn on the light on the night table. He undressed in darkness and, without putting on pajamas, slipped under the sheets naked. The presence and scent of Marisa excited him all over again, and without saying a word he slid to where she was and embraced her.

  “I love you, I love you,” he murmured, kissing her, joining his body to hers, embracing her. “Please forgive me for the difficult times you’ve had on my account, Marisa, my love.”

  “I don’t think I can ever forgive you, you wretch,” she said, turning so as to face him, kissing and embracing him as well. “You’ll have to do something distinguished for that to happen.”

  15

  Shorty Is Afraid

  Hadn’t Captain Félix Madueño, the one who came for her in Five Corners and took her to the morgue in the patrol car, called her “Julieta Leguizamón”? Well, he was very well informed. Yes, Julieta was her name, but very few people knew that her last name was Leguizamón. It had sounded very strange to hear herself named that way, because everybody used her nickname: Shorty. Or, at most, Julieta. That’s how she signed her articles, with her nickname or her first name. The patrol car that brought her back to Teniente Arancibia Alleyway didn’t carry the officer or the civilian, just the civil guards. During the trip neither the driver nor his companion said a word to her, and again she noted that they were perfectly familiar with the narrow potholed alley in Barrios Altos where she lived.

  When she arrived home, Shorty went to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, and got into bed in her clothes, removing only her shoes. She was very cold. And then she felt grief, a deep, tearing grief, as she recalled what she had seen in the morgue: what remained of Rolando Garro. She didn’t usually cry, but now she felt that her eyes were wet and fat tears were rolling down her cheeks. How perverse, how cruel, they had crushed his face with a stone and riddled his body with stab wounds. That wasn’t the work of an ordinary rat, one of those poor devils who snatched purses or watches. That had been an act of vengeance. A well-planned and, surely, very well-paid murder. A murder by assassins, by professional criminals.

  She shuddered from head to toe. And who could have planned that act of revenge but Enrique Cárdenas, the millionaire whose naked photographs in an orgy with whores Rolando Garro had published, photographs by Ceferino Argüello. Motherfucker, damn, son of a bitch. It would put the fear of God into poor Ceferino when he found out what they had done to the editor of Exposed. It was to be expected, because if his boss had been destroyed like that, what would they do to the creator of those photos? She’d better let him know so he could disappear for a while, certain they were looking for him. But she didn’t even know Ceferino’s address, and she didn’t have his cell phone number so she could warn him. As for the rest, Shorty didn’t intend to show up tomorrow at the offices of Exposed. She wasn’t crazy. She wouldn’t set foot there for a long time. Besides, who knew whether the magazine would survive; of course not, it would disappear just like poor Garro. Was she in danger, too? She tried to reason coldly. Yes, no doubt about it. Everybody knew that for a long time she’d been the boss’s right arm, that Shorty was the star reporter of Exposed. And though Rolando himself had written the article that accompanied the photographs of the naked millionaire, she had obtained a good part of the information and her signature was right next to the chief’s, so she was compromised as well.

  “What kind of mess have you gotten me into, boss?” she said aloud. She was afraid. She had always expected those complications, that revealing the intimate dirt of well-known, famous people would put her at risk one day, perhaps even the risk of jail or death. Had her time come? Day and night her life had been a balancing act: Didn’t she live in Five Corners, one of the most violent neighborhoods in Lima, with assaults, fights, and beatings all around her? She and her boss had often joked about what they were risking with their expert scandalous dis
closures. “One day they’ll put a bullet in us, Shorty, but cheer up, we’ll be two martyrs to journalism and they’ll put up a statue to us.” And her boss would let out that laugh that was like stones falling in his throat. He didn’t believe what he was saying, of course. And now he was a stinking corpse.

  Poor man. The world seemed empty without Rolando Garro. Her boss. Her teacher. Her inspiration. Her only family. You’re all alone now, Shorty. And her secret love. But nobody knew that, only she did, and she kept it buried deep in her heart. She had never let him even suspect she was in love with him. One night she heard him say: “Two people who work together shouldn’t go to bed; love and work are incompatible, ‘go to bed with’ almost rhymes with ‘contend with.’ So now you know, Shorty. If you ever notice me making advances, instead of paying attention to me break a bottle over my head.” “Better if I stab you in the heart with this, boss,” Shorty replied, showing him the small knife she carried in her purse, in addition to the needle in her hair or belt in case of emergency. She closed her eyes and remembered once again the bloody corpse and destroyed face of Rolando Garro. Grief froze her from her head down to her feet. She remembered that, a few months ago, her boss had gone too far. The only time. At the opening of that club that didn’t last very long, El Pingüino, in a basement on Tacna Avenue, to which Rolando had been invited. And he took her. There were a good number of people when they arrived at the club, small, filled with smells and smoke, chilcanos, or pisco and ginger ale, and pisco sours, which was what they were offering to drink. Trays of small glasses were being passed around, and some people were already drunk. They turned down the lights. The show began. Half-naked black girls came out to dance to the rhythms of a small band playing tropical music. Suddenly, Shorty noticed that her boss, standing behind her, was touching her breasts. With anyone else she would have reacted with her usual ferocity and stuck him with the needle in her hair or made his face swell up with a hard slap. But not Rolando Garro. She stood motionless, feeling something strange, a pleasure mixed with displeasure, something dark and pleasing, those small hands indelicately groping her breasts made her quiet and docile. She turned to look at him and saw in the semidarkness that her boss’s eyes were glassy with alcohol, for he’d already had several chilcanos. Rolando Garro, immediately after they looked at each other, let her go. “Forgive me, Shorty,” she heard him say. “I didn’t realize it was you.” Never again did he even allude to that episode. As if it had never happened. And now he was in the morgue, his face smashed in by stones and his body riddled with stab wounds. The policeman said they had found him in Five Corners. What could Rolando Garro have been doing in this neighborhood? Had he come looking for her? Impossible, he’d never set foot in this house. Some woman, maybe. Not her in any case, because her boss had no idea where she lived. In spite of working with him and seeing him every day for years, Shorty knew nothing about her boss’s private life. Did he have a wife? Children? Probably not, because he never mentioned them. And he spent all day and all night preparing issues of Exposed. He was always as alone as she was and had no life except his work.