The Discreet Hero

  “Honestly, with Fonchito at least you’re never bored,” said Doña Lucrecia, attempting to joke. “Let’s try to rest a little. I don’t want to spend another sleepless night.”

  A few days went by and the boy didn’t mention the stranger to them again. Rigoberto began to think that Lucrecia was right. It had all been a fantasy of their son’s to make himself interesting and capture their attention. Until one cold, drizzly winter evening when Lucrecia greeted him with an expression that startled him.

  “Why that face?” Rigoberto kissed her. “Because of my early retirement? You think it’s a bad idea? Are you terrified at the thought of seeing me here at home all day?”

  “Fonchito.” Lucrecia pointed to the lower floor, where the boy’s bedroom was. “Something happened to him at school and he won’t tell me what. I realized it as soon as he came in. He was very pale, trembling. I thought he had a fever. I took his temperature, but no, he didn’t have one. He was withdrawn, frightened, he could barely speak. ‘No, no, I’m fine, Stepmother.’ He had almost no voice. Go see him, Rigoberto, he’s in his room. Let him tell you what happened. Maybe we ought to call Medical Alert. I don’t like the way he looks.”

  “Damn it, again,” Rigoberto thought. He raced down the stairs to the lower floor of the apartment. In fact, it was the brat again. Fonchito resisted at first. “Why should I tell you if you don’t believe me, Papa?” But finally he gave in to his father’s loving words. “It’s better to get it off your chest and share it with me, my boy. It’ll do you good to tell me about it, you’ll see.” His son was pale and didn’t seem himself. He spoke as if the words were being dictated to him or he might burst into tears at any moment. Rigoberto didn’t interrupt him once; he listened without moving, totally absorbed in what he was hearing.

  It was during the thirty-minute recess they had at midafternoon at Markham Academy, before the final classes of the day. Instead of going to play on the soccer field, where his classmates were kicking the ball or lying on the grass and talking, Fonchito sat in a corner of the empty stands reviewing the last math lesson; that subject gave him the most trouble. He was beginning to immerse himself in a complicated equation with vectors and cube roots when something, “like a sixth sense, Papa,” made him feel he was being watched. He looked up and there the man was, sitting very close to him in the empty stands. He was dressed as correctly and simply as always, with a tie and a purple sweater under his gray jacket. He carried a portfolio of documents under his arm.

  “Hello, Fonchito,” he said, smiling at him casually, as if they were old friends. “While your classmates play, you study. A model student, as I already imagined you were. Just as it should be.”

  “When had he arrived and climbed into the stands? What was he doing there? The truth is I began to tremble and I don’t know why, Papa.” His son had grown a little paler and seemed stunned.

  “Are you a teacher at the academy, señor?” Fonchito asked, frightened and not knowing what he was frightened of.

  “A teacher, no, no I’m not,” the man answered, as calm as always and with the urbane manners that never left him. “I help out at Markham Academy from time to time, with practical matters. I’m an administrative adviser to the director. I like to come here, if the weather’s nice, to see you students. You remind me of my youth, and in a way, you rejuvenate me. But what I said about nice weather isn’t true anymore. What a shame, it’s begun to rain.”

  “My papa wants to know what your name is, señor,” said Fonchito, surprised that it was so difficult for him to speak and that his voice was trembling so much. “Because you know him, don’t you? And my stepmother too, don’t you?”

  “My name is Edilberto Torres, but Rigoberto and Lucrecia probably don’t remember me, we met in passing,” the gentleman explained, with his usual circumspection. But today, unlike the other times, the man’s well-bred smile and friendly, penetrating eyes, instead of soothing him, made Fonchito feel very apprehensive.

  Rigoberto noticed that his son’s voice was breaking and his teeth were chattering.

  “Easy, son, there’s no rush. Do you feel sick? Can I bring you a glass of water? Would you rather finish telling me this story later, or tomorrow?”

  Fonchito shook his head. He had trouble getting the words out, as if his tongue had fallen asleep.

  “I know you won’t believe me, I know I’m telling you all this just for the sake of talking, Papa. But … but, it’s just that then something very strange happened.”

