Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “In order to win him over, take him a little present,” Trifulcio said. “Something that’ll remind him of his home town and touch his heart.”

  “Enormous experience, he’s been in every government over the past twenty years,” Don Fermín said. “This way, my car’s over here.”

  “I’m going to bring him a couple of bottles of wine,” Ambrosio said. “And what are you going to do now? Are you going back to the house?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” Bermúdez said. “Yes, Mr. Zavala, whiskey, fine.”

  “I don’t think so, you saw how your mother received me,” Trifulcio said. “But that doesn’t mean that Tomasa’s a bad woman.”

  “I’ve never liked politics because I’ve never understood what it was all about,” Bermúdez said. “Circumstances got me involved in politics in my old age.”

  “She says you abandoned her a whole lot of times,” Ambrosio said. “That you only came back home to get the money she made working like a mule.”

  “I hate politics too, but what can we do,” Don Fermín said. “When hard-working people stay out and leave politics to the politicians, the country goes to the devil.”

  “Women exaggerate and, after all, Tomasa is a woman,” Trifulcio said. “I’m going to work in Ica, but I’ll come back and see her now and then.”

  “Is it true that you’ve never been here?” Don Fermín asked. “Espina’s been exploiting you, Don Cayo. The show is pretty good, you’ll see. Don’t think I’m a big night-lifer. Very rarely.”

  “And how are things here?” Trifulcio asked. “You should know, you should know a lot at your age. Women, whorehouses. How are the whorehouses here?”

  She was wearing a skin-tight white evening gown that had a slight sparkle about it and outlined the lines of her body so neatly and vividly that she seemed to be naked. A dress, the same color as her skin, which touched the floor and made her take short little steps, cricket hops.

  “There are two of them, one expensive and one cheap,” Ambrosio said. “By expensive I mean twenty soles, at the cheap one you can go as low as three. But they’re terrible.”

  Her shoulders were white, round, soft, and the whiteness of her complexion contrasted with the darkness of her hair, which flowed down her back. She tightened her mouth with slow avidity, as if she were going to bite the small, silver-plated microphone, and her large eyes gleamed and kept looking over the tables.

  “A pretty-looking Muse, eh?” Don Fermín said. “At least compared to the skeletons that came out to dance before. But her voice doesn’t help her very much.”

  “I don’t want to take you or for you to go with me, and besides, I know it’s best if you’re not seen with me,” Trifulcio said. “But I’d like to take a walk over there, just to see. Where’s the cheap one?”

  “Very pretty, yes, a beautiful body, beautiful face,” Bermúdez said. “And I don’t think her voice is so bad.”

  “Close by here,” Ambrosio said. “But the police are always hanging around because they’re always having fights.”

  “Let me tell you that that woman who’s so much of a woman there isn’t really that at all,” Don Fermín said. “She likes other women.”

  “That’s the least of my worries, because I’m used to cops and fights.” Trifulcio laughed. “Come on, pay for the beers and let’s go.”

  “Is that so?” Bermúdez said. “A woman as pretty as that. Is that so?”

  “I’d go with you but the bus to Lima leaves at six o’clock,” Ambrosio said. “And my things are still all scattered around.”

  “So you don’t have any children, Don Cayo,” Don Fermín said. “Well, you’ve saved yourself a lot of problems. I’ve got three and right now they’re beginning to give Zoila and me headaches.”

  “You can leave me at the door and take off,” Trifulcio said. “Take me along a way where nobody will see us, if you want.”

  “Two young gentlemen and a little lady?” Bermúdez asked. “Already grown up?”

  They went out onto the street again and the night was brighter. The moon showed them the potholes, the ruts, the stones. They went through deserted alleys, Trifulcio turning his head from right to left, observing everything, taking an interest in everything; Ambrosio with his hands in his pockets, kicking stones.

  “What future could the navy hold for a boy?” Don Fermín asked. “None. But Sparky insisted and I used my influence to get him in. And now you see, they threw him out. Lazy in his studies, undisciplined. He’s going to end up without a career, that’s the worst of it. Of course, I could make some moves and get him reinstated. But no, I don’t want a son who’s in the navy. I’d rather put him to work for me.”

