The Neighborhood Read online

  Her teacher had been Rolando Garro, and for this reason she felt an absolute loyalty to him. Was she in love with him? In the editorial office of Exposed they sometimes joked with her about this, and she denied it so emphatically that all her colleagues were sure she was.

  As far back as she could remember, the idea of one day being a reporter had always pursued her; but her idea of journalism had little or nothing to do with what is called serious journalism: objective reports and political, cultural, or social analyses. Her idea of journalism came from the small yellow scandal sheets displayed in the newsstands in the center of town, which people stopped to read—or rather look at, because there was almost nothing to them beyond the large, glaring headlines—and to contemplate the naked women showing off their breasts and buttocks with fantastic vulgarity, and the panels in strident red letters denouncing the filthy things, the pestilential secrets, and the real or supposed vile acts, thefts, perversions, and trafficking that destroyed the reputations of the most apparently worthy and prestigious people in the country.

  Shorty—they had given her the nickname in school, where the girls in her class sometimes also called her Chubby—recalled with pride the success that had crowned her first forays as a reporter, when she was still a high school student at the María Parado de Bellido School. It had occurred to the director that the students should publish a bulletin-board newspaper. Julieta, not imagining the effect it would have, began to send in articles written by hand in her even, tiny writing. She soon became the star reporter of the bulletin-board paper, because unlike the other contributors, who spoke of the nation, of national heroes like Grau and Bolognesi, of religion, the pope, or the land problem in Peru, she limited herself to recounting the most salacious gossip and rumors circulating about students and teachers, concealing their names when it was a matter of really risqué items such as casting suspicion on a man’s masculinity or a woman’s femininity. With success came a sanction. She was called to the office, admonished—she had been warned earlier for using curse words—and threatened with expulsion if she continued along that path.

  She did—but was already out of school. With an audacity inversely proportional to her size, she began to investigate, passing herself off as a reporter for The Latest, The Chronicle, Masks, Express, and even Commerce in theaters, radio stations, nightclubs, television stations, recording studios, or the private houses of people in show business, extracting from them, with her ingenuous little girl’s voice and large, unmoving eyes, an entire report naturally marked by mendacious distrust and an unfailing intuition for the morbid, sinful, and ill-gotten that attracted her so deeply. In this way she came to Exposed, met Rolando Garro, and became the weekly’s star reporter and best-loved disciple of the country’s most famous journalist in matters of infidelity and scandal.

  “How will the damn story of those photographs end?” she wondered before she fell asleep. “Well or badly?” Since the beginning, that is, since Ceferino confessed he had them, she had sensed that the topic could do them more harm than good, especially when Rolando Garro took them to Enrique Cárdenas, that snob of a miner. But what her boss said and did she respected without saying a word.

  9

  A Singular Affair

  When Enrique saw Rolando Garro walk into his office, he felt the same distaste as the first time. Garro was dressed in the same clothing he had worn two weeks earlier, and he walked swinging his arms and coming down hard on the heels of his high platform shoes, as if wanting to come up in the world. He reached his desk—Enrique hadn’t stood to receive him—and extended the flaccid wet hand that Enrique remembered with revulsion. It was ten in the morning: he was right on time for their appointment.

  “Since I imagine that this conversation will be recorded, I propose we don’t discuss you-know-what,” Garro said as he came in, in the high-pitched, arrogant voice Enrique remembered from their previous meeting. “Except for what brings me here. And since I know you’re a very busy man and I don’t want to waste your precious time, I’ll propose it to you with no preambles. I’ve come to offer you a business deal.”

  “A business deal?” The engineer was surprised. “You and I?”

  “Yes, you and I,” the journalist repeated with a defiant laugh. “I, the dwarf who doesn’t exist, and you, the god of the Peruvian entrepreneurial Olympus.”

