Conversation in the Cathedral (44 page)

“That’s right,” Santiago said. “Did the old man sell the Buick?”

“No, this is mine.” Sparky blew on his fingernails. “I’m buying it on time. I haven’t even had it a month. What are you going to do in Callao?”

“Interview the Director of Customs,” Santiago said. “Carlitos and I are writing a series on smuggling.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Sparky said; and after a moment: “Do you know that ever since you started working we’ve been getting
La
Crónica
delivered every day? But we never know what you write? Why don’t you sign your articles? That way you’d get to be known.”

There were Carlitos’ mocking and startled eyes, Zavalita, there was the uncomfortable feeling you had. Sparky went through Barranco, Miraflores, turned down the Avenida Pardo and took the Coastal
Highway
. They were talking with long, uncomfortable pauses, only Santiago and Sparky, Carlitos was watching them out of the corner of his eye, with an intrigued and ironical expression.

“It must be very interesting being a newspaperman,” Sparky said. “I could never be one, I can’t even write a letter. But you’re in your element, Santiago.”

Periquito was waiting for them by the door of the custom house with his cameras on his shoulder and the newspaper’s van a little way off.

“I’ll come by and pick you up one of these days at the same time,” Sparky said. “With Teté, O.K.?”

“Fine,” Santiago said. “Thanks for the ride, Sparky.”

Sparky was indecisive for a moment, his mouth half open, but he didn’t say anything and limited himself to a wave. They watched the car go off through the puddles in the cobblestones.

“Is he really your brother?” Carlitos was shaking his head in disbelief. “Your family must be stinking rich, right?”

“According to Sparky they’re on the verge of bankruptcy,” Santiago said.

“I’d like to be on the verge of a bankruptcy like that,” Carlitos said.

“I’ve been waiting half an hour, you lazy bums,” Periquito said. “Did you hear the news? A military cabinet, because of the trouble in Arequipa. The Arequipans got Bermúdez out. This is the end of Odría.”

“Don’t be so happy,” Carlitos said. “The end of Odría and the
beginning
of what?”

T
HE FOLLOWING
S
UNDAY
Ambrosio met her at two o’clock, they went to a matinee, had something to eat near the Plaza de Armas and took a long walk. It’s going to be today, Amalia thought, it’s going to happen today. He let her look sometimes and she realized that he too was thinking it’s going to be today. There’s a good restaurant on Francisco Pizarro, Ambrosio said when it got dark. It had both Peruvian and Chinese food; they ate and drank so much they could barely walk. There’s a dance hall near here, Ambrosio said, let’s look in. It was a circus tent set up behind the railroad. The orchestra was on a platform and they’d laid mats on the ground so that people could dance without stepping in the mud. Ambrosio kept going out and coming back with beer in paper cups. There were a lot of people, the couples were bouncing where they were because there wasn’t much room; sometimes a fight would start but it would never end because two big fellows would
separate
the men and carry them out bodily. I’m getting drunk, Amalia was thinking. With the growing heat she was feeling better, freer, and
suddenly
she herself pulled Ambrosio onto the dance floor. They mingled with the couples, embracing, and the music never ended. Ambrosio was holding her tightly, Ambrosio shoved away a drunk who had brushed against her, Ambrosio kissed her on the throat: it was as if it were all taking place very far away, Amalia was bursting with laughter. Then the floor began to spin and she hung onto Ambrosio to stop from falling: I don’t feel well. She heard him laugh, felt him dragging her, and suddenly the street. The cold on her face half woke her up. She was walking, holding his arm, she felt his hand on her waist, she was saying now I know why you had me drink. She was happy, she didn’t care, where were they going? the sidewalk seemed to be sinking, even if you don’t tell me I know where. She recognized Ludovico’s little room half in a dream. She was embracing Ambrosio, joining her body to Ambrosio’s, looking for Ambrosio’s mouth with her mouth, saying I hate you, Ambrosio, you didn’t behave right with me, and it was as if she were a different Amalia the one who was doing those things. She let herself be undressed, laid down on the bed, and was thinking what are you crying about, stupid girl. Then a pair of strong arms encircled her, a weight that crushed her, a suffocation that strangled her. She felt that she was neither laughing nor crying and saw Trinidad’s face passing by in the distance. Suddenly she was being shaken. She opened her eyes: the light in the little room was on, hurry up, Ambrosio was saying, buttoning up his shirt. What time was it? Four in the morning. Her head was heavy, her body ached, what would the mistress say. Ambrosio was handing her her blouse, her stockings, her shoes, and she got dressed in a rush, without looking into his eyes. The street was deserted, now the breeze made her feel bad. She leaned against Ambrosio and he embraced her. Your aunt wasn’t feeling well and you had to stay with her, she thought, or you didn’t feel well and your aunt wouldn’t let you leave. Ambrosio was stroking her head from time to time, but they weren’t speaking. The bus arrived when a weak light was breaking over the rooftops; they got out at the Plaza San Martín and it was daytime, newsboys with papers under their arms were running under the archways. Ambrosio accompanied her to the streetcar stop. This time wouldn’t be like the other time, Ambrosio, would he behave right this time? You’re my woman, Ambrosio said, I love you. She stayed in his embrace until the streetcar came. She waved to him from the window and she kept on looking at him, watching him grow smaller as the streetcar left him behind.

