Excerpt from The Discreet Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa, Edith Grossman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

When he reached the offices of the Narihualá Transport Company, the buses to Sullana, Talara, Tumbes, Chulucanas, Morropón, Catacaos, La Unión, Sechura, and Bayóvar had already left, on schedule, all with a good number of passengers, as had the jitneys to Chiclayo and the vans to Paita. There was a handful of people dispatching packages or verifying the schedules of the afternoon buses and jitneys. His secretary, Josefita of the broad hips, flirtatious eyes, and low-cut blouses, had already placed the list of the day's appointments and commitments on his desk, along with the thermos of coffee he'd drink throughout the morning until it was time for lunch.

"What's wrong, Boss?" she greeted him. "Why that face? Did you have bad dreams last night?"

"Minor problems," he replied as he took off his hat and jacket, hung them on the rack, and sat down. But he stood up immediately and put them on again, as if he'd remembered something very urgent.

"I'll be back soon," he said to his secretary on his way to the door. "I'm going to the police station to file a complaint."

"Did thieves break in?" Josefita's large, lively, protruding eyes opened wide. "It happens all the time in Piura nowadays."

"No, no, I'll tell you about it later."

With resolute steps, Felícito headed for the police station a few blocks from his office, right on Avenida Sánchez Cerro. It was still early and the heat was tolerable, but he knew that in less than an hour these sidewalks lined with travel agencies and transport companies would begin to swelter, and he'd go back to the office in a sweat. Miguel and Tiburcio, his sons, had often told him he was crazy to always wear a jacket, vest, and hat in a city where everyone, rich or poor, spent the entire year in shirtsleeves or a guayabera. But since he had founded Narihualá Transport, the pride of his life, he had never abandoned those items meant to preserve propriety; winter or summer he always wore a hat, jacket, vest, and tie with its miniature knot. He was a small, very thin man, frugal and hardworking, who, in Yapatera, where he was born, and in Chulucanas, where he attended elementary school, had never worn shoes. He began to only when his father brought him to Piura. He was fifty-five years old and had maintained his health, industriousness, and agility. He thought his good physical condition was due to the morning qigong exercises his late friend, the storekeeper Lau, had taught him. It was the only sport he'd ever engaged in besides walking, if those slow-motion movements that were, more than an exercise for the muscles, a distinctive, scientific way of breathing, could be called a sport. By the time he reached the police station he was furious. Joke or no joke, whoever wrote that letter was making him waste his morning.

Excerpted from The Discreet Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa and Edith Grossman. Copyright © 2015 by Mario Vargas Llosa and Edith Grossman. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.