  He laughed again, an anomalous little laugh that narrowed his mocking eyes, and after a strategic pause, added with a great deal of conviction:

  “Exposed is a small weekly with limited circulation only because of a lack of means, Señor Cárdenas. But this could change radically. If an entrepreneur of your prestige and power decided to invest in it, the magazine would reach all of Peru. It would be unstoppable, and even the stones would read it. I’d take care of that, Engineer.”

  Was this how the blackmail would go? Asking him to invest in the filthy yellow scandal sheet? Enrique looked at this individual dressed in his outlandish, gaudy clothes, and thought what a contrast he made to his own modern, elegant office with its functional, discreet Scandinavian furniture and the etchings on the walls, the mechanical drawings, the pumps, pulleys, and pipelines that the decorator Leonorcita Artigas had combined with beautiful views of deserts, the foaming waves of the coastline, and the imposing, snow-covered Andes.

  “Explain in more detail what you’re saying, Señor Garro,” he said, hiding his repugnance. But in spite of his efforts, he was sure the aversion he felt toward the poor devil in front of him was evident in his voice.

  “A hundred thousand dollars to start,” the journalist said with a shrug, as if the sum were laughable. “A trifle for you. Later, when you can confirm how well this investment is going and what an excellent deal you’ve made, the amount of capital would have to increase. For the moment, I’d allow myself to double the number of printed copies and the staff. Improve the paper and the printing. I wouldn’t even see the money. You’d put in place the manager, administrator, spy, or whatever you want to call him. Someone you trust absolutely. The matter is very simple. More than your money, I’m interested in your name, your prestige. If you’re associated with me, the grudge that advertisers and their agencies have against me will disappear in an instant. The weekly will become respectable and full of ads. I assure you, Engineer, it will be an excellent investment.”

  His little eyes glittered as he spoke, and Enrique saw that his teeth were stained with nicotine. And he was chewing something, perhaps a piece of gum. Or could it be a tic?

  “Before you continue, I want to tell you something, Señor Garro,” he said, hardening his voice and staring into his visitor’s shifty eyes. “I don’t know why you brought me that gift on your last visit. The person who appears in those photos isn’t me.”

  “So much the better, Engineer.” The journalist applauded theatrically, delighted at the news. “I’m very glad. I already imagined as much, as a matter of fact. But I told you I didn’t want us to discuss that now. Not only because you’re surely recording this conversation but because there’s no connection between this visit and my previous one. I’ve come to propose a business deal, nothing more. Don’t look for complications where none exist.”

  “Journalism isn’t my field, and I don’t like to invest in things I don’t know about,” said Enrique. “In any event, if you have a project, with market and feasibility studies, leave it with me and the technical department will study it with the seriousness it deserves. Was that all, Señor Garro?”

  “Naturally I’ve brought you the proposal in writing,” said Garro, touching the faded leather briefcase he held on his knees. “But I’d like to explain a little more in my own words what we could do with the expansion of Exposed. It won’t take more than ten minutes, I promise you.”

  Enrique, resisting the urge to get this ridiculous little man out of the office once and for all and never see him again, agreed without saying a word. He had allowed him this appointment because those were the instructions of the two criminal law
yers in Luciano’s firm, though it went against his own better judgment. A dull rage was taking hold of him.

  “Morbid curiosity is the most universal vice in the world,” the little man pontificated in his strident, cocksure voice, not taking his eyes off Enrique. “In all peoples and all cultures, but especially in Peru. I suppose you know this all too well: we’re a nation of gossips. We want to know people’s secrets, preferably the ones having to do with bed. In other words, and excuse my language, who’s fucking whom, and how they’re doing it. Poking into the private lives of well-known people, the powerful, the famous, the prominent. Politicians, entrepreneurs, athletes, singers—and if there’s anyone who knows how to do it, and I say so with all the modesty in the world, it’s me. Yes, Engineer, Rolando Garro, your friend and, if you agree, from now on your partner, too.”

