to accept the lessons of reality and be pragmatic instead of remaining as obstinate as a mule. We wouldn’t want you to suffer another loss even more serious than the last. That’s why we invite you to be flexible and attend to our requirements.
Like the rest of Piura, we’re aware of the notice you published in El Tiempo . We feel no rancor toward you. What is more, we understand your decision to place the notice, giving in to a temperamental fit of rage, in view of the fire that destroyed your offices. We’ve forgotten it, you forget it too, and we’ll start again from zero.
We’re giving you two weeks—fourteen days, counting from today—to use your reason and reconsider, so that we can resolve the matter that concerns us. If you don’t, you can be certain of the consequences. They’ll be more serious than anything you’ve suffered so far. A word to the wise, as the saying goes, Señor Yanaqué.
May God keep you.
This time the letter was typed, but the signature was the same drawing in blue ink found in the two earlier ones: a spider with five long legs and a dot in the center that represented the head.
“Do you feel sick, Don Felícito? Don’t tell me it’s another of those letters,” his secretary said.
Her boss had lowered his arms and seemed to have collapsed into his chair, very pale, his eyes staring at the piece of paper. Finally he nodded and brought his finger to his mouth, indicating that she should be silent. The people in the garage didn’t need to know. He asked for a glass of water and drank it slowly, making an effort to control the anxiety that had overwhelmed him. His heart felt agitated and it was difficult to breathe. Naturally those bastards hadn’t stopped, naturally they hadn’t changed their tune. But they were wrong if they thought Felícito Yanaqué would give in. He felt rage, hatred, a fury that made him tremble. Perhaps Miguel and Tiburcio were right. Not about the bodyguard, of course, he’d never throw his dough away on something like that. But maybe about the revolver. Nothing in this life would give him as much pleasure as shooting them, if those shits ever came within range. Riddle them with bullets and even spit on their corpses.
When he’d calmed down a little, he walked very quickly to the police station, but Captain Silva and Sergeant Lituma weren’t there. They’d gone out to lunch and would be back at about four. He sat in a cafeteria on Avenida Sánchez Cerro and ordered an ice-cold soda. Two women approached to shake his hand. They admired him, he was an example and an inspiration for all Piurans. They said goodbye and gave him their blessing. He thanked them with a smile. “The truth is, right now I don’t feel like a hero at all,” he thought. “More like a prick. A real asshole, that’s what I am. They’re playing with me, having their fun, and I can’t find my way out of this damn mess.”
He was returning to his office, walking slowly along the high sidewalks of the avenue, surrounded by noisy mototaxis, cyclists, and pedestrians, when in the midst of his dejection he felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to see Mabel. See her, talk to her, maybe feel his desire gradually waking, a disturbance that for a few moments would make him dizzy, make him forget about the fire, and Dr. Castro Pozo’s ongoing quarrels with the insurance company, and the latest spider letter. And maybe, after taking his pleasure, he might be able to sleep for a while, peacefully and contentedly. As far as he could remember, not once in these years had he dropped in on Mabel unannounced, in the middle of the day; he’d always come after dark and on days decided with her in advance. But these were extraordinary times and he could change the routine. He was tired, it was hot, and instead of walking he took a cab. When he got out in Castilla, he saw Mabel at the door of her house. Was she going out or coming back? She stood looking at him in surprise.
“What are you doing
Like the rest of Piura, we’re aware of the notice you published in El Tiempo . We feel no rancor toward you. What is more, we understand your decision to place the notice, giving in to a temperamental fit of rage, in view of the fire that destroyed your offices. We’ve forgotten it, you forget it too, and we’ll start again from zero.
We’re giving you two weeks—fourteen days, counting from today—to use your reason and reconsider, so that we can resolve the matter that concerns us. If you don’t, you can be certain of the consequences. They’ll be more serious than anything you’ve suffered so far. A word to the wise, as the saying goes, Señor Yanaqué.
May God keep you.
This time the letter was typed, but the signature was the same drawing in blue ink found in the two earlier ones: a spider with five long legs and a dot in the center that represented the head.
“Do you feel sick, Don Felícito? Don’t tell me it’s another of those letters,” his secretary said.
Her boss had lowered his arms and seemed to have collapsed into his chair, very pale, his eyes staring at the piece of paper. Finally he nodded and brought his finger to his mouth, indicating that she should be silent. The people in the garage didn’t need to know. He asked for a glass of water and drank it slowly, making an effort to control the anxiety that had overwhelmed him. His heart felt agitated and it was difficult to breathe. Naturally those bastards hadn’t stopped, naturally they hadn’t changed their tune. But they were wrong if they thought Felícito Yanaqué would give in. He felt rage, hatred, a fury that made him tremble. Perhaps Miguel and Tiburcio were right. Not about the bodyguard, of course, he’d never throw his dough away on something like that. But maybe about the revolver. Nothing in this life would give him as much pleasure as shooting them, if those shits ever came within range. Riddle them with bullets and even spit on their corpses.
When he’d calmed down a little, he walked very quickly to the police station, but Captain Silva and Sergeant Lituma weren’t there. They’d gone out to lunch and would be back at about four. He sat in a cafeteria on Avenida Sánchez Cerro and ordered an ice-cold soda. Two women approached to shake his hand. They admired him, he was an example and an inspiration for all Piurans. They said goodbye and gave him their blessing. He thanked them with a smile. “The truth is, right now I don’t feel like a hero at all,” he thought. “More like a prick. A real asshole, that’s what I am. They’re playing with me, having their fun, and I can’t find my way out of this damn mess.”
He was returning to his office, walking slowly along the high sidewalks of the avenue, surrounded by noisy mototaxis, cyclists, and pedestrians, when in the midst of his dejection he felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to see Mabel. See her, talk to her, maybe feel his desire gradually waking, a disturbance that for a few moments would make him dizzy, make him forget about the fire, and Dr. Castro Pozo’s ongoing quarrels with the insurance company, and the latest spider letter. And maybe, after taking his pleasure, he might be able to sleep for a while, peacefully and contentedly. As far as he could remember, not once in these years had he dropped in on Mabel unannounced, in the middle of the day; he’d always come after dark and on days decided with her in advance. But these were extraordinary times and he could change the routine. He was tired, it was hot, and instead of walking he took a cab. When he got out in Castilla, he saw Mabel at the door of her house. Was she going out or coming back? She stood looking at him in surprise.
“What are you doing
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