Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “If the Apristas and the independents have agreed to lift the strike, we can’t do anything,” Solórzano finally said.

  “We can fight, comrades,” Llaque said.

  And the door opened, he thinks, and they came in. Aída walked very quickly to the center of the room, Jacobo stayed behind.

  “It’s about time,” Washington said. “You had us worried.”

  “Jacobo locked me up and wouldn’t let me go to the Catholic University.” In a string of words, he thinks, as if she’d learned what she was going to say by heart. “He didn’t go see the textile workers either, as the section assigned him to. I ask that he be expelled.”

  “Now I can understand why you carried her in your head all these years, Zavalita,” Carlitos said.

  She was standing between the two chairs, under the focus of the light, her fists clenched, her eyes wide, her breath heavy. They looked at her without moving, swallowing, Héctor was sweating. There was Aída’s heavy breathing beside you, Zavalita, her shadow wavering on the floor. Your throat was dry and you were biting your lips, your heart beating fast.

  “All right, come on, comrade,” Washington said. “We were just …”

  “Besides, he tried to commit suicide because I told him I didn’t want to go with him anymore.” Livid, he thinks, her eyes opened wide, spitting out the words as if they were burning her tongue. “I had to trick him into letting me come. I ask that he be expelled.”

  “And the ground opened up,” Santiago said. “Not because she’d come out with all that, there, in front of everybody. But because a fight like that, Carlitos, a fight like that, with locked doors and threats of suicide and all that.”

  “Have you finished?” Washington finally said.

  “Up till then it hadn’t occurred to you that they were going to bed together.” Carlitos laughed. “You thought they were looking into each other’s eyes and holding hands and reciting poems by Mayakovsky and Nazim Himet, Zavalita.”

  Now they were all moving in place, Héctor was drying his face, Solórzano exploring the ceiling, why didn’t he come forward and say something, what was he doing back there mute. Aída was still standing beside you, Zavalita, her hands no longer closed but open, a silver-plated ring with her initials on her little finger, her nails cut like a man’s. Santiago raised his hand and Washington gave him the floor with a gesture.

  “There’s less than an hour left before the Federation meets and we haven’t come to any agreement.” Thinking in terror I’m going to lose my voice, he thinks. “Are we going to waste our time discussing personal problems now?”

  He stopped speaking, lighted a cigarette, the match rolled on the floor, still burning, and he stepped on it. He saw the faces of the others beginning to recover from the surprise, becoming furious. Anxious, labored, Aída’s breathing was still there.

  “Of course we’re not interested in personal affairs,” Washington murmured. “But Aída has brought up something very serious.”

  A barbed silence, he thinks, a sudden heat that brutalized and smothered.

  “I don’t give a damn if two comrades have a fight, lock each other up, or commit suicide,” Héctor said, his handkerchief against his mouth. “But I would like to know what happened with the textile workers, at the Catholic University. If the comrades who were supposed to have gone there didn’t go, I’d like them to explain why.”

  “The comrade has just explained,” the bird voice whispered. “Let the other comrade give his version and let’s be done with it.”

  Eyes turning toward the door, Jacobo’s slow steps, Jacobo’s silhouette beside Aída’s. His light blue suit wrinkled, his shirttails half out, his jacket unbuttoned and his tie loosened.

  “What Aída said is true, I lost my nerve.” Choking up on every word, he thinks, swaying like a drunk. “I was confused, it was weakness, it was the crisis. Maybe all these last days without any sleep, comrades. I accept any decision of the section, comrades.”

  “You didn’t let Aída go to the Catholic University?” Solórzano asked. “Is it true that you didn’t keep the appointment with the textile workers, that you tried to stop Aída from coming to the meeting?”

  “I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know what came over me.” His eyes intimidated, he thinks, tormented, and his look of a madman. “I ask everybody’s forgiveness. I want to get through this crisis, help me through it, comrades. What the comrade said, what Aída said is true. I accept any decision, comrades.”