*

The car went down the Paseo Colón, around the Plaza Bolognesi, turned into Brasil. The traffic and the lights delayed him half an hour until Magdalena; then, when they left the avenue, they went rapidly through lonely and poorly lighted streets and in a few minutes were in San Miguel: more sleep, going to bed early tonight. When they saw the car the policemen on the corner saluted. He went into the house and the girl was setting the table. From the stairs he glanced at the living room, the dining room: they’d changed the flowers in the vases, the silverware and the glasses on the table were sparkling, everything was neat and clean. He took off his jacket, went into the bedroom without knocking.
Hortensia
was at the dressing table putting on makeup.

“Queta didn’t want to come when she found out that the guest was going to be Landa.” Her face was smiling at him from the mirrors; he threw his jacket onto the bed, aiming at the dragon’s head: the jacket covered it. “The poor girl hears the name Landa and she begins to yawn. She has to spy on all kinds of old-timers for you, you ought to invite some good young blood for her once in a while.”

“Have them give the chauffeurs something to eat,” he said, loosening his tie. “I’m going to take a bath. Would you get me a glass of water?”

He went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water, got undressed without closing the door. He watched the bathtub fill up, the room get thick with steam. He heard Hortensia giving orders, saw her come in with a glass of water. He took a pill.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked from the door.

“After I bathe. Please lay out some clean clothes for me.”

He sank into the tub and stretched out, only his head out of the water, absolutely motionless, until the water began to turn cold. He soaped himself, rinsed himself under the shower with cold water, combed his hair, and walked into the bedroom naked. On the dragon’s back there was a clean shirt, underwear, socks. He got dressed slowly, taking puffs on a cigarette that was burning in the ashtray. Then, from the study, he called Lozano, the Palace, Chaclacayo. When he went down to the living room, Queta had arrived. She was wearing a very low-cut black dress and had put her hair in a bun, which made her look older. The two women were sitting with whiskeys in their hands and had put some records on.

