GENERALÍSIMO TRUJILLO LOOKED AT HIS WATCH: four minutes to 6:00 a.m. Johnny Abbes García would be there at six on the dot, the hour the two of them had agreed on. He’d probably been sitting in the anteroom for some time now. Should he have him shown in? No, better to wait until six exactly. Generalísimo Rafael Leonidas Trujillo was a maniac, not just for punctuality, but also for symmetry: six meant six, not four till six.
Had he been right to foot the bill for that myopic, big-bellied journalist, with his flabby build and his camel’s gait, so he could attend those peculiar courses in police science in Mexico? He found out a thing or two beforehand: that his father was an upstanding accountant and he a slightly bohemian two-bit reporter covering horses; he had a little program about equestrian sports on the radio; he hung around with scribblers and poetasters, artists and free spirits (anti-Trujillo types, probably) at the Gómez pharmacy on Calle El Conde in colonial Ciudad Trujillo. He’d been heard to boast of being a Rosicrucian. People had seen him once or twice at the whorehouses, asking the girls for a discount on his preferred aberrations, and on race days he showed up bright and early at the Perla Antillana hippodrome. When the Generalísimo received a letter from him asking for assistance to travel to Mexico to attend courses in police science, he had a premonition. He gave him an appointment, saw him, listened to him, and decided right away to help him, with the vague sense that this pudgy mass of human ugliness concealed something, someone, he could take advantage of. He was right. At the same time that he was passing him a monthly stipend so he could eat, sleep, and go to class, he asked him for reports on Dominican exiles in Mexico. Abbes García performed meticulously, finding out what they did, where they met, and how dangerous each of them might be. He made friends with them, even got drunk with them, all the better to betray them. He even found a couple of Cubans on the lam—Carlos Gacel Castro, who liked to introduce himself with the line “Greetings from the ugliest man in the world,” and Ricardo Bonachea León—willing to lend a hand when the Generalísimo decided that the truly dangerous elements would best have an accident or perish in a supposed holdup. Abbes García, Gacel, and Bonachea worked together impeccably, giving orders and determining the best places and times to fake a hit-and-run or quite simply liquidating a threatening exile in an ambush. But what the Generalísimo would ask of the ex-journalist this time was something more delicate. Would he be up to it?
Though he was only thinking indirectly of Colonel Carlos Castillo Armas, president of Guatemala, still, it was enough to make his blood boil and froth bubble from his mouth. This had happened to him since his youth: rage made the saliva build up, and he’d have to spit. But since there was nowhere to do it here, he swallowed. I need to get myself a spittoon, he thought. He’d proposed celebrating the Liberationists’ victory with Castillo Armas in Guatemala’s National Stadium, which ex-president Juan José Arévalo had built at the so-called Olympic City. The poor idiot refused, arguing the times aren’t right for that kind of spectacle. He’d even sent his minister of foreign affairs, Skinner-Klee, and his chief of protocol to explain why such an event was unbecoming. Trujillo didn’t let them speak, and gave them twenty-four hours to leave the Dominican Republic. The mere memory of that ungrateful nitwit Castillo Armas turned the Generalísimo’s stomach.
“Good day, Your Excellency,” the scrawny colonel said, standing at attention, clicking his heels, and raising his hand to his forehead in a salute, even though he was out of uniform. It was obvious that the new arrival felt out of place.
“Good day, Colonel,” the Generalísimo said, shaking his hand, then pointing toward an armchair. “Have a seat, we’ll talk better here. First of all, welcome to the Dominican Republic.”
He’d made a mistake with the good-for-nothing Castillo Armas, the Generalísimo had no doubt about it. That bony, consumptive- looking colonel with the Hitler mustache and sheared skull hadn’t done even one of the three things asked of him, but snubbing Trujillo’s proposals wasn’t enough–now he was talking bad about his family. The psychiatrist Gilberto Morillo Soto, Dominican ambassador in Guatemala, had written in a detailed and explicit report: “President Castillo Armas, besotted after several drinks, dared to entertain the audience at the expense of your son, General Ramfis, inciting laughter with the following words, which I quote literally (I beg Your Excellency’s pardon for these crudities): What’s impressive about fucking Zsa Zsa Gabor or Kim Novak if first you’ve got to give them a Cadillac, a diamond bracelet, or a mink coat? Anybody can be that kind of playboy! Instead of departing in outrage, I remained behind to see if he would continue mocking your esteemed family. And indeed, Your Excellency, he did, and went on doing so for the rest of the evening.”
