The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa Read Free Book Online

sky-blue Chevrolet with curtained windows that they were waiting for.
    They were a few hundred meters from the Livestock Fairgrounds, where there were several restaurants—the Pony, the most popular, was probably full of people eating grilled meat—and some bars that had music, but the wind blew to the east and the sounds did not reach them, though they could see the distant lights through the palm trees. Yet the crash of waves breaking against the rocks and the clamor of the undertow were so loud, they had to raise their voices to be heard. The car, doors closed and lights off, was ready to pull away.
    “Do you remember when we first started coming to the Malecón to enjoy the breeze and nobody worried about the caliés? ” Antonio Imbert put his head out the window and filled his lungs with the night air. “Here’s where we began talking seriously about this.”
    None of his friends answered right away, as if they were consulting their memories or had not paid attention to what he was saying.
    “Yes, here on the Malecón, about six months ago,” Salvador Estrella Sadhalá replied after a while.
    “Earlier than that,” Antonio de la Maza murmured without turning around. “In November, when they killed the Mirabal sisters, we talked about it here. I’m sure of that. And we’d already been coming to the Malecón at night for a while.”
    “It seemed like a dream,” Imbert mused. “Difficult, and a long way off. Like when you’re a kid and imagine you’ll be a hero, an explorer, a movie star. Damn, I still can’t believe it’ll be tonight.”
    “If he comes,” Salvador grumbled.
    “I’ll bet anything you want, Turk,” Amadito repeated, full of conviction.
    “The thing that makes me wonder is that today’s Tuesday,” Antonio de la Maza complained. “He always goes to San Cristóbal on Wednesday. You’re one of the adjutants, Amadito, and you know that better than anybody. Why did he change the day?”
    “I don’t know why,” insisted the lieutenant. “But he’ll go. He put on his olive-green uniform. He ordered the blue Chevrolet. He’ll go.”
    “He must have a nice piece of ass waiting for him at Mahogany House,” said Antonio Imbert. “A brand-new one that’s never been opened.”
    “If you don’t mind, let’s talk about something else.” Salvador cut him off.
    “I always forget we can’t talk about asses in front of a saint like you,” the man at the wheel apologized. “Let’s just say he has something nice planned in San Cristóbal. Can I say it like that, Turk? Or does that offend your apostolic ears too?”
    But nobody was in the mood for jokes. Not even Imbert; he talked only to fill the waiting time somehow.
    “Heads up!” exclaimed De la Maza, craning his neck forward.
    “It’s a truck,” replied Salvador, with a simple glance at the approaching yellow headlights. “I’m not a saint or a fanatic, Antonio. I practice my faith, that’s all. And ever since the bishops sent their Pastoral Letter on January 24 last year, I’m proud to be a Catholic.”
    In fact, it was a truck that roared past, its swaying load of cartons tied down with ropes; its roar grew fainter and finally disappeared.
    “And a Catholic can’t talk about cunts but he can kill, is that right, Turk?” Imbert tried to provoke him. He did it often: he and Salvador Estrella Sadhalá were the closest friends in the group; they were always trading jokes, at times so pointed that others thought they would come to blows. But they had never fought, their friendship was unbreakable. Tonight, however, Turk did not show a trace of humor:
    “Killing just anybody, no. Doing away with a tyrant, yes. Have you ever heard the word ‘tyrannicide’? In extreme cases, the Church allows it. St. Thomas Aquinas wrote that. Do you want to know how I know? When I began to help the people in June 14 and realized I’d have to pull the trigger someday, I consulted with our spiritual adviser, Father Fortín. A Canadian