Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “You gave the order to take San Marcos?” Colonel Espina asked. “You, without consulting me?”

  “A great big black man with gray hair who walked like an ape,” Ambrosio said. “He wanted to know if there were any women in Chincha, got some money out of me. I don’t remember him very well, sir.”

  “Before we talk about San Marcos, tell me about your trip,” Bermúdez said. “How are things up North?”

  He cautiously stretched out his gray feet—testing the resistance, the temperature, the existence of the zinc? he folded his wings, alighted, looked and guessed and it was too late: the stones sank into his feathers, broke his bones, cracked his beak, and metallic sounds burst forth as the stones returned to the courtyard, rolling along the zinc.

  “They’re all right, but I want to know if you’ve gone crazy or something,” Colonel Espina said. “‘Colonel, they’ve taken the university, Colonel, the assault guards in San Marcos,’ and me, Minister of Public Order, out of touch with it all. Have you gone crazy, Cayo?”

  The bird of prey slid down in rapid death throes along the lead-gray roof that it was staining garnet, reached the edge, fell, and hungry hands received it, fought over it, plucked it, and there were laughs, insults, and a cook fire was already crackling beside the adobe wall.

  “Has the headman got an eye or not?” Trifulcio asked. “A person who knows knows, and let’s see if anyone wants to doubt me and how he plans to do it.”

  “That boil at San Marcos was lanced in a couple of hours and nobody was killed,” Bermúdez said. “And instead of thanking me, you ask me if I’ve gone crazy. That’s not fair, Uplander.”

  “The old black woman never saw him again after that night either,” Ambrosio says. “She thought he was born bad, son.”

  “There’ll be protests abroad, just what the government doesn’t need,” Colonel Espina said. “Didn’t you know that the President wants to avoid incidents?”

  “What the government didn’t need was a subversive cell right in the heart of Lima,” Bermúdez said. “In a few days the police can be pulled out, San Marcos will open up and everything will be quiet.”

  He was diligently chewing the piece of meat he had won with his fists and his arms and hands were burning and he had purple scratches on his dark skin and the fire where he had roasted his booty was still smoking. He was squatting down in the corner shaded by the zinc, his eyes half closed because of the bright sun or better to enjoy the pleasure that was growing in his jaws and was reaching the hollow of his palate and his tongue and his throat where the remains of feathers clinging to the singed meat scratched delightfully as they passed.

  “When it comes right down to it, you had no authorization, and the decision should have been up to the Minister and not you,” Colonel Espina said. “A lot of countries haven’t recognized the government. The President must be furious.”

  “Heads up, company’s coming,” Trifulcio said. “Heads up, they’re here.”

  “The United States has recognized us and that’s the important thing,” Bermúdez said. “Don’t worry about the President, Uplander. I talked to him last night before I made my move.”

  The others were walking in the homicidal sun, reconciled, without rancor, forgetting how they had insulted each other, pushed and punched to get the crumpled prey, or, stretched out beside the walls, they were sleeping, dirty, barefoot, open-mouthed, brutalized by boredom, hunger, or heat, their bare arms over their eyes.

  “Who’ve they come to call on?” Trifulcio asked. “Who are they going to beat up?”

  “I don’t think he’d ever done anything to me,” Ambrosio said. “Until that night. I wasn’t mad at him, sir, even though I didn’t like him very much. And that night I was sorry for him more than anything else.”

  “I gave the President my word that nobody would be killed, and I kept it,” Bermúdez said. “Here are the police records of fifteen of the ones arrested. We’ll clean up San Marcos and classes can start again. Aren’t you satisfied, Uplander?”

  “Not sorry because he’d been in jail, you understand, son,” Ambrosio says. “But because he looked like a beggar. No shoes, toenails this long, scabs on his arms and his face which weren’t scabs but filth. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “You acted as if I didn’t exist,” Colonel Espina said. “Why didn’t you consult me?”

  Don Melquíades was coming along the corridor escorted by two guards and followed by a tall man who was carrying a straw hat which fluttered in the white-hot wind, the brim and the crown wavering as if they were made of tissue paper, and wearing a white suit and a blue tie and a shirt that was even whiter. They had stopped and Don Melquíades was talking to the stranger and pointing out something in the courtyard to him.