  He spoke for fifteen minutes, not ten, and with so much cynicism and eloquence that the entrepreneur, who listened openmouthed, could not interrupt him. Enrique was alarmed, but he wanted to know how far Rolando Garro’s brazenness would take him, so he let him talk and talk.

  Several times he was about to silence him but he controlled himself, fascinated by what he was hearing, like a bird paralyzed in midair by the gaze of the snake before it swallows him. He couldn’t get it into his head that anyone would reveal himself in that way, displaying the intentions his brain devised with a total lack of scruples. Garro said that until now, Exposed had concentrated on the world of show business because it was the one that Rolando Garro and his team knew best, but also because of a lack of means. With an increase in capital, his sphere of action would extend like concentric waves and incorporate into his exposés, “coming right to the point, Engineer”—politicians, and entrepreneurs, too, of course, but certainly Engineer Cárdenas would always have the right to a veto. His prohibitions and advice would be sacred to the weekly. And so, on a national scale, Exposed would reveal—“bring to light”—that entire shadowy world of adultery, homosexuality, lesbianism, sadomasochism, bestiality, pedophilia, corruption, and thievery which thrived in the basements of society. All of Peru would be able to satisfy its morbid curiosity, its appetite for gossip, the immense pleasure produced in the mediocre, which is most of humanity, knowing that the famous, the respectable, the celebrated, the decent are made of the same dirty clay as everyone else. After a short pause, the journalist gave him examples, in the United States and in Europe, of publications similar to the kind he wanted to use as models for the transformed Exposed.

  Had he finished? Rolando Garro was smiling at him, with an air of being very satisfied with himself, waiting for his response with a beatific expression.

  “So you’ve come to propose that I invest in a paper that would be dedicated to spreading yellow journalism and scandal throughout the entire country,” Enrique Cárdenas finally said, speaking very slowly to hide the rage that bubbled up inside him like lava.

  “That’s the journalism that sells the best and is the most modern in today’s world, Engineer,” Rolando Garro explained, with pedagogical gestures. “Exposed will earn you a lot of money, I assure you. Isn’t that what matters to a capitalist? Earning dividends, the nice jingling of soles. But besides that, and this is perhaps the most important thing, it will make you a feared man, Don Enrique. Thanks to Exposed, your competitors will be terrified that you’ll plunge them into disgrace with just a flick of your little finger. Think what this means, this weapon that I’ll place in your hands.”

  “The weapons of the Mafia, of blackmail and extortion,” said Enrique; he was trembling with indignation and had to spell out the words as he spoke. “Do you know: I hear you speak and can’t believe that anyone can say the things you’re saying to me, Señor Garro.”

  He saw the reporter abandon his arrogant smile for a moment, become very serious, spread his arms, and exclaim in astonishment, as if addressing a hall filled with spectators:

  “Are we talking about morality, Engineer? About ethics and scruples?”

  “Yes, Señor Garro,” he exploded in fury. “About morality and scruples. Things you don’t even know exist, to judge by what I’m hearing.”

  “No one who saw the photographs I gave you the other day would say that you’re so scrupulous a moralist, Engineer.” Now the voice of Rolando Garro was cold, piercing, and aggressive, a voice Enrique didn’t know he had. He’d stopped chewing. His eyes drilled into him.

  “I don’t intend to invest a single cent in your filthy rag, Señor Garro,” said the entrepreneur, getting to his feet. “I’m asking you to leave and not set foot in my office again. As for those faked photographs you’re trying to use to frighten me, I assure you that you’re mistaken. And that you’ll regret it if you insist on this blackmail.”

  The journalist didn’t stand up. He remained seated, defying him with his eyes, as if pondering what Enrique would say to him.

