Free The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa Page B

To look at him she used to have to raise her head, stretch her neck; now, if he were to stand up, he would reach her shoulder.
    “It’s Urania,” she murmurs, approaching him. She sits on the bed, a meter from her father. “Do you remember that you have a daughter?”
    There is internal agitation in the old man, movements of the pale bony hands with tapered fingers that rest on his legs. But the narrow little eyes, although they don’t move away from Urania, remain unexpressive.
    “I don’t recognize you either,” Urania whispers. “I don’t know why I came or what I’m doing here.”
    The old man has begun to move his head, up and down, down and up. His throat emits a long, harsh, strangled moan, like a lugubrious song. But in a few moments he is calm again, his eyes still fixed on her.
    “The house used to be full of books.” Urania glances at the bare walls. “What happened to them? Of course, you can’t read anymore. Did you have time to read back then? I don’t remember ever seeing you read. You were a busy man. I’m busy too now, maybe even more than you in those days. Ten, twelve hours in the office or visiting clients. But I make time to read a little every day. Early in the morning, watching the sun come up behind the Manhattan skyscrapers, or late at night, looking at the lights in those glass beehives. I really like it. On Sundays I read for three or four hours, after Meet the Press . The advantage of being single, Papa. You knew that, didn’t you? Your little girl was left behind to dress the saints. That’s what you used to say about unmarried women: ‘What a failure! She never caught a husband!’ Neither did I, Papa. Or rather, I didn’t want to. I had offers. At the university. At the World Bank. At the office. Just think, a boyfriend may still turn up. At the age of forty-nine! It isn’t so terrible being an old maid. For one thing, I have time to read instead of taking care of a husband and children.”
    He seems to understand, to be so interested he doesn’t dare move a muscle in case he interrupts her. He sits very still, his narrow chest rising and falling rhythmically, his tiny eyes focused on her lips. Outside an occasional car passes, and footsteps, voices, snatches of conversation approach, rise, fall, and are lost in the distance.
    “My apartment in Manhattan is full of books,” Urania continues. “Like this house when I was a girl. Law, economy, history. But in my bedroom, only Dominican books. Testimonies, essays, memoirs, lots of histories. Can you guess the period? The Trujillo Era, what else? The most important thing that happened to us in five hundred years. You used to say that with so much conviction. It’s true, Papa. During those thirty-one years, all the evil we had carried with us since the Conquest became crystallized. You’re in some of those books, an important figure. Minister of Foreign Affairs, senator, president of the Dominican Party. Is there anything you weren’t, Papa? I’ve become an expert on Trujillo. Instead of playing bridge or golf, or riding horses, or going to the opera, my hobby has been finding out what happened during those years. It’s a shame we can’t have a conversation. You could clarify so many things for me, you lived them arm in arm with your beloved Chief, who repaid your loyalty so shabbily. For instance, I would have liked for you to tell me if His Excellency also took my mother to bed.”
    She sees that the old man is shaken. His fragile, shrunken body has given a start in the chair. Urania moves her head closer and observes him. Is it a false impression? He seems to be listening, making an effort to understand what she is saying.
    “Did you allow it? Resign yourself to it? Use it to further your career?”
    Urania takes a deep breath. She examines the room. There are two photographs in silver frames on the night table. Her first communion, the year her mother died. Perhaps she left this world with a vision of her little