  “Because there was risk,” Bermúdez said. “They might have been armed, they might have started shooting. I didn’t want the blood to be on your head, Uplander.”

  He wasn’t a lawyer, no shyster would ever have been so well-dressed, and he wasn’t from the authorities either, because did they give them noodle soup today, did they have them sweep out the cells and latrines the way they always did when there was an inspection? But if he wasn’t a lawyer or an official, who was he?

  “It could have hurt your political future and I explained that to the President,” Bermúdez said. “I’ll make the decision, I’ll assume the responsibility. If there are any consequences, I’ll resign and the Uplander will come out clean.”

  He stopped gnawing on the small polished bone that he held in his big hands, remained stiff, lowered his head a bit, his startled eyes looking at the veranda: Don Melquíades was still signaling, still pointing at him.

  “But things turned out all right and now the credit is yours,” Colonel Espina said. “The President’s going to think that the man I recommended has more balls than I do.”

  “Hey, you, Trifulcio!” Don Melquíades shouted. “Can’t you see I’m calling you? What are you waiting for?”

  “The President knows I owe this job to you,” Bermúdez said. “He knows that all you have to do is frown and I’ll say thanks for everything and go back to selling tractors again.”

  “Hey, you!” the guards shouted, waving their arms. “Hey, you!”

  “Three switchblades and a few Molotov cocktails, there wasn’t any reason to get upset,” Bermúdez said. “I’ve added some revolvers and a few more knives and brass knuckles for the newspapers.”

  He got up, ran, crossed the courtyard, raising a cloud of dust, stopped a few feet from Don Melquíades. The others had put their heads forward and looked and remained silent. The ones walking had stopped moving, those who were sleeping were squatting and observing and the sun was like liquid.

  “Did you call in the press too?” Colonel Espina asked. “Don’t you know that the Minister signs communiqués, that the Minister holds press conferences?”

  “Come on, Trifulcio, lift up that barrel, Don Emilio Arévalo wants to see you do it,” Don Melquíades said. “Don’t make me look bad, I said that you could.”

  “I called them so you could talk to them,” Bermúdez said. “Here’s the report in detail, the files, the weapons for the photographers. I called them with you in mind, Uplander.”

  “I haven’t done nothing, sir.” Trifulcio blinked and shouted and waited and shouted again. “Nothing. My word of honor, Don Melquíades.”

  “All right, let’s drop it,” Colonel Espina said. “But remember that I wanted to clean up the San Marcos business after the problem of the unions had been settled.”

  Black, cylindrical, the barrel was at the foot of the veranda, beneath Don Melquíades, the guards and the stranger in white. Indifferent or interested or relieved, the others looked at the barrel and Trifulcio or exchanged mocking glances.

  “The San Marcos business hasn’t been cleaned up and it’s time now to clean it up,” Bermúdez said. “The twenty-six we have are shock troops, but most of the leaders are still on the loose and we have to grab them now.�
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  “Stop playing the fool and pick up that barrel,” Don Melquíades said. “I know you haven’t done anything. Go ahead, pick it up so that Mr. Arévalo can see you.”

  “The unions are more important than San Marcos, they’re the ones we have to clean up,” Colonel Espina said. “They haven’t said a word yet, but APRA is strong among the workers and one little spark could set off an explosion.”

  “If I shat in my cell it’s because I was sick,” Trifulcio said. “I couldn’t hold it in, Don Melquíades. My word of honor.”

  “We’ll do it,” Bermúdez said. “We’ll clean up everything that needs cleaning up, Uplander.”

  The stranger began to laugh, Don Melquíades began to laugh, laughter broke out in the yard. The stranger leaned over the railing, put his hand in his pocket and took out something shiny that he showed to Trifulcio.

  “Have you read La Tribuna, the underground paper?” Colonel Espina asked. “Terrible things against the army, against me. We have to stop that dirty little sheet from circulating.”