  He stopped speaking, withdrew toward the door and Santiago no longer saw him. Aída alone again, her hand purple from the tension. Solórzano’s brow was wrinkled, he had stood up.

  “I’m going to say frankly what I think.” His face transformed with rage, he thinks, his voice disillusioned. “I voted in favor of this strike because Jacobo’s arguments convinced me. He was the most enthusiastic, that’s why we elected him to the Federation and the Strike Committee. I have to remember that while Comrade Jacobo was acting selfishly, they arrested Martínez. I think that we should punish a lapse like that in some way. The contacts with the textile workers, the Catholic University, at this time, well, why should I say what we all know. Something like this is intolerable, comrades.”

  “Of course it’s serious, of course he’s made a serious mistake,” Héctor said. “But there’s no time now, Solórzano. The Federation is meeting in half an hour.”

  “It’s madness to keep on wasting time like this, comrades.” The bird voice, perplexed, impatient, his little hand aloft. “We have to postpone this matter and get back to the subject under discussion.”

  “I move that discussion of this be put off until the next meeting,” Santiago said.

  “I don’t want to offend anyone, but Jacobo shouldn’t be present at this meeting,” Washington said; he hesitated a second and added: “I don’t think he can be trusted anymore.”

  “Put my motion to a vote,” Santiago said. “Now you’re the one who’s making us waste time, Washington. Are you going to forget about the strike, the Federation, in order to spend the whole night arguing about Jacobo?”

  “Time is passing,” Llaque insisted, implored. “Keep that in mind, comrades.”

  “All right, we’re going to vote,” Washington said. “Do you have anything to add, Jacobo?”

  The steps, the silhouette, he’d taken his hands out of his pockets and was wringing them. A few blond locks of hair covered his ears, his eyes weren’t self-assured and sarcastic the way they’d been during debates, he thinks, his whole appearance showed defeat and humility.

  “I thought the only thing there was for him was the section and the revolution,” Santiago said. “And all of a sudden it was a lie, Carlitos. Flesh and blood too, like you and me.”

  “I can understand why you have your doubts, why you don’t trust me anymore,” he babbled. “I’m ready to make my self-criticism, I submit to any decision. Give me another opportunity to show you, in spite of everything, comrades.”

  “You’d better leave the room while we vote,” Washington said.

  Santiago didn’t hear him open the door; he knew he’d gone out when the light wavered and the shadows on the wall moved. He stood up, took Aída’s arm and showed her the chair. She sat down. Her hands on her knees, he thinks, her dark lashes moist, her hair in disorder around her neck, and her ears as if she were cold. If only your hand had come up, he thinks, and lowered and touched that neck and fondled it and straightened out that hair and if your fingers had become entwined in that hair and pulled it slowly and let it go and pulled it: oh, Zavalita.

  “Let’s vote on Aída’s petition first,” Washington said. “Those in favor of expelling Jacobo from the section raise your hands.”

  “I made a previous motion,” Santiago said. “My motion should be voted on first.”

  But Washington and Solórzano had already raised their hands. Everybody turned to look at Aída: her head was lowered, her hands motionless on her knees.

  “You’re
not voting in favor of what you requested?” Solórzano said, almost shouting.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Aída sobbed. “Comrade Llaque is right. We have to postpone discussion of this matter.”

  “This is incredible,” the bird voice said. “What’s going on, what is this?”

  “Are you putting us on?” Solórzano said. “What’s your game, Aída?”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Aída whispered, without raising her head.

  “God damn it,” the bird voice said. “Where are we, what are we playing?”

  “Let’s put an end to this joke,” Washington said. “Those in favor of postponing discussion of this.”

  Llaque, Héctor and Santiago raised their hands, and a few seconds later Aída did also. Héctor was laughing, Solórzano was holding his stomach as if he were going to throw up, what is all this, the bird voice repeated.

  “Women really are something,” Carlitos said. “Call girls, Communists, middle class, peasants, they all have something we haven’t got. Maybe we’d be better off being fairies, Zavalita. Getting involved with something you know and not with those strange animals.”

