"That
good-for-nothing Vladimiro doesn't know what to do with his life," said
Francisco after finishing his fourth glass of pisco. "But I do."
The
shoemaker listened attentively: Francisco would be paying for the night's
drinks. Though merely a scribe, he had defeated a distinguished, decorated
lawyer in a smuggling case. Francisco possessed resources that could only be
learned in the dives and judicial cantinas; resources capable of bending any
verdict.
"He's
going to Lima, damn it. I'm sending him to the Military School."
He gestured
to the waiter: another bottle.
"Wasn't
he going to be a lawyer, buddy? What happened with all that Ugarteche business?
People were already saying he'd end up working as an assistant to President
Prado," the shoemaker joked.
"I
won't allow you to mock me, compadre."
Pancho
didn't tolerate mockery from anyone—not even from the shoemaker, who was his
best friend.
"That
good-for-nothing Manuelito Ugarteche, since he's got his uncle in the
presidency, doesn't want to do me any favours. He says they could later
denounce him for influence peddling. Shitty coward. He doesn't want to get his
hands dirty, he says. As if he were some holy dove. And that's after I defended
him from the school bullies when we were kids. But that's how people are:
ungrateful. Fortunately, my contacts at the barracks are real men and
reliable."
"You've
got contacts there, compadre?"
"Of
course. Military men always need someone to wipe their asses. I've told you
several times how many I've saved from the clink. And me being a paper-pusher,
as those pompous, stuck-up shitty lawyers call me. The thing is, I know how the
judicial system in this country is run. Justice loves discretion."
The
shoemaker, who drank moderately, fixed his attention on the establishment's
door. A man, who made no effort to hide the revolver tucked into his belt, over
his shirt, entered looking in every direction.
"Where's
Pancho?" he shouted.
"Hey,
Captain," Francisco celebrated. "Come over here. We were just talking
about you."
The captain
approached Francisco and took a seat at one side of his table.
"Your
Vladimiro already has his spot reserved at the School. My contact bumped a guy
from Huaraz," said the military man. "Where's my glass? I know how to
be thirsty too."
***
"What
do you mean he doesn't meet the age requirement?" Francisco grew agitated.
Two empty bottles of pisco drummed on the table.
"He
doesn't meet it, Doctor," said the major. He picked up the pistol he had
left on the table. "I'm leaving now. I just came to tell you that."
The idiot captain hadn't noticed that detail.
With that
static gesture, thousands of ideas tumbled through Francisco's mind, tripping
over each other and tangling together, leaving him even more confused.
"I
came to tell you in person so you don't think I played you dirty. I entrusted
the matter to that fool of a captain, and now look how that crap slipped past
him."
"And
when does admissions close?" said Francisco, a light in his eyes.
The pistol
already in his belt, a cigarette lighting his mouth, the major said in a week.
"But it's pointless: in a week your son won't meet the required age."
"Of
course he will," said Francisco, rising from the table, lucid and steady,
as if he hadn't drunk a single drop of pisco. "You had one foot in jail
and I got you out even though the prosecutor had everything to convict you. Not
even the devil himself could have saved you."
The major
looked at Francisco from a distance. Was he throwing the jail matter in his
face again? He had done the favour Francisco asked in exchange for the matter
being buried forever. If he was going to keep up the same old song, he was a
damn fool; a bullet to the head would end everything. He put a hand to his
pistol.
"No,"
said Francisco, reading the major's intentions. "I'm not blackmailing you,
major. Nor am I going to ask you for another favor. I'm only reminding you that
for me, nothing is impossible. I kindly ask you for one hour of your time;
nothing more."
"One
hour?" said the major, checking his watch.
"One
hour. In one hour, Vladimiro will meet the required age to enter the School.
Come with me to my office."
The major,
invaded by curiosity, thrust his jaw forward. "Let's go."
***
"Just
like that?" said the major, not believing what the paper Francisco had
just handed him said.
"Just
like that," he confirmed. "Just as easy as it was to beat the
prosecutor in your case, major. In this humble office, without grand
adornments, without titles, without medals, without decorations, I can
resurrect Hitler and, if I want, take him to the presidency of the
country."
The major
tucked the document into his briefcase.
"Well,
with this Vladimiro is part of the School. I'll take care of the paperwork
myself. Congratulations."
They shook
hands.
"Staying
a while longer? There are still two bottles of pisco they owe me at the
tavern," said Francisco, proud, about to burst with happiness.
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