  “Is that all you’ve got, Ambrosio?” Trifulcio asked. “Only twenty soles? Only twenty soles, a driver and everything?”

  “Why don’t you send him abroad to study?” Bermúdez asked. “Maybe with a change in surroundings the boy will straighten out.”

  “If I had any more I’d give it to you too,” Ambrosio said. “All you’d have to do is ask and I’d give it to you. Why did you pull that knife? You didn’t have to. Look, come to the house and I’ll give you more. But put that away, I’ll give you another fifty soles. But don’t threaten me. I’m glad to help you, give you more. Come on, let’s go to the house.”

  “Impossible, my wife would die,” Don Fermín said. “Sparky all alone in a foreign country? Zoila wouldn’t hear of it. He’s the one she spoils.”

  “No, I won’t go,” Trifulcio said. “This is enough. And it’s a loan, I’ll pay you back your twenty soles because I’ve got a job in Ica. Were you scared because I took out the knife? I wasn’t going to do anything to you, you’re my son. And I’ll pay you back, I give you my word.”

  “And has your younger son turned out difficult to handle too?” Bermúdez asked.

  “I don’t want you to pay me back, I’m giving it to you,” Ambrosio said. “I wasn’t scared. You didn’t have to take out the knife, I swear. You’re my father, I would have given it to you if you’d asked. Come to the house, I swear I’ll give you fifty soles more.”

  “No, Skinny is just the opposite of Sparky,” Don Fermín said. “First in his class, winning all the prizes at the end of the year. You have to rein him in to stop him from studying too hard. A beauty of a boy, Don Cayo.”

  “You must be thinking that I’m worse than what Tomasa’s told you,” Trifulcio said. “But I took it out for no reason, really, I wasn’t going to do anything to you, even if you didn’t give me a single sol. And I’ll pay you back, word of honor, I’ll pay you back your twenty soles, Ambrosio.”

  “I can see that the younger one is your favorite,” Bermúdez said. “What career is he going into?”

  “All right, you can pay me back if you want to,” Ambrosio said. “Forget about all this, I’ve already forgotten. Don’t you want to come to the house? I’ll give you fifty soles more, I promise.”

  “He’s still in the last part of high school and doesn’t know,” Don Fermín said. “It isn’t that he’s my favorite, I love all three of them the same. It’s just that Santiago makes me feel proud. Well, you understand.”

  “You must think that I’m a dog who’d even steal from his own son, who’d pull a knife on his own son,” Trifulcio said. “I swear to you that this is a loan.”

  “You make me a little jealous listening to you, Mr. Zavala,” Bermúdez said. “In spite of all the headaches, being a father must have its compensations.”

  “But it’s all right, I do think it just happened like that and that you will pay me back,” Ambrosio said. “Now forget about it, please.”

  “You’re living at the Maury, right?” Don Fermín said. “Come on, I’ll drop you there.”

  “You’re not ashamed of me?” Trifulcio asked. “Tell me frankly.”

  “No, thanks a lot, I’d rather walk, the Maury is close by,” Bermúdez said. “I’m very pleased to have met you, Mr. Zavala.”

  “But what a thing
to think, what have I got to be ashamed of?” Ambrosio asked. “Come on, we’ll go into the whorehouse together if you want.”

  “What are you doing here?” Bermúdez asked. “What brings you here?”

  “No, go pack your bag, you shouldn’t be seen with me,” Trifulcio said. “You’re a good son, I hope everything works out for you in Lima. Believe me, I’ll pay you back, Ambrosio.”

  “They sent me from one place to the other, they made me wait here for hours, Don Cayo,” Ambrosio said. “I was ready to go back to Chincha, I tell you.”

  “Generally the Director of Public Order’s chauffeur is someone from the Police Department, Don Cayo,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “For reasons of security. But if you prefer.”

  “I’ve come to look for work, Don Cayo,” Ambrosio said. “I’m sick of driving that broken-down old bus. I thought that maybe you could help me get a job.”

  “Yes, I prefer it this way, doctor,” Bermúdez said. “I’ve known this black fellow for years and I have more confidence in him than in some X from the police. He’s outside by the door, would you take care of it, please?”