The Generalísimo felt one of those jabs of rage that struck him every time he found out someone had spoken ill of his children, his siblings, or his wife—not to mention his mother. The family was sacred to him; whoever slighted them had to pay. And you’ll pay, you bastard, he thought. And General Miguel Ydígoras Fuentes will be where you’re sitting.
“I’m here to ask for Your Excellency’s help,” Colonel Castillo Armas said in a thin, quavering voice. He was gaunt, haggard, tall, a bit hunchbacked, the very antithesis of military bearing. “I’ve got the men and the support of the United States and the Guatemalan exiles. All the army needs to join the cause of liberation is for me to make my move.”
“Don’t forget the support of United Fruit and Somoza, they count for something, too,” the Generalísimo reminded him with a smile. “So what do you need me for?”
“Because your endorsement is the one that matters most to the CIA and the State Department, Your Excellency,” the colonel replied, hurried and unctuous. “They told me that themselves: ‘Go see Trujillo. He’s the number one anticommunist in Latin America. If he’s on board, we’re on board, too.’”
“Yes, they’ve asked me several times.” The Generalísimo smiled and nodded. But then his mien turned serious once more. “Obviously I’ll help. The communist Árbenz has to go as soon as possible. The best thing would have been to get rid of his predecessor, Arévalo, he was another communist, not to mention a know-it-all. I warned the gringos, but they didn’t listen. They’re naive, sometimes even obtuse, but what can you do, we need them. I suppose they’ve come to regret it.”
Now it was six on the dot, and just then, knuckles rapped respectfully on his office door. A gray head of hair and a servile smile, belonging to Cristósomo, one of his assistants, leaned in.
“Abbes García?” the Generalísimo said. “Show him in, Cristósomo.”
A moment later, the man entered, with that extraordinary disjointed gait of his, as if he were crumbling apart with each step. He wore a checked jacket, a slightly ridiculous red tie, and brown shoes. Someone would have to teach this fool to dress better.
“Good day, Your Excellency.”
“Take a seat,” the Generalísimo ordered him, getting straight to the matter at hand. “I called you because I’m going to entrust you with a very important task.”
“At your service, Your Excellency, same as always.” There was a kind of dissolute perfection in Abbes García’s voice—did it have something to do with his days as a radio announcer? Most likely yes. That was something else the Generalísimo knew about him, that he’d been an announcer and a current events analyst on some third-rate radio station. Was he really a Rosicrucian? Apparently that reddish handkerchief he was blowing his nose into just then was a symbol of that religion.
“Everything is coming together quickly, Your Excellency,” Colonel Castillo Armas said. “All we need are instructions from Washington to get underway. I’ve recruited most of the men we need. We’ll train at one of President Somoza’s haciendas in Nicaragua, and also on an island there. And in Honduras. We wanted to expand to El Salvador, but President Óscar Osorio has scruples and still hasn’t given us his authorization. The gringos are putting pressure on him, though. What we need is a bit of cash. Those puritan gringos are a little tightfisted.”
He laughed, and Trujillo noticed he did so without making noise, wrinkling his lips and showing his teeth. A mirthful glow illuminated his rat’s eyes.
“It’s that son of a bitch Castillo Armas,” Trujillo said, his eyes turning glacial as they did when he spoke of his enemies. “Thanks to me he’s been more than two years in power, and he hasn’t kept a single one of his promises.”
“You say the word and I’ll obey, Your Excellency,” Abbes García said, bowing his head. “Whatever needs to be done will be done. I promise you that.”
“You’re going to Guatemala, as a military attaché,” Trujillo said, looking him in the eyes.
“A military attaché?” Abbes García said, surprised. “I’m not a soldier, Your Excellency.”
“You are though, you have been since the beginning of the year,” Trujillo said. “I drafted you into the army with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. There are your papers. Morillo Soto, our ambassador there, has already been informed. He’s waiting for you.”
He watched Abbes García’s stare as it transformed from one of surprise to pleasure, satisfaction, astonishment. For God’s sake, the poor bastard had on blue socks. Was that a Rosicrucian thing, too? Apparel mixing every color of the rainbow?