*

When Ludovico replaced Hinostroza, things had gone a little better, why? because Hinostroza was a bore and Ludovico was a regular fellow. The worst part of being Don Cayo’s chauffeur wasn’t doing those extra little jobs for Mr. Lozano or not having a regular schedule or never knowing what day there’d be a trip, but the bad nights, sir. The nights when they had to take him to San Miguel and wait for him sometimes until the next morning. Regular saddle sores, sir, all that staying awake. Now you’re going to find out what being bored is all about, Ambrosio had told Ludovico the day he started, and he, looking at the small house: so this is where Mr. Bermúdez has his little love nest, so this is where he dips in. It was better because there was conversation with Ludovico, while Hinostroza, on the other hand, would hunch down in the car like a mummy and sleep. With Ludovico they would sit on the garden wall, from there Ludovico could keep an eye on the whole street just in case. They would watch Don Cayo go in, hear the voices inside, Ludovico would entertain Ambrosio by guessing what was going on: they’re
probably
having their drinks, when the upstairs lights went on, Ludovico would say the orgy’s starting. Sometimes the cops on the corner would come over and the four of them would smoke and chat. At one time one of the policemen was a singer from Ancash. A beautiful voice, sir. “Muñequita Linda” was his best, what are you waiting for, you’re in the wrong profession, they’d tell him. Around midnight the boredom would set in, desperation, because time didn’t pass fast enough. Only Ludovico kept on talking. A terrible dirty mind, he was always telling dirty stories about Hipólito, he was really the big dirty one, sir. Don Cayo must be there already having a ball, he’d point to the balcony and suck in his mouth, I close my eyes and I can see this, that and the other thing, and so on until, begging your pardon, sir, the four of them would end up with a fierce urge to go to a whorehouse. He would go crazy talking about the mistress: this morning when I came alone to bring Don Cayo, I saw her, boy, something to look at, boy, a kind of thin little pink bathrobe you could see right through, with a pair of Chinese slippers, her eyes were sparkling. She takes one look at you and you fall over dead, another and you feel like Lazarus, a third one kills you again, and the fourth one brings you back to life: a funny fellow, sir, a good person. The mistress was Señora Hortensia, sir, naturally.

*

At the door she ran into Carlota, who was going out to buy bread: what happened to you, where were you, what did you do. She’d slept over at her aunt’s in Limoncillo, the poor thing was sick, did the mistress get mad? They walked to the bakery together: she hadn’t even noticed, she’d stayed up all night listening to the news from Arequipa. Amalia felt her soul return to her body. Don’t you know that there’s a revolution in Arequipa? Carlota was saying, all excited, the mistress was so nervous she’d infected their nerves and she and Símula had stayed in the pantry until two o’clock listening to the radio too. But what was going on in Arequipa, crazy girl. Strikes, troubles, people killed, now they were asking for the master to be thrown out of the government. Don Cayo? Yes, and the mistress couldn’t find him anywhere, she’d spent the night cursing and calling Miss Queta. Buy double to have something on hand, the Chinaman at the bakery told them, if the revolution gets here
tomorrow
I’m not going to open up. They went out whispering, what was going to happen, why did they want to throw the master out, Carlota? The mistress in her rage last night said it was because he was too easygoing, and suddenly she grabbed Amalia by the arm and looked into her eyes: I don’t believe that business about your aunt, you were with a man, I can see it on your face. What man, silly, her aunt had got sick, Amalia was looking at Carlota very seriously and inside she felt a tickling and a happy little heat. They went into the house and Símula was listening to the radio in the living room with an anxious face. Amalia went to her room, took a quick shower, she hoped she wouldn’t ask her any
questions
, and when she went up to the bedroom with the breakfast, from the stairs she heard the ticking and the voice of the announcer on Clock Radio. The mistress was sitting up in bed smoking and didn’t answer her good morning. The government had had a lot of patience with the people who were sowing unrest and subversion in Arequipa, the radio was saying, workers should return to work, students to their studies, and she saw the eyes of the mistress which were looking at her as if they’d just discovered her: what about the newspapers, fool? Run out and get them. Yes, right now, she ran out of the room, happy, she hadn’t even noticed. She asked Símula for money and went to the newsstand on the corner. Something very serious must have happened, the mistress was so pale. When she saw her come in, she jumped out of bed, snatched the papers and started looking through them. In the kitchen she asked Símula do you think the revolution is going to win, that they’re going to get Odría out? Símula shrugged her shoulders: the one they were going to get out of the Ministry was the master, they all hate him. In a little while they heard the mistress coming down and she and Carlota ran into the pantry: hello, hello, Queta? The newspapers didn’t say anything new, I haven’t closed my eyes all night, and they saw her furiously throw
La
Prensa
onto the floor: these sons of bitches are also calling for Cayo to resign, years flattering him and now they turn on him too, Quetita. She was shouting, cursing, Amalia and Carlota looked at each other. No, Quetita, he hadn’t come by or called, the poor thing must have been very busy with that mess, he’d probably gone to Arequipa. Oh, if they’d only shoot them and make them stop their foolishness once and for all, Quetita.