  He looked away from his father and stared at the floor. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his school uniform, shrinking into himself, a tormented expression on his face. Don Rigoberto felt a wave of tenderness and compassion for the boy. It was evident he was suffering. And he didn’t know how to help him.

  “If you tell me it’s true, I’ll believe you,” he said, running his hand over the boy’s hair in one of his infrequent caresses. “I know very well you’ve never lied to me and that you’re not going to start now, Fonchito.”

  Don Rigoberto, who’d been standing, sat down on his son’s desk chair. He saw the effort Fonchito was making to speak, and how distressed he was, looking at the wall and the books on the shelf to avoid meeting his father’s eyes.

  “Then, while I was talking to the man, Chato Pezzuolo came running over. My friend, you know him. And he was shouting, ‘What’s wrong with you, Foncho! Recess is over, everybody’s going back to class. Hurry up, man.’”

  Fonchito jumped to his feet.

  “Excuse me, I have to go, recess is over.” He said goodbye to Señor Edilberto Torres and ran to his friend.

  “Instead of saying hello, Chato Pezzuolo made faces and touched his head as if I had a screw loose, Papa.”

  “Are you crazy, compadre, or what, Foncho?” he asked as they ran toward the classroom building. “Who the hell were you saying goodbye to?”

  “I don’t know who that guy is,” Fonchito explained, panting. “His name’s Edilberto Torres and he says he helps the school director out with practical things. Have you ever seen him here before?”

  “But what guy are you talking about, asshole?” exclaimed Chato Pezzuolo, gasping, not running anymore. He’d turned to look at him. “You weren’t with anybody, you were talking to thin air, like a nut who’s sick in the head. You haven’t gone crazy, have you, compadre?”

  They’d reached their classroom, and from there it was impossible to see the stands on the soccer field.

  “You didn’t see him?” Fonchito grabbed his arm. “A man with gray hair, wearing a suit, a tie, a purple sweater, sitting right next to me. Swear you didn’t see him, Chato.”

  “Don’t fuck around,” said Chato Pezzuolo, pointing a finger at his temple again. “You were all alone, nobody else was there but you. Either you lost your mind or you’re seeing things. Don’t be a pain in the ass, Alfonso. You’re trying to fuck with me, right? I promise you can’t.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me, Papa,” Fonchito whispered, sighing. He paused and then declared, “But I know what I see and what I don’t see. And I’m sure I’m not a nut case. What I’m telling you is what happened. Exactly what happened.”

  “All right, all right,” Rigoberto said, trying to calm him, “probably it was your friend Pezzuolo who didn’t see this Edilberto Torres. He must have been in a blind spot, something blocked his view. Don’t think about it anymore. What other explanation can there be? Your friend Chato couldn’t see him and that’s that. We’re not going to start believing in ghosts at this point in our lives, son, isn’t that right? Forget all that, and especially Edilberto Torres. Let’s say he doesn’t exist and never existed. He’s long gone, as you say nowadays.”

  “Another of the boy’s feverish imaginings,” Doña Lucrecia would remark later. “He’ll never stop surprising us. I mean, a man appears and only he sees him, right there on his school’s soccer field. What an extravagant imagination he has, my God!”

  But later, she was the one
who urged Rigoberto to go to Markham, without telling Fonchito about it, to talk to Mr. McPherson, the director. The conversation caused Don Rigoberto a good deal of grief.

  “Naturally, he didn’t know and hadn’t ever heard of Edilberto Torres,” he told Lucrecia that night, when they usually talked. “And then, as was to be expected, the gringo felt free to mock me. It was absolutely impossible for a stranger to have entered the school, let alone the soccer field. Nobody who isn’t a teacher or an employee is authorized to set foot there. Mr. McPherson also believes this is one of those fantasies that intelligent, sensitive boys tend to have. He told me there was no reason to give the matter any importance. At my son’s age, it’s perfectly normal for a child to see a ghost occasionally, unless he’s a dolt. We agreed that neither of us would tell Foncho about the interview. I think he’s right. What’s the point of playing along with something that makes no sense.”