“You’ll have all the necessary weapons,” Trujillo told the Guatemalan, as if it were no great concern. “And all the cash you need, too. Since I had an inkling of what you were after, I have here a little advance payment, sixty thousand dollars, in this bag. Let me give you a piece of advice, Colonel.”
“Yes, of course. I’m listening, Your Excellency.”
“Stop chasing grudges with General Ydígoras Fuentes. You two need to understand each other. You’re on the same side, don’t forget it.”
“I’m speechless, Your Excellency,” Colonel Castillo Armas murmured, amazed everything had turned out so easy. He’d thought he’d have to sugarcoat things with Trujillo, negotiate, haggle, beg. Then and there, he pinned him with the moniker the Spider. “I know you two are friends. The problem is that General Ydígoras doesn’t always play by the rules with me. But we’ll come to an understanding sooner or later, I assure you of that.”
The Generalísimo smiled, satisfied he’d made an impression on the soldier from Guatemala.
“I’m only going to ask three things of you, once you’re in power,” he added, observing how slovenly the Colonel looked in his civvies.
“Consider them done, Your Excellency,” Castillo Armas interrupted him. He had begun gesticulating, as if speaking at a rally. “In the name of Guatemala and our Liberationist crusade, I thank you for your generosity with all my heart.”
“As soon as I leave here, I’ll pack my bags, Your Excellency,” Abbes García said. “I’ve been in Guatemala before, I know a few people there. Carlos Gacel, the Cuban guy who helped us out so much in Mexico, among others. Remember?”
“Try to get to the president, take him my greetings. Ideally you’ll manage to become friends with Castillo Armas. The best way to do so is through his wife—or better still, his mistress,” the Generalísimo said. “I have the reports Morillo sends me. I don’t know if he’s any good as a diplomat, but he’s a first-class informant. Apparently the president has gotten his hands on a rather young lover, a certain Marta Borrero. Pretty, they say, and bold. It seems Martita has caused strife among his supporters. A civil war, almost, between the followers of the first lady, Odilia Palomo, and those of the inamorata, Miss Guatemala. That’s what they call her. Try to reach her. Generally speaking, a lover has more influence than a legitimate spouse.”
He laughed, and Johnny Abbes García laughed, too. He had started scribbling in a small notebook, and Trujillo realized that the fingers of the newly minted lieutenant colonel from the Panamanian army were of a piece with his body and face: thick, rounded, and knotty, like those of an old man. And yet he was young, he couldn’t be past forty.
“The first thing is to get General Miguel Ángel Ramírez Alcántara behind bars,” Trujillo said. “You know him, I assume. He was leader of the Caribbean Legion that tried to invade the Dominican Republic. That was the doing of that bastard Juan José Arévalo. It wasn’t enough for him to break off relations with Franco’s Spain, Somoza’s Nicaragua, Odría’s Peru, Pérez Jiménez’s Venezuela, and me. No, he wanted to invade us, too. We killed a good number of the intruders, but Ramírez Alcántara got away. And now he’s walking free in Guatemala under the protection of President Árbenz.”
“Of course, Your Excellency. I know him very well. That will be the first thing I do once I’m in power. Of course. I’ll send him back here in wrapping paper.”
Trujillo didn’t laugh. He’d narrowed his eyes and was looking at something in the emptiness, talking all the while in a sort of monologue:
“He’s out there running loose around Guatemala, bragging about his exploits,” he repeated in an icy rage. “Especially about trying to overthrow me. He failed, the invasion failed, and we made a lot of that scum pay with their lives. But General Ramírez Alcántara got away, and now it’s time for him to pay for what he did. Don’t you think?”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Castillo Armas affirmed with a nod. “I know very well who General Ramírez Alcántara is. Consider it done. Don’t think twice about it.”
“I want him alive,” Trujillo interrupted. “No one should touch a hair on his head. Alive and kicking. I’m holding you responsible for his life.”
“Of course, Your Excellency. Lovers always do come in handy,” Abbes García said, his laughter this time a little forced. “I learned that in those police science courses I took in Mexico, the ones you’ve made so much fun of.”
“Safe and sound, just as you say,” Castillo Armas added. “So what are Your Excellency’s other two conditions?”
