Conversation in the Cathedral (69 page)

“I’m sorry, Don Cayo.” The black man nodded, backing up. “I didn’t think, they told me you were here. I’m sorry.”

He disappeared in the hallway and the man closed the door. He turned to them and the light of the lamp illuminated him from head to toe. His face was cracked, there was a rancid and frustrated glow in his little eyes. He took some bills from his wallet and put them on a chair. He went over to them, straightening his tie.

“To console you for my leaving,” he murmured in a coarse way. And he gave Queta a command: “I’m sending for you tomorrow. Around nine o’clock.”

“I can’t go out at that time,” Queta said quickly, giving Malvina a look.

“You’ll find out that you can,” he said dryly. “Around nine o’clock, be ready.”

“So, are you throwing me into the trash can, sweetie?” Malvina laughed, stretching over to look at the bills on the chair. “So, your name is Cayo. Cayo what?”

“Cayo Shithead,” he said on his way to the door without turning around. He went out and slammed it shut.

*

“They just called you from home, Zavalita,” Solórzano said when he saw him come into the office. “Something urgent. Yes, about your father, I think.”

He ran to the first desk, dialed the number, long, stabbing rings, an unfamiliar upland voice: the master wasn’t home, nobody was home. They’d changed butlers again and this one didn’t know who you were, Zavalita.

“It’s Santiago, the master’s son,” he repeated, raising his voice. “What’s wrong with my father? Where is he?”

“Sick,” the butler said. “He’s in the hospital. Don’t know which one, sir.”

He borrowed ten soles from Solórzano and took a taxi. When he went into the American Hospital he saw Teté on the telephone at the desk: a boy who wasn’t Sparky was holding her shoulders and only when he got close did he recognize Popeye. They saw him, Teté hung up.

“He’s better now, he’s better now.” Her eyes were teary, her voice broken. “But we thought he was dying, Santiago.”

“We called you an hour ago, Skinny,” Popeye said. “At your
boardinghouse
, at
La
Crónica
. I was going to go looking for you in my car.”

“But it wasn’t that time,” Santiago says. “He died from the second attack, Ambrosio. A year and a half later.”

It had been at teatime. Don Fermín had come home earlier than usual; he didn’t feel well, he was afraid he was coming down with the flu. He’d had some hot tea, a drink of cognac, and was reading
Selecciones
del
Reader’s
Digest,
wrapped up in a blanket in the study, when Teté and Popeye, who were listening to records in the living room, heard the noise. Santiago closes his eyes: the heavy body face down on the carpet, the face immobilized in a grimace of pain or fear, the blanket and the magazine on the floor. The shouts that mama must have given, the confusion that must have reigned. They’d wrapped him in blankets, put him in Popeye’s car, taken him to the hospital. In spite of the terrible thing you people did in
moving
him, he’s resisted the infarction quite well, the doctor had said. He needed complete rest, but there was no cause for fear now. In the hallway outside the room was Señora Zoila, Uncle Clodomiro and Sparky were calming her. His mother gave him her cheek to kiss, but didn’t say a word and looked at Santiago as if reproaching him for something.

“He’s conscious now,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “When the nurse comes out you can see him.”

“Just for a moment,” Sparky said. “The doctor doesn’t want him to talk.”

There was the large room with lime-green walls, the anteroom with flowered curtains, and he, Zavalita, in garnet-colored silk pajamas. The lamp on the night table lighted the bed with a dim church light. There the paleness of his face, his gray hair in disarray over his temples, the dew of animal terror in his eyes. But when Santiago leaned over to kiss him, he smiled: they’d finally found you, Skinny, he thought he wasn’t going to see you.

“They let me in on the condition you don’t talk, papa.”

“The scare is over, thank God,” Don Fermín whispered; his hand had slipped out from under the sheets, had grasped Santiago’s arm. “Is everything all right, Skinny? The boardinghouse, your job?”

“All fine, papa,” he said. “But please don’t talk.”

“I feel a knot here, son,” Ambrosio says. “A man like him hadn’t ought to die.”

He stayed in the room for a long time, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the thick, hairy hand that rested on his knee. Don Fermín had closed his eyes, he was breathing deeply. He didn’t have a pillow, his head was resting on its side on the mattress and he could see his fluted neck and the gray specks of his beard. A short time later a nurse in white shoes came in and made a sign for him to leave. Señora Zoila, Uncle Clodomiro and Sparky were sitting in the anteroom; Teté and Popeye were standing and whispering by the door.