  “Well, if it turns out that the devil does exist, it seems he’s Peruvian and his name is Edilberto Torres.” Lucrecia had a sudden fit of laughter. But Rigoberto noticed it was a nervous laugh.

  They were lying down, and it was obvious by this time that there would be no stories, no fantasies, and no lovemaking. This had been happening more often recently. Instead of inventing stories that excited them both, they began to talk, and often they enjoyed it so much that time slipped away until they were overcome by sleep.

  “I’m afraid it’s no laughing matter.” A moment later she reversed herself and became serious again. “This has gone too far, Rigoberto. We have to do something. I don’t know what, but something. We can’t just look away, as if nothing were going on.”

  “At least now I’m certain that it’s a fantasy, something very typical of him,” Rigoberto reflected. “But what’s he trying to do with these stories? Things like this aren’t unprovoked, they come from somewhere, with roots in the unconscious.”

  “Sometimes he’s so quiet, so closed within himself, that I want to die of sorrow, my love. I feel that the boy is suffering in silence and it breaks my heart. Since he knows we don’t believe in his apparitions, he doesn’t tell us about them anymore. And that’s even worse.”

  “He might be having visions, hallucinations,” Don Rigoberto digressed. “It happens to the most normal people, whether they’re clever or stupid. They think they’re seeing what they don’t see, what’s only in their head.”

  “Sure, of course they’re inventions,” Doña Lucrecia concluded. “We assume the devil doesn’t exist. I believed in him when I met you, Rigoberto. In God and the devil, what every normal Catholic family believes. You convinced me they were superstitions, the foolish beliefs of ignorant people. And now it turns out that the one who doesn’t exist has interfered with our family, and what do you have to say to that?” She gave another nervous little laugh and then fell silent. To Rigoberto she seemed quiet and pensive.

  “To be honest, I don’t know whether he exists or not,” he admitted. “The only thing I’m sure about now is what you just said. He might exist, I could get as far as that. But I can’t accept that he’s a Peruvian named Edilberto Torres, and that he devotes his time to stalking the students at Markham Academy. Please don’t fuck with me.”

  They discussed the matter from every angle and finally decided to take Fonchito for a psychological evaluation. They made inquiries among their friends. Everyone recommended Dr. Augusta Delmira Céspedes. She had studied in France and was a specialist in child psychology, and those who’d placed their sons or daughters with problems in her care had high praise for her skill and good judgment. They were afraid Fonchito might resist and took every precaution to present the matter to him delicately. But to their surprise, the boy didn’t raise the slightest objection. He agreed to see her, went to her office several times, took all the tests Dr. Céspedes gave him, and always had the best attitude in the world when he talked to her. When Rigoberto and Lucrecia went to her office, the doctor received them with an encouraging smile. She was close to sixty, rather plump, agile, amiable, and droll.

  “Fonchito is the most normal boy in the world,” she assured them. “Too bad: He’s so charming I would have liked to keep him as a patient for a while. Each session with him has been a delight. He’s intelligent, sensitive, and for that very reason sometimes feels distant from his classmates. But this is absolutely normal. If you can be totally sure of anything, it’s that Edilberto Torres is no fantasy but a flesh-and-blood person, as real and concrete as the two of you and me. Fonchito hasn’t lied to you. Exaggerated things a little, perhaps. That’s what his rich imagination is for. He’s never taken his encounters with that gentleman as either heavenly or diabolical apparitions. Never! What nonsense. He’s a kid with his feet planted very firmly on the ground and his head in the right place. You’re the ones who have invented all this, and for that very reason you’re the ones who really need a psychologist. Shall I make you an appointment? I see not only children but also adults who suddenly begin to believe the devil exists and wastes his time walking the streets of Lima, Barranco, and Miraflores.”

  Dr. Augusta Delmira Céspedes continued joking as she accompanied them to the door. When they said goodbye, she asked Don Rigoberto to show her his collection of erotic prints one day. “Fonchito told me it’s terrific” was her final joke. Rigoberto and Lucrecia left her office floundering in a sea of confusion.

  “I told you that going to a psychologist was very dangerous,” Rigoberto reminded Lucrecia. “I don’t know why I ever listened to you. A psychologist can be more dangerous than the devil himself, I’ve known that ever since I read Freud.”