“They’re not conditions, they’re requests,” Trujillo clarified, wrinkles appearing between his brows. “Friends don’t place conditions on each other. Instead they ask for and perform favors. And you and I are friends, isn’t that right, Colonel?”
“Of course, of course,” his visitor agreed hastily.
“I asked him to bring me Ramírez Alcántara,” Trujillo said with irritation. “And when the Liberationist revolution worked out and they arrested him, I believed he would. But that son of a bitch Castillo Armas dragged things out with this song and dance. And now he’s let him go. Him—the leader of the Caribbean Legion. Now he’s a loyal follower of the Castillo Armas regime. A dog who tried to take me out! Have you ever in your life heard of such a betrayal?”
“Tell me the other two,” Colonel Castillo Armas said with an imploring, almost puling face that the Generalísimo found risible. “They will be the first things I will do, Your Excellency. Anything to please you. My word of honor.”
“An official invitation as soon as diplomatic relations between our countries are reestablished,” Trujillo said gently. “Don’t forget, Arévalo’s government was the one to break them. I’ve never been to Guatemala. I would love to get to know your country. And, if possible, the Order of Quetzal. Somoza already received it, no?”
“There’s no need to mention any of this, Your Excellency,” Colonel Castillo Armas affirmed. “I would have done all that first thing even without your asking: reestablish the relations the communists broke off, invite you to our country, award you the supreme rank of the Order of Quetzal. How glorious it will be for Guatemala to receive you with the highest honors!”
“He didn’t do any of the three,” the Generalísimo murmured, clicking his tongue. “When he won, I proposed a big ceremony at the National Stadium in Guatemala, with him and me together, to celebrate his victory. He dug around for stupid pretexts to refuse.”
“He’s envious of you, sir,” Abbes García decided. “That’s the explanation. He’s an ingrate and a lowlife, or so it seems to me.”
The Generalísimo shot one of those inquisitive looks that always so discomfited those who spoke with him. Once more, he inspected the man from head to toe.
“You’ll need to go get some uniforms made,” he said finally. “Two right away: one for day-to-day use, and one for parades. I’ll give you the address of my tailor, Don Atanasio Cabrera, in Ciudad Colonial. He’ll take care of it in a couple of days if you tell him it’s urgent. Let him know I sent you and that the Palace will take care of the bill.”
“With respect to weapons, Your Excellency,” the Guatemalan interjected, “is that something we could talk about now?”
“I’ll send you a ship with everything you need,” the Generalísimo replied. “Machine guns, rifles, revolvers, grenades, bazookas, heavy artillery. Even people, if you need them. Just let me know a safe harbor in Honduras where they can dock. When you leave, there will already be waiting for you two trusted men from my army, you can present your request for weapons to them.”
Colonel Castillo Armas’s astonishment didn’t flag. His mouth was open, his tiny eyes glimmered with satisfaction and gratitude.
“I’m overwhelmed by your generosity and efficiency, Your Excellency,” he purred. “The truth is, I can’t find the words to thank you for all you’ve done for us. For the Guatemalan people, I mean to say.”
Trujillo felt contented. The little man was in his pocket.
“And then that traitor Castillo Armas goes and gets drunk and starts running down my family,” he exclaimed, furious and tense. “Do you realize? He was a no one, and it’s thanks to me and the gringos he’s in power. He’s let it go to his head. He thinks he can make jokes about me and my family, about Ramfis, to get a laugh? This can’t go on.”
“It certainly can’t, Your Excellency,” Abbes García said, rising.
Trujillo smiled, scrutinizing him: no doubt about it, this spanking-new lieutenant colonel in the Dominican army had not the least shadow of military bearing. That was one thing he had in common with Castillo Armas.
“They tell me you’re a Rosicrucian,” the Generalísimo said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, Your Excellency, it’s true,” Abbes García said, uncomfortable. “I don’t know much about it yet, but the Rosicrucians, well, I like them. Maybe it would be better to say it suits me. It’s not so much a religion as a life philosophy. I was initiated into it by a wise man up in Mexico.”
“You can tell me about it later, when you’ve got more time,” Trujillo interrupted him, pointing toward the door. “In exchange, I’ll teach you a lesson in how to dress a bit less flamboyantly.”
“May the Lord bless you and keep you safe, Your Excellency,” Colonel Castillo Armas said in leaving, saluting one more time from the office doorway.