Vargas Llosa The Discreet Hero

Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-31073-9
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 400 Seiten

Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature Felicito Yanaque has raised himself from poverty to ownership of a trucking business. His two sons work for him. He receives a threatening letter demanding protection money. The police don't take him seriously, Felicito refuses to pay up and gets sucked into a nightmare. He becomes a reluctant public hero. Then his mistress is kidnapped, and matters become seriously complicated. And he finds that his troubles have begun very close to home. His fate is interwoven with the story of Rigoberto, a wealthy Lima insurance executive. His boss and old friend, Ismael, suddenly announces that he is marrying his housekeeper, a chola from Piura, to the consternation of his twin sons, a pair of brutal wasters. Ismael escapes to Europe with his new bride, leaving Rigoberto to face the twins' threats, and their claims that he connived with a scheming woman to rob an old man of his fortune. Rigoberto is hounded by the press and TV. Meanwhile, his only son is having visions of a mysterious stranger who may or may not be the devil...

Mario Vargas Llosa was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2010. He also won the Cervantes Prize, the most distinguished literary honour in the Spanish-speaking world. His many works include The Feast of the Goat, The Bad Girl and Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter as well as several collections of essays, journalism and plays. He died in April 2025.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Vargas Llosa, Mario

Weitere Mitwirkende

Grossman, Edith

Leseproben

II

When Don Ismael Carrera, the owner of the insurance company, stopped by his office and suggested having lunch together, Rigoberto thought, “He’s going to ask me again to change my mind,” because Ismael, along with all his colleagues and subordinates, had been startled by Rigoberto’s unexpected announcement that he’d take his retirement three years early. Why retire at the age of sixty-two, they all said, when he could stay three more years in the manager’s position that he filled with the unanimous respect of the firm’s almost three hundred employees.

“And really, why, why?” he thought. He wasn’t even sure. But the truth was that his determination was immovable. He wouldn’t take a step backward, even though by retiring before the age of sixty-five, he wouldn’t keep his full salary or have any right to all the indemnities and privileges of those who retired when they reached the upper age limit.

He tried to cheer himself by thinking of the free time he’d have. Spending hours in his small space of civilization, protected against barbarism, looking at his beloved etchings and the art books that crowded his library, listening to good music, taking a trip to Europe once a year with Lucrecia in the spring or fall, attending festivals, art fairs, visiting museums, foundations, galleries, seeing again his best-loved paintings and sculptures and discovering others that he would bring into his secret art gallery. He’d made calculations, and he was good at math. By spending judiciously and prudently administering his almost million dollars of savings, as well as his pension, he and Lucrecia would have a very comfortable old age and be able to secure Fonchito’s future.

“Yes, yes,” he thought, “a long, cultured, and happy old age.” Why then, in spite of this promising future, did he feel so uneasy? Was it Edilberto Torres or anticipatory melancholy? Especially when, as now, he looked over the portraits and diplomas hanging on the walls in his office, the books lined up on two shelves, his desk meticulously arranged with its notebooks, pencils and pencil holders, calculator, reports, turned-on computer, and the television set always tuned to Bloomberg with the stock market quotations. How could he feel anticipatory nostalgia for this? The only important things in his office were the pictures of Lucrecia and Fonchito—newborn, child, adolescent—which he would take with him on the day of the move. As for the rest, soon this old building on Jirón Carabaya, in the center of Lima, would no longer be the insurance company’s headquarters. The new location, in San Isidro, on the edge of the Zanjón, was almost finished. This ugly edifice, where he’d worked for thirty years of his life, would probably be torn down.

He thought Ismael would take him, as always when he invited him to lunch, to the Club Nacional and he, once again, would be incapable of resisting the temptation of that enormous steak breaded with tacu-tacu they called “a sheet,” or of drinking a couple of glasses of wine—so that for the rest of the afternoon he’d feel bloated and dyspeptic, and lack all desire to work. To his surprise, when they got into the Mercedes-Benz in the building’s garage, his boss told the driver, “To Miraflores, Narciso, La Rosa Náutica.” Turning to Rigoberto, he explained, “It will do us good to breathe a little sea air and listen to the gulls screeching.”

“If you think you’re going to bribe me with a lunch, Ismael, you’re crazy,” he warned him. “I’m retiring no matter what, even if you put a pistol to my head.”

“I won’t do that,” said Ismael with a mocking gesture. “I know you’re as stubborn as a mule. And I also know you’ll be sorry, feeling useless and bored at home, getting on Lucrecia’s nerves all day. Soon you’ll show up on bended knee asking me to put you back in the manager’s office. I’ll do it, of course I will. But first I’ll make you suffer for a good long time, I’m warning you.”

