Conversation in the Cathedral (45 page)

*

“Old Ivonne is going around giving hell to the government and even to you,” Hortensia said.

“Be careful about saying anything to her, she’d kill me if she knew I was spreading gossip about her,” Queta said. “I don’t want that harpy for an enemy.”

He passed in front of them on his way to the bar. He poured himself straight whiskey with two cubes of ice and sat down. The maids, in uniform now, were fluttering around the table. Had they given the
chauffeurs
something to eat? They answered yes. The bath had made him drowsy, he was looking at Hortensia and Queta through a light mist, he barely heard their whispers and laughter. Well, what was the old woman going around saying.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her saying something bad about you in public,” Queta said. “Up till now she was always pure honey when she mentioned your name.”

“She was telling Robertito that the money Lozano gets out of her is split with you,” Hortensia said. “Just imagine, telling that to the number one gossip in Lima.”

“That if they kept on bleeding her like that, she’s going to retire to live an honest life.” Queta laughed.

He frowned and opened his mouth: oh, if they were only deaf-mutes, if women could only use sign language to communicate. Queta leaned over to reach the pretzel sticks, her neckline dropped and her breasts were exposed.

“Listen, don’t tempt him.” Hortensia gave her a slap. “Save that for when the old buzzard gets here.”

“Not even that would wake Landa up.” Queta returned the slap. “He’s ready to retire to live an honest life too.”

They laughed and he listened to them as he drank. Always the same jokes, had he heard the latest? the same topics of conversation, Ivonne and Robertito were lovers! now Landa would arrive and in the morning he’d have the feeling of having gone through a night just like other nights. Hortensia got up to change the records, Queta to fill up the glasses again, life was such a monotonous gummed label. They had time for still another whiskey before they heard a car stop at the door.

*

Thanks to Ludovico’s crazy ideas the wait was less boring for them, sir. Her mouth, her lips, her starry teeth, she smelled like roses, a body to make a person rise up out of his grave: he seemed to be wild about the mistress, sir. But whenever he was in front of her he didn’t dare look at her for fear of Don Cayo. And did the same thing happen to him? No, Ambrosio listened to the things Ludovico said and laughed, that was all, he didn’t say anything about the mistress, he didn’t think she was so much of a gift from heaven either, he was only thinking about day coming so he could get some sleep. The other woman, sir? Whether Miss Queta didn’t seem to be such a hot thing to him either? Not her either, sir. Well, she may have been pretty, but what urge did Ambrosio have to think about women with that killing pace of work, all his head could dream about was the day off he could spend lying in bed, recovering from those bad nights. Ludovico was different, from the moment he went to work for Don Cayo he got all important, now he really would get on the list, boy, and then he’d fuck everybody who’d fucked him because he was just a temporary. The great aim in his life, sir. On those nights, if he wasn’t talking about the mistress, he was talking about that: he’d have a fixed salary, a badge, vacations, they’d respect him everywhere and everybody might even want to propose some little deal with him. No, Ambrosio had never wanted to make a career out of the police, sir, he was too bothered by it, all the boredom of waiting. They’d chat and smoke, around one o’clock in the morning or two they’d be dead tired, freezing to death in winter, when it began to dawn they’d wet their faces at the spigot in the garden and watch the maids going out to buy bread, the first cars, the strong smell of the grass would get into their noses and they’d feel some relief because Don Cayo wouldn’t be long in coming out. When will my luck change, when will I have a normal life, Ambrosio thought. And thanks to you it had changed and now he finally had one, sir.

*

The mistress spent the morning in her robe, one cigarette after another, listening to the news. She didn’t want any lunch, she only had a cup of strong coffee and left in a taxi. A little while later Carlota and Símula went out. Amalia lay down on her bed with her clothes on. She felt a great fatigue, her eyelids were heavy, and when she awoke it was
nighttime
. She sat up and, sitting there, tried to remember what she had dreamed: about him, but she couldn’t remember what, only that while she was dreaming she wanted it to last, don’t stop now. Oh you liked the dream, stupid girl. She was washing her face when the bathroom door opened all of a sudden: Amalia, Amalia, there was a revolution. Carlota’s eyes were popping out, what was going on, what had they seen. Police with rifles and machine guns, Amalia, soldiers everywhere. Amalia combed her hair, put on her apron and Carlota was leaping about, but where, what. At the Parque Universitario, Amalia, Carlota and Símula were getting off the bus when they saw the demonstration. Boys, girls, Signs,
FREEDOM, FREEDOM, A-RE-QUI-PA, A-RE-QUI-PA, BERMÚDEZ
MUST GO
, and they’d just stood there looking like a pair of fools. Hundreds, thousands, and all of a sudden the police appeared, the water cannon, trucks, jeeps, and Colmena was all full of tear gas, streams of water, running, shouting, stones being thrown, and then the cavalry. And they were there, Amalia, they were right in the middle of it not knowing what to do. They’d huddled against a doorway, hugging each other, praying, the gas was making them sneeze and cry, people ran by shouting down with Odría and they’d seen them beating students and stones being thrown at the police. What was going to happen, what was going to happen. They went to listen to the radio and Símula’s eyes were bloodshot and she was crossing herself: what they’d escaped, merciful heavens. The radio didn’t say anything, they changed stations and
advertisements
, music, quiz shows, telephone-call programs.

