Wake of failure (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

La Cucufata told him that his father had died. The old woman wore the Franciscan habit that had long ago scared away her husband's sexual appetite.

The news didn't sadden him; on the contrary, it made his day. He suddenly felt liberated. This could have been his last day at military school. Goodbye, you shitty soldiers. He wandered through the city. He began to enjoy his freedom. He ventured down streets that had been forbidden to him. As night fell, it occurred to him that he hadn't done the first thing they'd taught him at school: fact-checking.

So he ran home.

He found his mother ironing clothes. Her gaze was sad. Everything about her was sad. And silent.

Did something happen?, he said, without greeting her.

Without lifting her weary eyes from the iron, the woman shook her head.

Vladimiro looked for his siblings. Some were playing, others sleeping. It didn't seem like they'd lost a father.

He went back to the small living room.

Where's Francisco?

Without stopping her accompaniment of the iron's steaming path, his mother murmured: On the street.

“The street” could only mean the tavern where his father and the town shoemaker met to drink.

He didn't run, but he quickened his pace.

There he was. He could see him through one of the tavern's two windows. The disappointment hurt more than the beatings from the sadistic lieutenants at school.

Francisco was alive. And very drunk. He leaned on the shoemaker to keep from falling to the ground. He moved his mouth with effort, but with vigor. He was surely recounting some overly repeated story, distorted, exaggerated, and spiced up several times over.

He stayed crouched down. He strained to hear something that might clarify what La Cucufata had told him hours ago: The shoemaker was keeping vigil over him. Your father was laid out on a table. He had pieces of cotton coming out of his mouth and noses.

Noses, you stupid woman, thought Vladimiro, straining to hear the conversation. As if one had several noses.

You lying old woman, you went too far making up something like that, he murmured, already giving up on spying on his father. This idiot is more alive than you and me put together, and he'll keep ruining my life for many more years.

Then he heard a commotion and poked his head back through the window. Francisco, his father, had fallen to the ground.

Now he's really dead, he thought, exultant. He entered the bar.

I was passing by, he told the shoemaker when the man asked what he was doing there. In truth, he would have loved to answer, What the fuck do you care?

Together, the two of them lifted Francisco and dragged him home. It would be a long, heavy walk. He regretted being there. He blamed himself for being so gullible. He should be resting after an infernal week at the military boarding school, not dragging his drunkard of a father through the alleys of Arequipa.

He drank like never before today, said the shoemaker. He was very happy.

Oh, really? Why?, asked Vladimiro. He wanted to leave his father's body propped against some wall. He'd find his way home by morning on his own. Thieves in Arequipa weren't a problem. The city was a safe place for drunks who had nothing to lose.

Because he gave the scare of their lives to those shitty churchy old women who, on their way to mass, always catch us drinking at your place. They stick their noses through the window and then go around saying we're disgusting drunks. Can you believe it, dammit?

There was still a considerable stretch to go. The conversation shortened the path.

How did he scare them?

The shoemaker, tired, suddenly let go of Francisco's arm. Vladimiro didn't see the movement coming, and his father's body felt twice as heavy. So he let go too.

The face hitting the cobblestone pavement made the sound of beef innards slamming against a cutting board.

Careful!, shouted the shoemaker. Damn, your old man's going to be all bruised tomorrow. The man was panting, his hands on his knees.

Vladimiro sat on the edge of the sidewalk and lit a cigarette.

You smoke already, kid? How old are you, anyway? The shoemaker could only conceive of Vladimiro—a tall, lanky young man with a lively, though childish, face—drinking milk and going to bed before seven in the evening.

Don't mess with me, man. I already smoke and fuck, said the student, loudly, without a giggle. That was how you earned respect among the soldiers. Go on, how did they get scared?

Your old man played dead.

Played dead?

He'd been planning it for a while, and we did it this morning. The church sacristan—who, by the way, is a tremendous son of a bitch—and I set up the scene of his wake so that anyone who peeked through your house's window wouldn't have a single doubt that your old man had died. We laid him out on a table. He had his dark suit on, the cotton in his nose and mouth, the candles on each side. Anyone could have sworn that Francisco Montesinos had finally left this world to keep drinking in the next.

He was a child enjoying his prank. Vladimiro found him a lesser man, ridiculous. That's why his father felt so at ease around him, because he was just like him, another ridiculous man. He never liked to surround himself with prestigious people, with people who could give some lift to his mediocre life.

And what did he gain from all that nonsense?, Vladimiro challenged. He stood up. He smoothed out his military school trousers.

The question threw the shoemaker off balance. What do you mean, what did he gain?, he said in a murmur.

Nothing, you idiot, nothing, Vladimiro answered himself. He flicked away the cigarette butt and started walking. Nothing!, he shouted before turning a corner and disappearing.

Hey, you little shit, where are you going, help me with your father!, shouted the shoemaker, but the barking of some dogs drowned out his complaint.