  “A sol, just to lift that barrel, sir?” Trifulcio blinked and started to laugh. “Of course, why not, yes sir!”

  “Of course they talked about him in Chincha, sir,” Ambrosio said. “That he’d raped an underage girl, stolen, killed a guy in a fight. He couldn’t have done all of those terrible things. But he must have done some of them, because why else would he have been in jail for so long?”

  “You military men are still thinking about the APRA of twenty years ago,” Bermúdez said. “Their leaders are old and corrupt, they don’t want to get themselves killed anymore. There won’t be any explosion, there won’t be any revolution. And that little sheet will disappear, I promise you that.”

  He raised his hands to his face (wrinkled now on the eyelids and around the neck and alongside his kinky gray sideburns) and he spat on them a couple of times and rubbed them and took a step toward the barrel. He touched it, felt it, put his long legs and his domed belly and his broad chest against the hard body of the barrel and hugged it hard, lovingly, with his long arms.

  “I never saw him again, but I heard him mentioned once,” Ambrosio says. “They’d seen him in the towns of the district during the 1950 elections, campaigning for Senator Arévalo. Putting up posters, giving out handbills. For the candidacy of Don Emilio Arévalo, your papa’s friend, son.”

  “I’ve got the little list for you, Don Cayo, only three prefects and eight subprefects among those appointed by Bustamante have resigned,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “Twelve prefects and fifteen subprefects sent telegrams congratulating the General for having taken power. The rest silent; they probably want to be reappointed but don’t dare ask for it.”

  He closed his eyes and, as he was lifting the barrel, the veins on his neck and temples puffed up, the worn skin of his face became moist and his fat lips turned purple. Arching, he supported the weight with his whole body, and a big hand descended roughly along the side of the barrel and it was raised a little more. He took two drunken steps with his burden, looked proudly at the railing, and with a shove returned the barrel to the ground.

  “The Uplander thought that they were going to resign en masse and he wanted to begin naming prefects and subprefects like crazy,” Cayo Bermúdez said. “You can see, doctor, that the Colonel doesn’t know his Peruvians.”

  “A regular bull, Melquíades, you were right, it’s incredible at his age.” The stranger in white tossed the coin into the air and Trifulcio caught it on the fly. “Say, how old are you?”

  “He thinks they’re all like him, men of honor,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “But tell me, Don Cayo, why would those prefects and subprefects remain loyal to poor old Bustamante? He’s never going to raise his head up again.”

  “I don’t know for sure.” Trifulcio laughed, panted, dried his face. “I’ve got lots and lots of years behind me. More than you, sir.”

  “Reappoint the ones who sent telegrams of support and the silent ones too, we’ll calmly go about replacing all of them,” Bermúdez said. “Thank the ones who resigned for services rendered and have Lozano put them on file.”

  “Here’s one of the kind you like, Hipólito,” Ludovico said. “He comes with a special recommendation from Mr. Lozano.”

  “Lima’s still flooded with underground fliers,” Colonel Espina said. “What’s going on, Cayo?”

  “Where the underground Tribuna is printed and who’s printing it, one, two, three,” Hipólito said. “Remember, you’re one of the kind I like.”

  “These subversive sheets have got to disappear right away,” Bermúdez said. “Do you understand, Lozano?”

  “Are you all set, black man?” Don Melquíades asked. “Your feet must be burning up, right, Trifulcio?”

  “You don’t know who or where?” Ludovico asked. “Then how come you had a Tribuna in your pocket when you were picked up in Vitarte, pappy?”

  “Am I all set?” Trifulcio laughed with anguish. “All set, Don Melquíades?”

  “Right after I came to Lima I sent money to the old woman and would go visit her from time to time,” Ambrosio said. “Then nothing. She died without knowing what I was doing. It’s one of the things that bother me, sir.”

  “Did they put it in your pocket without your knowing?” Hipólito asked. “But that was awful silly of you, pappy. And just look at the skin-tight pants you’re wearing and all that grease on your hair. You’re not even an Aprista, you don’t even know where La Tribuna is printed and who prints it?”

