A Star is Born (1945) - "Vladimiro Montesinos. President of Peru" Novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

From today onward, little one, I will be your intellectual father, your guide. I will shield you from the foolishness of my brother, who, unfortunately, is your real father, said Alfonso, holding his nephew in his arms in one of the wards at the Goyeneche Hospital in Arequipa. It was Sunday, May 20, 1945. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, and the cold was stealthily setting in.

Your father couldn't have done more to ruin your life. Standing by a window, the baby staring fixedly at him as if understanding every word, Alfonso established a connection far above the prosaic uncle-nephew bond. Even though I set him straight in time, your father still managed to get another poor woman pregnant—this time, a destitute girl from a village. Just imagine: a Montesinos tied to someone who grew up in a shack.

The child’s mother was recovering in another room. She was asleep. Unaware that her newborn was receiving a brief but damning summary of his life story from the very mouth of his influential uncle.

Will you ever amount to anything in this life, having that good-for-nothing father of yours as your role model? I doubt it. That idiot couldn’t even become a lawyer, even though we gave him all our support. With just one year left to finish his degree, he had the brilliant idea that there was no point in going to classes anymore. He said he earned enough doing the odd jobs I got him at notary offices. And that’s what he became—a shoddy notary. The first Montesinos scribbler. A fraud, nothing more and nothing less. Will you turn out like him? If you follow my advice, I’ll spare you that fate.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings.

The lady just woke up and wants to see her baby, announced the nurse, her gaunt figure appearing as he opened the door.

I’ll take my nephew to her, said Alfonso, swallowing a protest at the discourteous treatment he had received. These cholas don’t even say hello anymore, he told the baby after closing the door. Give them some insignificant little position, and suddenly they think they’re above everyone. And it’s these ignorant cholos and serranos who now feel entitled to get involved in politics. And do you know which movement welcomes them? The only one their brains can grasp: communism. Take from the rich and give to you, the poor. Easy. Simple to understand, but capable of making the losers who follow that way of thinking even poorer. Get this straight: in communism, the only ones who achieve equality in wealth are the leaders who herd those sheep; and those sheep are the only ones who achieve equality in poverty.

The newborn’s body pressed against the cigar in the lawyer’s chest pocket, annoying him. He took it out and lit it. After exhaling a calm puff of smoke, he continued the conversation. The baby, eyes wide open, followed the oscillating movements of the cigar in his uncle’s mouth.

I will make sure you loathe that ideology, that you know money is earned through hard work, not by taking it from those who have more. Those are childish nonsense, you hear?

As he spoke, Alfonso didn’t bother keeping some of the smoke escaping his mouth from drifting into the baby’s face.

You must already know that your foolish father is going to name you Vladimiro—a clear and ridiculous tribute to that communist Lenin, a madman who had the audacity to put Marx’s ravings into practice, managing to murder a large part of Russia with hunger and tyranny.

The door sounded again, this time louder. Alfonso fell silent and whispered to the baby: Even if you’re named after that nefarious man, you will be a democratic, capitalist leader, the owner and driver of markets. Trust me.

The knocks continued, insistent. Alfonso managed to recognize the voice of the person calling. Still whispering, he continued speaking to his nephew: The one knocking gave you that name just to spite me, even though I’ve been his main benefactor and guide.

Have you been smoking?, said Francisco after Alfonso finally opened the door.

Yes, said Alfonso, without the slightest remorse. Just as Francisco intended to screw the family by naming his offspring the hideous name Vladimiro, why couldn’t he screw the future communist’s lungs a little? I’ve been smoking and I’ve been talking with my nephew. I’ve been telling him a bit about life—the good, the bad—and looking at his brother with some contempt—and the nefarious.

Leave, Alfonso. I’m going to take Vladimiro to see his mother. I want to be with my family—the family I truly care about.

As you wish, Francisco. You’ve chosen your path, and that’s fine, but I want to make sure Vladimiro doesn’t follow in your footsteps.

 

That will depend on me and on him, Francisco concluded. Above all, on him. So I’m asking you not to meddle too much in his life or ours.

Fine, Alfonso feigned resignation. Then his eyes turned marble-serious: Remember, you have work at the office tomorrow. I need you to stamp the paperwork for the four pending cases. Don’t think that just because you’re my brother and just had a child, I’m going to give you days off. Family is one thing, work is another.

Francisco, holding the baby in his arms, stood staring resentfully at the doorframe through which his brother—whom he bitterly nicknamed "Black Soul"—had just left.