“Before it was politics, now it’s the lab and the office,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “He was working too hard, it was inevitable.”

“He wants to be on top of everything, he doesn’t pay any attention to me,” Sparky said. “I’m tired of asking him to let me take charge of things, but there’s no way. Now he’ll be forced to take a rest.”

“His nerves are shot.” Señora Zoila looked at Santiago with rancor. “It isn’t just the office, it’s this young squirt too. He’s dying to get news about you and keeps begging you more and more to come back home.”

“Don’t shout like a madwoman, mama,” Teté said. “He can hear you.”

“You won’t let him live in peace with the fits of anger you give him,” Señora Zoila sobbed. “You’ve made your father’s life bitter, you young squirt.”

The nurse came out of the room and, as she passed, whispered keep your voices down. Señora Zoila wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and Uncle Clodomiro leaned over her, regretful and solicitous. They were silent, looking at each other. Then Teté and Popeye began
whispering
again. How everyone had changed, Zavalita, how old Uncle Clodomiro had become. He smiled at him and his uncle returned a sad smile. He had become shrunken, wrinkled, his hair was almost all gone, only white tufts scattered about on his skull. Sparky was already a man; in his movements, his way of sitting down, in his voice, there was an adult assurance, an ease that seemed both physical and spiritual at the same time, and his look was calmly resolute. There he was, Zavalita: strong, tanned, gray suit, black shoes and socks, the clean white cuffs of his shirt, the dark green tie with a discreet clasp, the rectangle of the white handkerchief showing in the breast pocket of his jacket. And there was Teté, talking to Popeye in a low voice. They were holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes. Her pink dress, he thinks, the broad loop that went around her neck and down to her waist. Her breasts were visible, the curve of her hips was becoming noticeable, her legs were long and lithe, her ankles thin, her hands white. You weren’t like them anymore, Zavalita, you were a peasant now. He thinks: now I know why you got so furious as soon as you saw me, mama. He felt neither victorious nor happy, only impatient to leave. The nurse came over stealthily to tell them that visiting hours were over. Señora Zoila would sleep at the hospital, Sparky took Teté home. Popeye offered Uncle Clodomiro a ride, but he would take a group taxi, it dropped him off right in front of his house, it was too much trouble, thank you.

“Your uncle is always like that,” Popeye said; they walked along slowly heading downtown in the new night. “He never wants to be driven home or picked up.”

“He doesn’t like to bother anyone or ask for any favors,” Santiago said. “He’s a very simple person.”

“Yes, a very good person,” Popeye said. “He’s lived everywhere in Peru, hasn’t he?”

There was Popeye, Zavalita: freckle-faced, red, his blond hair standing up straight, the same friendly, healthy look of before. But heavier, taller, more sure of his body and the world. His checkered shirt, he thinks, his flannel jacket with leather-trimmed lapels and elbows, his corduroy pants, his loafers.

“We had an awful scare with your old man.” He was driving with one hand, turning the radio with the other. “It was lucky it didn’t happen on the street.”

“You’re already talking like a member of the family,” Santiago
interrupted
him, smiling. “I didn’t know that you were going with Teté, Freckle Face.”

“Hadn’t she said anything to you?” Popeye exclaimed. “It’s been going on for at least two months, Skinny. You’re completely out of touch with things.”

“I haven’t been going to the house for a long time,” Santiago said. “But I’m very happy for the both of you.”

“Your sister’s been giving me a hard time.” Popeye laughed. “Ever since school, remember? But persistence pays off, as you can see.”

They stopped at the Tambo, on the Avenida Arequipa, ordered two coffees, talked without getting out of the car. They resurrected memories held in common, reviewed their lives. He’d just got his architect’s degree, he thinks, he’d started working for a big company, while he and some colleagues planned to set up their own firm. What about you, Skinny, how have things been going for you, what are your plans?

“I’m in good enough shape,” Santiago said. “I haven’t got any plans. Just to stay on at
La
Crónica
.”

“When are you going to get your degree as a shyster?” Popeye asked with a cautious laugh. “You’re made to order for that.”

“I don’t think I ever will,” Santiago said. “I don’t like the law.”

“Just between you and me, that’s made your father pretty depressed,” Popeye said. “He goes around telling Teté and me, work on him so he finishes his degree. Yes, he tells me everything. I get on quite well with your old man, Skinny. We’ve gotten to be chums. He’s an awfully nice person.”