Around eleven o’clock the mistress got out of Miss Queta’s little white car, which left immediately. She came in, very calm, what were they doing up, it was late. And Símula: they were listening to the radio but it didn’t say anything about the revolution, ma’am. What revolution or nonsense like that, Amalia realized that she was a little high, everything had all been taken care of. But they’d seen it, ma’am, Carlota said, the demonstration and the police and everything, and the mistress foolish women, nothing to be frightened about. She’d spoken to the master on the telephone, he was going to teach those Arequipans a lesson and tomorrow everything would probably be calm again. She was hungry and Símula cooked her a steak: the master didn’t lose his calm over anything, the mistress was saying, I’m not going to worry about him like that again. As soon as the table was cleared, Amalia went to bed. There she was, she’d started everything all over again, stupid girl, you’ve made up with him. She felt a soft languor, a warm little weakness. How would they get along now, would they fight every so often? she wouldn’t go to his friend’s room anymore, he should rent a room and they could spend their Sundays there. You’d have it all nicely fixed up, stupid girl. If only she could talk to Carlota and tell her. No, she had to hold back her urge until she saw Gertrudis again.

*

Landa arrived with his eyes aglow, very talkative and smelling of alcohol, but as soon as he came in he put on a mournful face: he could only stay for a short while, what a shame. He leaned over to kiss Hortensia’s hand, asked Queta for a little kiss on the cheek, fairying his voice, and he dropped into the chair between the two of them, declaiming: a thorn between two roses, Don Cayo. There he was, balding, dressed in an impeccably cut gray suit that hid his bulges, with a garnet tie, flirting with Hortensia and Queta and he thought the assurance, the ease that comes with money.

“The Development Commission is meeting at nine in the morning, Don Cayo, imagine what an hour,” Landa said with a tragicomic
grimace
. “And I have to get eight hours’ sleep on doctor’s orders. What a pity.”

“All tales, senator,” Queta said, handing him a whiskey. “The truth is that your wife has got you by the neck.”

Senator Landa drank to the two delights that surround me and to you too, Don Cayo. He drank, smacked his lips and started to laugh.

“I’m a free man, I can’t even stand the chains of matrimony,” he exclaimed. “My child, I love you very much, but I want to keep my freedom to go on a spree, which is really what’s most important. And she understood. Thirty years married and she’s never asked me for an explanation. Not a single jealous scene, Don Cayo.”

“And you’ve taken advantage of that freedom to suit yourself,”
Hortensia
said. “Tell us about your latest conquest, senator.”

“Instead I’m going to tell you some jokes against the government I just heard at the club,” Landa said. “Get closer so Don Cayo won’t hear us.”

He enjoyed himself with deep laughter that mingled with Queta’s and Hortensia’s, and he celebrated the jokes too, his mouth half open and his cheeks wrinkled. Well, if the illustrious senator had to leave soon, they’d better have dinner right away. Hortensia went into the pantry, followed by Queta. To your health, Don Cayo, yours, senator.

“That Queta’s getting nicer every day,” Landa said. “And Hortensia, well, there’s no need even to say a word, Don Cayo.”

“I’m very grateful for the Commission’s decision,” he said. “I gave Zavala the news at noon. Without you those gringos wouldn’t have won the bid.”

“I’m the one who has to give thanks here because of the Olave matter,” Landa said, making a gesture that meant forget it. “Friends are meant to help each other, that’s what friendship’s all about.”