  “Shame on you if you think we should joke about this the way Dr. Céspedes does,” Lucrecia said in self-defense. “I only hope you’re not sorry.”

  “I don’t take it as a joke,” he replied, serious now. “I was happier thinking that Edilberto Torres didn’t exist. If what Dr. Céspedes says is true, and this person does exist and is pursuing Fonchito, tell me what the hell we’re supposed to do now.”

  They did nothing, and for a long time the boy didn’t talk to them again about the matter. He continued to go about his normal life, going to school and coming home at the usual times, going to his room for an hour or sometimes two every afternoon to do his homework, and going out some weekends with Chato Pezzuolo. Though he did so reluctantly, pushed by Don Rigoberto and Doña Lucrecia, he also went out occasionally with other boys from the neighborhood, to the movies, to the stadium to play soccer, or to a party. But in their nocturnal conversations, Rigoberto and Lucrecia agreed that even though this seemed normal, Fonchito wasn’t the same boy he’d been before.

  What was different? It wasn’t easy to say, but both were sure he’d changed. And that the transformation was profound. A problem of his age? It was a difficult transition from childhood to adolescence: A boy’s voice changes and becomes hoarse, and the fuzz that announces his future beard starts to appear on his face; he begins to feel he’s no longer a child but not yet a man, and in the way he dresses, sits, gestures, and talks to his friends and to girls, he tries to become the man he’ll be later on. Fonchito seemed more laconic and withdrawn, much more sparing in his answers to their questions at meals about school and his friends.

  “I know what’s wrong with you, kid,” Lucrecia challenged him one day. “You’ve fallen in love! Is that it, Fonchito? Do you like some girl?”

  With no hint of a blush, he shook his head no.

  “I don’t have time for those things now,” he replied seriously, without a shred of humor. “Exams are coming and I’d like to get good grades.”

  “I like that, Fonchito,” Don Rigoberto said approvingly. “You’ll have plenty of time for girls later on.”

  And suddenly his rosy face lit up with a smile, and in Fonchito’s eyes the impish mischief of earlier times appeared.

  “Besides, you know that the only woman in the world I like is you, Stepmother.”

  “Oh, my God, let me give you a kiss, my boy,” Doñ
a Lucrecia commended him. “But what do those hands mean, my husband?”

  “They mean that talking about the devil suddenly sets my imagination and some other things on fire, my love.”

  And for a long while they took their pleasure, imagining that the joke about the devil and Fonchito had passed on to a better life. But no, it hadn’t passed on yet.

  VII

  It happened one morning when Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva, the latter distracted for a moment from his obsession with Piuran women in general and Señora Josefita in particular, were working, all five senses focused on the task, trying to find the link that would give focus to the investigation. Colonel Ríos Pardo, alias Rascachucha, the regional police chief, had reprimanded them again the night before, ranting like a madman because news of Felícito Yanaqué’s defiance of the crooks in El Tiempo had reached Lima. The minister of the interior had called him personally to demand that the business be resolved immediately. The press was following the story, and not only the police but the government itself was being made to look ridiculous in the public eye. The rallying cry from headquarters was: Get your hands on the extortionists and make an example of them!

  “We have to justify the police, damn it,” the ill-tempered Rascachucha bellowed from behind his enormous mustache, his eyes like red-hot coals. “A couple of hicks can’t laugh at us like this. Either you hunt them down ipso facto, or I swear by San Martín de Porres and by God Himself that you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”

  Sergeant Lituma and Captain Silva analyzed with a magnifying glass the statements of all the witnesses, made file cards, compared and cross-referenced data, shuffled through hypotheses and rejected them one after the other. From time to time, taking a breather, the captain would burst into praise, charged with sexual fever, of the curves of Señora Josefita, with whom he’d fallen in love. Very seriously, and with salacious gestures, he explained to his subordinate that those gluteals were not only large, round, and symmetrical but also “gave a little jiggle when she walked,” something that aroused his heart and his testicles in unison. For that reason, he maintained, “in spite of her age, her moon face, and her slightly bowed legs, Josefita is the goddamnedest woman.