  “In fact, Señor Garro, this conversation is being recorded,” the engineer added. “In this way, the police and the judges will know the kind of deal you came to propose to me. The kind of revolting animal you are. Leave immediately, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

  This time the journalist, who had changed color with each of the engineer’s insults, got to his feet. He nodded a few times and then, with his habitual Tarzanesque strides, walked unhurriedly to the door. But before he left, he turned to look at Enrique and said with the mocking little smile he had recovered, and in his shrill voice:

  “I recommend the next issue of Exposed to you, Engineer. I swear you’ll find it very interesting, from beginning to end.”

  As soon as the little man left his office, Enrique called Luciano at his firm.

  “I’ve done something very obtuse, old man,” he blurted out, even forgetting to greet him first. “Do you know why that piece of trash came here? To propose that I invest one hundred thousand dollars in his rag. So that he can add politicians, businessmen, and society people to the list of showgirls he concerns himself with now and bring all their dirty secrets to light. I couldn’t control myself. He nauseated me. I threw him out of the office, threatening him with a beating if he ever came back. It was dumb, wasn’t it, Luciano?”

  “You’re committing the worst stupidity now, Quique,” his friend replied. He maintained his usual calm. “Suppose this conversation is being taped? It’s better if we speak of this in person. Never again by phone, I’ve told you that. It seems you don’t know what country we’re in, old man.”

  “He threatened to dedicate the next issue to me,” Enrique added. He noticed that he was sweating profusely.

  “We’ll talk about this later, in person, not by phone,” Luciano interrupted very energetically. “I’m sorry, but I have to cut this short.”

  And Enrique heard a click and then silence. Luciano had hung up.

  He stayed at his desk for a long while, with no energy to take care of the thousand things waiting on the day’s schedule. Luciano was afraid that their conversation was being recorded. By whom? And to what end? The famous Doctor? It wasn’t impossible, of course. Luciano had told him about the meeting he’d had with the two criminal lawyers, the presidents of the Confederation of Entrepreneurs and the Mining Society, and the head of the Intelligence Service. The Doctor seemed indignant at the blackmail attempt. He assured them that he’d set the blackmailer straight; he knew that journalist all too well and would make him reveal his accomplices, if he had any. Would he keep his word? Enrique no longer trusted anyone. For a long time everything had been possible in Peru. A country, it seemed to him, that only now he was beginning to understand deep down, even though he was almost forty years old and had spent all those years here except for the four when he’d been a student at MIT in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Since those photographs had fallen into his hands, his eyes had been opened, revealing a hell even worse than the bombs of the Shining Path and the kidnappings of the MRTA. “Where were you living until now, Quique?” he asked himself. Hadn’t poor Cachito been kidnapped months ago? He har
dly knew him, but he had always seemed like a nice person. They had played tennis a few times in Villa. Sebastián Zaldívar, Cachito to his friends, ran his manufacturing business efficiently, though without much imagination. He wasn’t very ambitious. He was satisfied with what he had, his games of tennis, his saddle horses, his little trips to Miami from time to time to do some shopping, go on a spree, and sleep peacefully with no blackouts. Poor man! What tortures were they inflicting on him? Could this pig’s threat be true? Would he dare to publish the photos? He imagined his mother bent over the cover of Exposed and shuddered. Perhaps he had been hasty to threaten and insult a worm like that. Would he have to retreat? Beg his pardon and tell him he’d invest the hundred thousand in that repulsive sheet he published?

  10

  The Three Jokers

  When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the silhouette of Serafín outlined in the recess of the only window in his room at the Hotel Mogollón, which he always left open in case the cat wanted to go out or come in. “Ah, you came back, you rascal,” he said, spreading his arms; the cat immediately jumped from the window to the bed and came to curl up beside him. Juan Peineta scratched the back of Serafín’s neck and his belly, feeling how the animal stretched with contentment. “You were gone three days, what ingratitude,” he scolded. “Or was it four, or five? What unspeakable things you must have been up to out there.” The cat looked at him as if he were sorry and curled up, begging his pardon. “We’ll have breakfast later, Serafín. I feel lazy, I’m going to stay in bed a little longer.”