And he saw the senator become distracted, his look turn toward Queta, who was swaying along as she came in: no talking business or politics here, it was against the law. She sat down beside Landa and he saw the sudden blink, the blush on Landa’s cheeks as he leaned over and put his lips on Queta’s throat for an instant. He wouldn’t leave, he was going to stay, he’d make up a lie, get drunk and only at three or four in the morning would he take Queta home: he moved his thumbs without hesitating and her eyes popped like two grapes. You excited him, he stayed and it’s your fault I didn’t get any sleep today either: pay up. Go into the dining room, Hortensia said, and he still managed to bury the igneous bar between Queta’s thighs and hear the crackle of the singed flesh: pay up. All during dinner, Landa dominated the conversation with an expansion that grew with every glass of wine: gossip, jokes, tales, flirting. Queta and Hortensia asked him questions, answered him,
celebrated
what he said, and he smiled. When they got up, Landa was talking in a rambling and excited way, he wanted Queta and Hortensia to take a puff on his Havana cigar, he was going to stay. But all of a sudden he looked at his watch and the joy vanished from his face: twelve-thirty, with pain in his soul he had to leave. He kissed Hortensia’s hand and tried to kiss Queta on the mouth, but she turned her face and offered him her cheek. He accompanied Landa to the outside door.

S
OMEONE WAS SHAKING HER
, he’s waiting for you, she opened her eyes, the chauffeur of the man who was here the other day, Carlota’s mocking face: he was waiting for you there on the corner. She got dressed in a hurry, had she gone out with him on Sunday? combed her hair, was that why she hadn’t come home to sleep? and she listened to Carlota’s
questions
in a daze. She took the bread basket, went out, and Ambrosio was on the corner: hadn’t anything happened there? He took her by the arm, he didn’t want them to be seen, made her walk very fast, he was worried about you, Amalia. She stopped, looked at him, and what was supposed to have happened, what was he so worried about? but he made her keep on walking: don’t you know that Don Cayo isn’t a minister anymore? You’re dreaming, Amalia said, everything had been arranged, last night the mistress but Ambrosio no, no, last night they’d dismissed Don Cayo and all the civilian ministers and there was a military cabinet. Didn’t the mistress know anything? No, she probably didn’t know yet, she was probably sleeping, the poor thing went to bed thinking that everything was being arranged. She took Ambrosio by the arm: and what would happen to the master now? He didn’t know what would happen to him, but enough had happened to him already, hadn’t it, by not being minister anymore. Amalia went into the bakery alone, thinking he was afraid because, came because, he loves you. When she came out she took his arm, and how did he get to San Miguel, what had he said to Don Fermín? Don Fermín was hiding out, he was afraid he’d be arrested, the police had been watching his house, he was in the country. And Ambrosio happy, Amalia, while he was hiding out they’d be able to see more of each other. He backed her up against a garage, they couldn’t be seen from the house there, got close to her and hugged her. Amalia stood on tiptoes to get close to his ear: were you afraid something had happened to me? Yes, she heard him laughing, now she would get high and mighty with him. And Amalia: it would be better now than the other time, wouldn’t it? they wouldn’t fight anymore, would they? And Ambrosio: no, not now. He accompanied her to the corner, when he said good-bye he suggested that if the girls had seen them, she should invent some lie, he’d come on an errand, you scarcely know me.

*

He waited for Landa’s car to start up and he came back into the house. Hortensia had taken her shoes off and was humming a tune, leaning against the bar; thank God the old buzzard left, Queta said from the chair. He sat down, picked up his glass of whiskey again and drank, slowly, looking at Hortensia, who was now dancing in place. He took the last swallow, looked at his watch and stood up. He had to go too. He went up to the bedroom and on the stairs he sensed that Hortensia had stopped singing and was coming up behind him. Queta laughed. Couldn’t he stay, Hortensia followed him up and he felt her hand on his arm, her wheedling voice, drunk now, I’ve only seen you once this week. For house money, he said, laying some bills on the dressing table: he couldn’t, he had things to do starting early in the morning. He turned around, Hortensia’s almost liquid eyes, her loving and idiotic expression, and he ran his hand along her cheek, smiling at her: he was all tied up because of the President’s trip, maybe he could come by tomorrow. He took his briefcase and went down the stairs, with Hortensia clinging to his arm, listening to her purr like an excited cat, feeling her unsteady, almost stumbling. Lying on the large sofa, Queta was swinging her half-filled glass in the air, and he saw her eyes turn to look mockingly at them. Hortensia let go of him, ran over clumsily, threw herself onto the sofa.