  “I know all about driving, and I’ll get used to the Lima traffic right away, Don Cayo,” Ambrosio said. “You need a chauffeur? That would be great, Don Cayo.”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of it,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “I’ll have them put him on the rolls of the Prefecture or sign him up or whatever is necessary. And I’ll have them get the car for you today.”

  “All right, you’re hired, then,” Bermúdez said. “You’re in luck, Ambrosio, you arrived at just the right moment.”

  “To your health,” Santiago says.

  8

  THE BOOKSTORE WAS INSIDE A BUILDING with balconies, you went in through a vague entranceway and from there you could see it huddled in back, barred and deserted. Santiago arrived before nine o’clock, scanned the bookcases in the entrance, thumbed through the time-worn books, the faded magazines. The old man with a beret and gray sideburns looked at him indifferently, good old Matías he thinks, then he began to look at him out of the corner of his eye, and finally he went over to him: was he looking for something? A book on the French Revolution. Ah, the old man smiled, over here. Sometimes it was does Mr. Henri Barbusse live here or is Don Bruno Bauer in? sometimes touching the door in a certain way, and sometimes there were comical confusions, Zavalita. He led him to a room that had been invaded by piles of newspapers, silvery cobwebs and books stacked up against black walls. He pointed to a rocking chair, he should sit down, he had a slight Spanish accent, eloquent little eyes, a very white goatee: he hadn’t been followed? You had to be very careful, everything depends on the young people.

  “Seventy years old and he was pure, Carlitos,” Santiago said. “The only one I’ve ever known at that age.”

  The old man gave an affectionate wink and went back into the courtyard. Santiago browsed through old Lima magazines, Variedades and Mundial, he thinks he set aside those that had articles by Mariátegui or Vallejo.

  “Of course, in those days Peruvians could read Vallejo and Mariátegui in the press,” Carlitos said. “Now they read us, Zavalita, that’s a backward step.”

  Moments later he saw Jacobo and Aída come in. Not yet a little worm or a snake or a knife, it was a pin that sank in and disappeared. He saw them whispering beside the aged shelves and saw the carefree look and the joy on Jacobo’s face and saw them separate when Matías went over to them and saw Jacobo’s smile disappear and a frown of concentration appear, abstract seriousness, the face he had been showing the world for some months. He was wearing the brown suit that he rarely changed now, the wrinkled shirt, the tie with the loosened knot. He’s taken to disguising himself as a proletarian Washington joked, he thinks he only shaved once a week and didn’t shine his shoes, one of these days Aída’s going to leave him Solórzano laughed.

  “All that mystery because that was the day we were going to quit playing games,” Santiago said. “Things were about to start for real, Carlitos.”

  Had it been at the start of that third year at San Marcos, Zavalita, between his discovery of Cahuide and that day? From readings and discussions to the distribution of mimeographed sheets at the university, from the deaf woman’s boardinghouse to the small house in Rímac to Matías’ bookstore, from dangerous games to the real danger: that day. The two groups hadn’t merged again, he only saw Jacobo and Aída at San Marcos, other groups were active, but if they asked Washington he would answer that a fly can’t get into a closed mouth and would smile. One morning he called them: at such and such a time, at such and such a place, just the three of them. They were going to meet someone from Cahuide, they could ask him any questions they wanted to, air any doubts they might have, he thinks I didn’t sleep that night either. Sometimes Matías would raise his eyes from the courtyard and smile at them, in the room in back they smoked, thumbed through magazines, kept looking at the entranceway and the street.

  “He said nine o’clock and it’s nine-thirty,” Jacobo said. “He probably won’t come.”

  “Aída changed a lot when she started going with Jacobo,” Santiago said. “She joked, she looked happy. On the other hand, he became serious and stopped combing his hair and changing his clothes. He wouldn’t laugh with Aída if anyone was looking, he almost never said a word to her in front of us. He was ashamed to be happy, Carlitos.”

  “Just because he’s a Communist doesn’t mean he’s stopped being Peruvian.” Aída laughed. “He’ll come at ten, you wait and see.”