  “Call Jacobo, then, the circus is over,” Washington said. “Let’s get back to serious business.”

  Santiago spun around: the open door, Jacobo’s baffled face bursting into the room.

  “There are three patrol cars by the door,” he whispered. He’d grabbed Santiago’s arm. “A lot of plainclothesmen, an officer.”

  “Close that door, God damn it,” the bird voice said.

  They’d all stood up at once. Jacobo had shut the door and was holding it with his body.

  “Hold it shut,” Washington said, looking at everyone, stumbling. “The papers, the letters. Hold the door, it hasn’t got a lock.”

  Héctor, Solórzano and Llaque went to help Jacobo and Santiago, who were holding the door, and they all went through their pockets. Leaning over the night table, Washington was tearing up papers and putting them in a chamber pot. Aída was passing him the notebooks, the pieces of paper that the others were handing her, she was going back and forth on tiptoe from the door to the bed. The pot was already on fire. Outside not a sound was to be heard; they all had their ears tight against the door. Llaque left them, put out the light, and in the darkness Santiago heard Solórzano’s voice: couldn’t it have been a false alarm? The small flame in the pot was rising and falling, at regular intervals Santiago saw Washington’s face appear as he blew on it. Someone coughed and the bird voice called for silence, and a couple of them began to cough at the same time.

  “Too much smoke,” Héctor whispered. “We have to open that window.”

  A silhouette drew away from the door and reached toward the skylight, but the hand could only reach the edge. Washington took him by the waist, lifted him up, and when the skylight opened a gush of fresh air came into the room. The flame had gone out, and now Aída was handing the pot to Jacobo, who, lifted up again by Washington, was putting the pot out through the skylight. Washington turned on the light: tight faces, sunken eyes, dry mouths. With gestures Llaque signaled them to leave the door, sit down. His face was withered, his teeth could be seen, he had aged in an instant.

  “There’s still a lot of smoke,” Llaque said. “Everybody light up.”

  “False alarm,” Solórzano murmured. “You can’t hear anything.”

  Santiago and Héctor passed out cigarettes, even Aída, who didn’t smoke, lighted one. Washington had placed himself by the door and was peeking through the keyhole.

  “Don’t you know you always have to bring your textbooks?” Llaque said; his little hand was waving hysterically. “We meet to talk about university problems. We’re not political, we’re not involved in politics. Cahuide doesn’t exist, the section doesn’t exist. You don’t know anything about anything.”

  “They’re coming up,” Washington said and drew back from the door.

  A murmur was heard, silence, a murmur again, and two soft raps on the door.

  “There are some people here to see you, sir,” a raspy voice said. “It’s urgent, they say.”

  Aída and Jacobo were together, he thinks, he had his hand on her shoulder. Washington took a step toward the door, but it opened first and a shooting star cut him off: a figure stumbling, reeling, other figures leaping, shouting, revolvers pointing at them, someone cursing, someone panting.

  “What do you want?” Washington said. “Why did you come in like …?”

  “Anyone with weapons throw them on the floor,” a short man wearing a hat and a blue tie said. “Put your hands up. Search them.”

  “We’re students,” Washington said. “We’re …”

  But a policeman pushed him and he was quiet. They frisked them from head to toe, made them file out with their hands up. On the street there were two policemen with submachine guns and a group of onlookers. They split them up, they shoved Santiago into a patrol car with Héctor and Solórzano. It was crowded on the seat, it smelled of armpits, the one driving was talking into a small microphone. The car started up: the Stone Bridge, Tacna, Wilson, Avenida España. It stopped at the gates of Police Headquarters, a plainclothesman whispered to the sentries and they were ordered out. A corridor with small open doors, desks, police and men in civilian clothes, in shirtsleeves, a stairway, another corridor that seemed to have a tile floor, a door that opened, go in, it was closed and the small sound of the key. A small room that looked like a notary’s waiting room, with one small bench against the wall. They were silent, looking at the cracked walls, the shiny floor, the fluorescent light.