  “Have you forgotten that you’re getting out today?” Don Melquíades asked. “Or are you so used to it here now that you don’t want to leave?”

  “I found out that the old woman had died, from a person from Chincha, son,” Ambrosio says. “When I was still working for your papa.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t forget, sir.” Trifulcio shuffled his feet, rubbed his hands. “Absolutely not, Don Melquíades.”

  “See? Hipólito got mad and look what happened to you. You’d better get your memory back pretty quick,” Ludovico said. “Remember, you’re the kind he likes.”

  “They don’t answer, they lie, they point their finger at each other,” Lozano said. “But we’re not asleep, Don Cayo. Whole nights without shutting our eyes. We’ll get rid of those handbills, I promise you.”

  “Give me your finger. That’s it, now make an X,” Don Melquíades said. “All set, Trifulcio, free again. You can’t believe it, can you?”

  “This isn’t a civilized country, it’s barbarian and ignorant,” Bermúdez said. “Stop sitting around and find out what I need to know right away.”

  “But look how skinny you are, pappy,” Hipólito said. “With your coat and shirt on, you wouldn’t think it, I can even count your ribs, pappy.”

  “Do you remember Mr. Arévalo, the one who gave you a sol to pick up the barrel?” Don Melquíades asked. “He’s an important rancher. Do you want to work for him?”

  “Who and where? One, two, three,” Ludovico said. “Do you want us to go on like this all night? What if Hipólito gets mad again?”

  “Of course I do, Don Melquíades,” Trifulcio answered with his head and his hands and his eyes. “Right now or whenever you say, sir.”

  “You’re going to get your body hurt and it kills me,” Hipólito said, “because I’m getting fonder and fonder of you, pappy.”

  “He needs people for his election campaign, because he’s a friend of Odría’s and he’s going to be a senator,” Don Melquíades said. “He’ll pay you well. Take advantage of this opportunity, Trifulcio.”

  “You haven’t even told us what your name is, pappy,” Ludovico said. “Or maybe you don’t know that either, maybe you’ve forgotten it too.”

  “Go get drunk, visit your family, whore around a little,” Don Melquíades said. “And on Monday report to his ranch, on the way out of Ica. Just ask anybody and they’ll tell you.”

  “Have your nuts always been so small or is it because you’re scared?” Hipólito
asked. “And I can barely see your little deal, pappy. Is that because you’re scared too?”

  “Of course I’ll remember, sir, what more could I want?” Trifulcio said. “I can’t thank you enough for recommending me to the gentleman, sir.”

  “Leave him alone, Hipólito, he can’t hear you,” Ludovico said. “Let’s go to Mr. Lozano’s office. Leave him alone, Hipólito.”

  The guard gave him a pat on the back, fine, Trifulcio, and closed the gate behind him, until never again or until the next time, Trifulcio. He walked rapidly ahead, through the dust that he knew so well, that he could see from the block of better cells, and soon he reached the trees that he also knew from memory, and then he went forward along a new stretch until he reached the shacks on the outskirts, where instead of stopping he quickened his pace. He went through the huts and human figures almost on the run, while they looked at him with surprise or indifference or fear.

  “And it’s not that I was a bad son or didn’t love her, the old black woman deserved heaven, just like you, sir,” Ambrosio said. “She broke her back raising and feeding me. What happens is that life doesn’t give a body any time, not even to think about his mother.”

  “We left him because Hipólito got carried away and the guy began to say crazy things and then he fainted, Mr. Lozano,” Ludovico said. “I don’t think that Trinidad López there is an Aprista or even has any idea what he is. But if you want, we’ll wake him and keep on with it, sir.”

  He continued forward, more and more in a hurry and wilder, unable to get his bearings on those first paved streets that his bare feet were treading furiously, going deeper and deeper into the city that was so much longer, so much wider, so different from the one his eyes remembered. He walked without direction, without haste, finally he dropped down onto a bench shaded by the palm trees of a square. There was a store on the corner, women and children were going in, some boys were throwing stones at a street light and some dogs were barking. Slowly silently, without realizing it, he began to weep.