“I don’t want to be a doctor of anything,” Santiago joked. “Everybody in this country is doctor of something.”

“And you’ve always wanted to be different from everybody.” Popeye laughed. “Just like when you were a kid, Skinny. You haven’t changed a bit.”

They left the Tambo, but they sat chatting for a while on the Avenida Tacna across from the milky
La
Crónica
building before Santiago got out. They had to get together more often, Skinny, especially now that we’re practically brothers-in-law. Popeye had wanted to look him up a number of times, but you were invisible, brother. He’d pass the word to some of the people in the neighborhood who are always asking about you, Skinny, and they could have lunch together one of these days. Hadn’t you seen anybody in our class, Skinny? He thinks: the class. The cubs who were lions and tigers now, Zavalita. Engineers, lawyers, managers. Some were probably married already, he thinks, they probably had mistresses already.

“I don’t see many people because I lead the life of an owl, Freckle Face, because of the newspaper. I go to bed at dawn and get up when it’s time to go to work.”

“A real bohemian life, Skinny,” Popeye said. “It must be wild, right? Especially for an intellectual like you.”

“What are you laughing at,” Ambrosio says. “I think what he said about your papa is true.”

“It’s not that,” Santiago says. “I’m laughing at my intellectual face.”

The next day he found Don Fermín sitting up in bed reading the newspapers. He was animated, breathing easily, his color had returned. He’d been in the hospital a week and he’d been to see him every day, but always in the company of other people. Relatives he hadn’t seen for years and who looked him over with a kind of mistrust. The black sheep, the one who’d left home, the one who’d embittered Zoilita, the one who had a grubby little job on a newspaper? Impossible to remember the names of those uncles and aunts, Zavalita, the faces of those cousins; you’d probably passed them many times on the street without recognizing them. It was November and it was starting to get a little warmer when Señora Zoila and Sparky took Don Fermín to New York for a checkup. They returned ten days later and the family went to spend the summer in Ancón. You hadn’t seen them for almost three months, Zavalita, but you spoke to the old man every week on the telephone. Toward the end of March they returned to Miraflores and Don Fermín had recovered and had a tanned and healthy-looking face. The first Sunday he had lunch at the house again, he saw that Popeye was kissing Señora Zoila and Don Fermín. Teté had permission to go dancing with him on
Saturdays
at the grillroom of the Hotel Bolívar. On your birthday Teté and Sparky and Popeye had come to wake you up at the boardinghouse, and at home the whole family was waiting with packages. Two suits, Zavalita, shoes, cuff links, in a little envelope a check for a thousand soles that you spent in a whorehouse with Carlitos. What else was worthwhile remembering, Zavalita, what else except surviving?

*

“Drifting at first,” Ambrosio says. “Then I was a driver and, you’ll have to laugh, son, even half-owner of a funeral parlor.”

The first weeks in Pucallpa had been bad for her. Not so much because of Ambrosio’s disconsolate sadness as because of the nightmares. The white body, young and beautiful, as during the San Miguel days, would come out of the remote shadows, glimmering, and she, on her knees in her narrow little room in Jesús María, would begin to shake. It would float, grow, stop in the air surrounded by a golden halo and she could see the large purple wound in the mistress’s neck and her accusing eyes: you killed me. She would wake up in terror, cling to Ambrosio’s sleeping body, stay awake until dawn. At other times she was being chased by policemen in green uniforms and could hear their whistles, the noise of their big shoes: you killed her. They didn’t catch her, all night long they stretched their hands out toward her as she drew back and sweated.

“Don’t talk to me about the mistress anymore,” Ambrosio had told her with the face of a whipped dog the day they arrived. “I forbid it.”

Besides, right from the start she’d felt mistrust for that hot and
deceptive
town. They had lived first in a place overrun with spiders and cockroaches—the Hotel Pucallpa—near the half-finished square, and from the windows you could see the docks with their canoes, launches and barges rocking in the dirty water of the river. How ugly everything was, how poor everything was. Ambrosio had looked at Pucallpa with indifference, as if they were only there temporarily, and only one day when she complained about the suffocating heat had he made a vague comment: the heat was like it was in Chincha, Amalia. They’d been at the hotel for a week. Then they’d rented a cabin with a straw roof near the hospital. There were a lot of funeral parlors in the area, even one that specialized in little white boxes for children and was called the Limbo Coffin Co.