  “Ten o’clock,” Santiago said. “The Federation must be meeting.”

  “If all the other delegates aren’t here too,” Héctor said.

  Would the news come out tomorrow, would his old man find out about it in the newspapers? You imagined the sleepless night at home, Zavalita, your mama’s wailing, the hurly-burly and running to the phone and the visitors and Teté’s gossiping in the neighborhood, Sparky’s comments. Yes, the house was like a loony bin that night, son, Ambrosio says. And Carlitos: you must have felt like a Lenin. And all of a sudden a half-breed wound up and gave a kick: most of all afraid, Carlitos. He took out his cigarettes, just enough for the three of them. They smoked without talking, drawing in and blowing out the smoke at the same time. They’d crushed out the butts when they heard the little noise of the key.

  “Which one of you is Santiago Zavala?” a new face said from the door. Santiago stood up. “All right, you can sit down.”

  The face sank into the shadows, the little noise again.

  “It means your name’s on file,” Héctor whispered.

  “It means they’re going to let you out first,” Solórzano whispered. “Get over to the Federation. They have to raise hell. For the sake of Llaque and Washington, they’re the ones who’ll be the most fucked up.”

  “Are you crazy?” Santiago asked. “Why should they let me go first?”

  “Because of your family,” Solórzano said with a little laugh. “They have to protest, raise hell.”

  “My family won’t lift a finger,” Santiago said. “More likely, when they find out I’m mixed up in this …”

  “You’re not mixed up in anything,” Héctor said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Maybe with this roundup now the other universities will do something,” Solórzano said.

  They’d sat down on the bench, were talking, looking at the wall opposite or the ceiling. Héctor stood up, began to walk back and forth, he said that his legs had gone to sleep. Solórzano turned up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets: chilly, isn’t it?

  “Do you think they brought Aída here too?” Santiago asked.

  “They probably took her to Chorrillos, to the women’s jail,” Solórzano said. “Brand new, with individual cells.”

  “It was foolish wasting time on that lovers’ quarrel,” Héctor said. “It’s enough to make you laugh.”

  “Enough to make you
cry,” said Solórzano. “Enough to send them off to make soap operas, get a job in Mexican movies. I’ll lock you up, I’ll kill myself, they should kick you out of the section, no, they shouldn’t. Enough to pull down their pants and give those bourgeois brats a good spanking, God damn it.”

  “I thought they were getting along fine with each other,” Héctor said. “Did you know that they were having fights?”

  “I didn’t know anything,” Santiago said. “I haven’t seen much of them lately.”

  “My old lady has a tantrum and the strike and the Party can go to hell, I’m going to commit suicide,” Solórzano said. “Why don’t they make soap operas? Shit.”

  “Comrades have their little affairs of the heart too.” Héctor smiled.

  “They probably made Martínez talk,” Santiago said. “They probably beat him and …”

  “Try to hide the fact that you’re afraid,” Solórzano said. “It’s worse if you can’t.”

  “You’re probably the one who’s afraid,” Santiago said.

  “Of course I am,” Solórzano said. “But I don’t show it by turning pale.”

  “Because if you did, it couldn’t be noticed,” Santiago said.

  “The advantages of being a half-breed.” Solórzano laughed. “Don’t get hot under the collar, man.”

  Héctor sat down; he had one cigarette and they smoked it among the three of them, one puff apiece.

  “How did they know my name?” Santiago asked. “Why did that guy come by?”

  “Since you come from a good family, they’re going to fix some kidneys in wine for you so that you’ll feel at home,” Solórzano said, yawning. “Well, I’m getting tired.”

  He squatted down against the wall and closed his eyes. His husky body, his ash-colored skin, his broad nose, he thinks, his straight hair, and it was the first time he’d been arrested.

  “Will they put us in with the common criminals?” Santiago asked.