The Discreet Hero (12 page)

“I have to go, señor,” said Fonchito, standing up. “They’re expecting me at home.”

The gentleman did not attempt to keep him. As a kind of farewell, he smiled at him more openly, nodded slightly, and barely gestured goodbye with his hand.

“You know very well who he was, don’t you?” Rigoberto repeated. “You’re fifteen now and know about these things, don’t you? A pervert. A pedophile. I suppose you understand what that means, I don’t need to explain it to you. He was looking you over. Lucrecia’s right. It was a mistake to answer him. You should have stopped everything and left as soon as he spoke to you.”

“He didn’t look like a fag, Papa,” Fonchito reassured him. “I swear. I recognize queers on the prowl for boys right away because of how they look at me. Even before they open their mouths, honestly. And because they’re always trying to touch me. This man was just the opposite—very educated, very refined. He didn’t seem to have evil intentions, really.”

“They’re the worst kind, Fonchito,” Doña Lucrecia declared, frankly alarmed. “Hypocrites, who don’t seem to be but are.”

“Tell me, Papa,” Fonchito said, changing the subject. “What he told me about the archangel Luzbel, is it true?”

“Well, it’s what the Bible says.” Don Rigoberto vacillated. “It’s true for believers, at any rate. It’s incredible that at the Markham Academy they don’t have you read the Bible, at least for your general education. But let’s not get distracted. I’ll tell you again, son: It’s absolutely forbidden for you to accept anything from strangers. No invitations, no conversations, no nothing. You understand, don’t you? Or do you want me to forbid you to go out at all?”

“I’m too old for that now, Papa. Please, I’m fifteen.”

“Yes, as old as Methuselah.” Doña Lucrecia laughed. But Rigoberto immediately heard her sighing in the dark. “If we’d only known how far this would go. My God, what a nightmare. I think it’s gone on for a year.”

“A year or even a little more, love.”

Rigoberto forgot about the stranger who talked to Fonchito about Luzbel in the café in Barranco Park almost immediately. But he was reminded and became uneasy a week later when, according to his son, as he was coming back from playing soccer at San Agustín Academy, the same gentleman showed up again.

“I had just taken a shower in the San Agustín lockers and was going to meet up with Chato Pezzuolo so we could ride the jitney together to Barranco. And you won’t believe it but there he was, Papa. Him, the same man.”

“Hello, Luzbel.” The gentleman greeted him with the same affectionate smile. “Remember me?”

He was sitting in the hall that separated the soccer field from the exit door of San Agustín Academy. Behind him was the dense serpent of cars, trucks, and buses moving along Avenida Javier Prado. Some vehicles had their headlights on.

“Yes, yes, I remember,” said Fonchito, sitting up straight. And, in an unequivocal tone, he confronted him. “Excuse me, but my papa has forbidden me to talk to strangers.”

“Rigoberto is absolutely right,” the man said, nodding. He was wearing the same gray suit as last time, but the purple sweater was different, without the white diamond pattern. “Lima is filled with bad people. There are perverts and degenerates everywhere. And good-looking boys like you are their favorite targets.”

Don Rigoberto opened his eyes very wide.

“He mentioned me by name? Did he say he knew me?”

“Do you know my papa, señor?”

“And I knew Eloísa, your mama, too,” the gentleman replied, becoming very serious. “And I also know Lucrecia, your stepmother. I can’t say we’re friends, because we hardly see one another. But I like both of them very much; since the first time I saw them, they seemed a magnificent couple. I’m glad to know they take good care of you and look out for you. A boy as handsome as you is not at all safe in the Sodom and Gomorrah that Lima is.”

“Could you tell me what this Sodom and Gomorrah is, Papa?” Fonchito asked, and Rigoberto noticed a sly gleam in his eyes.

“Two ancient cities, very corrupt, and because they were, God destroyed them,” he replied cautiously. “It’s what believers believe, at least. You have to read the Bible a little, son. For your general education. At least the New Testament. The world we live in is filled with biblical references, and if you don’t understand them, you’ll live in total confusion and ignorance. For example, you won’t understand anything of classical art or ancient history. Are you sure he said he knew Lucrecia and me?”

“And my mama too,” Fonchito specified. “He even said her name: Eloísa. He said it in a way that made it impossible not to believe he was telling the truth, Papa.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Well, not that,” Fonchito said, disconcerted. “I didn’t ask him and I didn’t even give him time to tell me. Since you ordered me not even to say a word to him, I ran away. But I’m sure he knows you, knows both of you. If not, he wouldn’t have told me your name, he wouldn’t have known my mother’s name, or that my stepmother is named Lucrecia.”

“If by any chance you run into him again, be sure to ask what his name is,” said Rigoberto, scrutinizing the boy with suspicion. Could what he was telling them be true, or was it another of his inventions? “But don’t talk to him, let alone accept a Coca-Cola or anything else. I’m more and more convinced he’s one of those depraved people who wander loose through Lima looking for young boys. What else would he be doing at the San Agustín Academy?”

“Do you want me to tell you something, Rigoberto?” said Doña Lucrecia, pressing her body against his in the dark as if reading his mind. “Sometimes I think he’s making all of it up. Typical of Fonchito and his fantasies. He’s played that trick on us before, hasn’t he? And I tell myself there’s nothing to worry about, that this gentleman doesn’t exist and can’t exist, that Fonchito invented everything to make himself interesting and to make us uneasy and dependent on him. But the problem is that Fonchito is an expert trickster. Because when he tells us about their encounters, it seems impossible that what he’s saying isn’t true. He speaks so honestly, so innocently, so persuasively—well, I don’t know. Don’t you react the same way?”

“Of course I do, just like you,” Rigoberto confessed, embracing his wife, warming himself with her body and warming her. “A great trickster, of course. I only hope he’s invented this whole story, Lucrecia. I hope, I hope. At first I didn’t think too much about it, but now these appearances are beginning to obsess me. I start to read and the little brat distracts me, I listen to music and there he is, I look at my prints and what I see is his face, which isn’t a face but a question mark.”

“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.”