He tried to remember how long he’d known Ismael. A lot of years. Ismael had been very good-looking as a young man. Elegant, distinguished, sociable. And, until he married Clotilde, a seducer. He made women, single and married, old and young, sigh for him. Now he’d lost most of his hair and had just a few white tufts on his bald head; he’d become wrinkled and fat and dragged his feet when he walked. His denture, fitted by a dentist in Miami, was unmistakable. The years, and especially the twins, had ruined him physically. They’d met the first day Rigoberto came to work at the insurance company in the legal department. Thirty long years! Damn, a lifetime ago. He recalled Ismael’s father, Don Alejandro Carrera, the founder of the company. Severe, tireless, a difficult but upright man whose mere presence imposed order and communicated certainty. Ismael respected him though he never loved him. Because Don Alejandro forced his only son, recently returned from England, where he’d studied economics at the University of London and completed a year’s training at Lloyd’s, to work in every division of the firm, which was just beginning to be prominent. Ismael was close to forty and felt humiliated by an apprenticeship that even had him sorting the mail, running the cafeteria, and tending to the machinery in the electrical plant and to the security and cleanliness of the company. Don Alejandro could be somewhat despotic, but Rigoberto recalled him with admiration: a captain of industry. He’d made this company out of nothing, starting out with almost no capital and loans that he repaid down to the last cent. And the truth was that Ismael had carried on his father’s work in excellent fashion. He too was tireless and knew how to exercise his gift for command when necessary. But with the twins at its head, the Carrera line would end up in the garbage. Neither one had inherited the entrepreneurial virtues of their father and grandfather. When Ismael died, pity the insurance company! Fortunately, he would no longer be there as manager to witness the catastrophe. Why had his boss invited him to lunch if not to talk to him about his upcoming retirement?

La Rosa Náutica was filled with people, many of them tourists speaking English or French; Don Ismael had reserved a table next to the window. They drank a Campari and watched some surfers riding the waves in their rubber suits. It was a gray winter morning, with low leaden clouds that hid the cliffs and the flocks of screeching seagulls. A squadron of pelicans glided past, just grazing the ocean’s surface. The rhythmic sound of the waves and the undertow was pleasant. “Winter is melancholy in Lima, though a thousand times preferable to the summer,” Rigoberto thought. He ordered grilled corvina and a salad and told his boss he wouldn’t have even a drop of wine; he had work to do in the office and didn’t want to spend the afternoon yawning like a crocodile and feeling like a zombie. It seemed to him that a self-absorbed Ismael didn’t even hear him. What was troubling him?

“You and I are good friends, aren’t we?” his boss said suddenly, as if just waking up.

“I suppose we are, Ismael,” Rigoberto replied, “if friendship can really exist between an employer and his employee. The class struggle is real, you know.”

“We’ve had our battles at times,” Ismael continued very seriously. “But even so, I think we’ve gotten along pretty well these thirty years. Don’t you agree?”

“All this sentimental beating around the bush just to ask me not to retire?” Rigoberto teased. “Are you going to tell me that if I leave, the company will go under?”

Ismael wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He eyed the scallops à la parmigiana that had just been brought to him as if they might be poisoned. He moved his mouth, making his denture click. There was disquiet in his half-dosed eyes. His prostate? Cancer? What was wrong with him?

“I want to ask you for a favor,” he murmured, very quietly, not looking at him. When he raised his eyes, Rigoberto saw them filled with perplexity. “Not a favor, no. A huge favor, Rigoberto.”

“If I can, of course,” he agreed, intrigued. “What’s wrong, Ismael? You look so strange.”

“I want you to be my witness,” said Ismael, lowering his eyes again to the scallops. “I’m getting married.”

The fork with a mouthful of corvina stayed in the air for a moment and then, instead of carrying it to his mouth, Rigoberto returned it to his plate. “How old is he?” he thought. “No younger than seventy-five or seventy-eight—maybe even eighty.” He didn’t know what to say. He was dumbstruck with surprise.

“I need two witnesses,” Ismael added, looking at him now, more calmly. “I’ve gone over all my friends and acquaintances. And I’ve reached the conclusion that the most loyal people, the ones I trust most, are Narciso and you. My driver has accepted. Do you?”

Still incapable of saying a word or making a joke, Rigoberto managed only to nod his agreement.

“Of course I do, Ismael,” he finally stammered. “But tell me that this is serious and not the first symptom of senile dementia.”

This time Ismael smiled, though without a shred of joy, opening his mouth and displaying the explosive white of his false teeth. There were well-preserved septuagenarians and octogenarians, Rigoberto told himself, but his boss was not one of them, of course. On his oblong skull, under the white tufts, there were plenty of dark spots, his forehead and neck were furrowed with wrinkles, and there was something defeated in his appearance. He dressed with his usual elegance: a blue suit, a shirt that looked...