I’d be sure to have ugly daughters.

Lydia was far more realistic. She’d been seated at her armoire, brushing her Moorish hair. He’d been lying on the bed, naked as well, absently pulling on his ripio. Lydia had said, Send her away to the nuns. Send her to Cuba. My family there will take care of her.

Cuba was Lydia’s dream; it was her Mexico. Always talking about moving back there.

But I’d need permission from the state!

Ask for it, then.

But what if El Jefe notices the requests?

Lydia put down her brush with a sharp click. What are the chances of that happening? You never know, Abelard said defensively. In this country you never know.

His mistress was for Cuba, his wife for house arrest, his best friend said nothing. His own cautiousness told him to await further instructions. And at the end of the year he got them.

At one of the interminable presidential events EI Jefe had shaken Abelard’s hand, but instead of moving on, he paused — a nightmare come true — held on to his fingers, and said in his shrill voice: You are Dr. Abelard Cabral? Abelard bowed. At your service, Your Excellency. In less than a nanosecond Abelard was drenched in sweat; he knew what was coming next; the Failed Cattle Thief had never spoken more than three words to him his whole life, what else could it be? He dared not glance away from Trujillo’s heavily powdered face, but out the corner of his eyes he caught glimpses of the lambesacos, hovering, beginning to realize that an exchange was in the making.

I have seen you here often, Doctor, but lately without your wife. Have you divorced her? I am still married, Your Enormity. To Socorro Hernandez Batista.

That is good to hear, El Jefe said, I was afraid that you might have turned into un maricón. Then he turned to the lambesacos and laughed. Oh, Jefe, they screamed, you are too much.

It was at this point that another nigger might have, in a fit of cojones, said something to defend his honor, but Abelard was not that nigger. He said nothing.

But of course, El Jefe continued, knuckling a tear from his eye, you are no maricón, for I’ve heard that you have daughters, Dr. Cabral, una que es muy bella y elegante, no?

Abelard had rehearsed a dozen answers to this question, but his response was pure reflex, came out of nowhere: Yes, Jefe, you are correct, I have two daughters. But to tell you the truth, they’re only beautiful if you have a taste for women with mustaches.

For an instant El Jefe had said nothing, and in that twisting silence Abelard could see his daughter being violated in front of him while he was lowered with excruciating slowness into Trujillo’s infamous pool of sharks. But then, miracle of miracles, El Jefe had crinkled his porcine face and laughed, Abelard had laughed too, and El Jefe moved on. When Abelard returned home to La Vega late that evening he woke his wife from a deep slumber so that they could both pray and thank the Heavens for their family’s salvation. Verbally, Abelard had never been quick on the draw. The inspiration could only have come from the hidden spaces within my soul, he told his wife. From a Numinous Being.

You mean God? his wife pressed.