  It was a quarter to ten: a bird face in the entranceway, a hopping little walk, skin like yellow paper, a suit that danced on him, a little garnet tie. They saw him talking to Matías, looking around, coming over. He went into the room, smiled at them, sorry I’m late, a thin little hand, the bus he was on had broken down, and they stood looking at each other, embarrassed.

  “Thanks for waiting.” His voice was very thin too, he thinks. “A fraternal greeting from Cahuide, comrades.”

  “The first time I’d heard the word comrades, Carlitos, you can imagine Zavalita and his sentimental heart,” Santiago said. “I only knew his nom de guerre, Llaque; I only saw him a few times. He was in the Workers’ Section of Cahuide, I never got beyond the University Section. You can imagine, one of those pure ones.”

  That morning we didn’t know that Llaque had been a law student during the time of Odría’s revolution, he thinks, that he’d been a victim of the police attack on San Marcos, that he’d been tortured and exiled to Bolivia, and that in La Paz he’d been in jail for six months, that he’d returned clandestinely to Peru: only that he looked like a little bird, that morning as his frail voice summarized the history of the Party for them and they watched him as he moved his thin yellow hand in a repeated rotary movement, as if he had a cramp in it, and kept watching the courtyard and the street out of the corner of his eye. It had been founded by José Carlos Mariátegui and as soon as it came into being, it grew and organized teams and won over segments of the working class, he wanted to show us that we could be trusted, he thinks, and he didn’t hide from us the fact that it had always been tiny or its weakness as compared to APRA, and that had been the golden age of the Party, the period of the magazine Amauta and the newspaper Labor and the organization of labor unions and students sent into Indian communities. When Mariátegui died in 1930, the Party had fallen into the hands of adventurers and opportunists, old Matías died and they tore down the building on Chota and built a cube with windows in it he thinks, who had given it a bungling line that separated it from the masses who therefore came under the influence of APRA, whatever became of Comrade Llaque, Zavalita? Adventurers like Ravines, who became an agent of imperialism and helped Odría overthrow Bustamante, could he have become a renegade, tired of the difficult and stifling militancy, could he have a wife and family and a job in a ministry? and opportunists like Terreros who became a religious fanatic and every year dressed up in a purple habit and hauled a cross in the Procession of Ou
r Lord of Miracles, or was he still carrying on and speaking in that little bird voice of his to student groups when he wasn’t in jail? Betrayals and repression had almost wiped out the Party, and if he was still carrying on was he pro-Soviet or pro-Chinese or one of those Castroites who had died in guerrilla actions or had he turned Trotskyite? and when Bustamante took office in 1945 the Party had won legal status again and began to rebuild and fight among the working classes against APRA reformism, could he have gone to Moscow or Peking or Havana? but with Odría’s military coup the Party had been broken up again, could he have been accused of being a Stalinist or revisionist or adventurer? the whole Central Committee and dozens of leaders and militants and sympathizers jailed and exiled and some murdered, would he remember you, Zavalita, that morning at Matías’s place, that night at the Hotel Mogollón? and the surviving cells of that great shipwreck had slowly, laboriously come together as the Cahuide Organization, which published that pamphlet and was made up of the University Section and the Workers’ Section, comrades.

  “You mean that Cahuide has only a few students, only a few workers?” Aída said.

  “We operate under difficult conditions, sometimes because a comrade falls months of effort are lost.” He was holding his cigarette between the nails of his forefinger and his thumb, he thinks, smiling in a timid way. “But in spite of the repression, we’ve been growing.”

  “And naturally, he convinced you, Zavalita,” Carlitos said.

  “He convinced me that he believed in what he was telling us,” Santiago said. “And besides that, you could see that he liked what he was doing.”

  “How does the Party stand on unity of action with other outlawed organizations?” Jacobo asked. “APRA, the Trotskyites?”

  “He didn’t hesitate, he had faith,” Santiago said. “At that time I still envied people who had a blind faith in something, Carlitos.”

  “We would be ready to work with APRA against the dictatorship,” Llaque said. “But the Apristas don’t want to give anyone the reason to call them extremists and they do everything they can to prove their anti-Communism. And there can’t be more than ten Trotskyites in all and they’re most likely police agents.”