Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “The President’s trip,” he said. “Did you talk to Cajamarca?”

  “All the preparations have already begun,” Lozano said. “I’ll leave on Monday and Wednesday morning I’ll give you a detailed report, so that on Thursday you can go and take a look at the security arrangements. If that’s all right with you, Don Cayo.”

  “I’ve decided that your people will travel to Cajamarca by land. They’ll leave Thursday, by bus, so they’ll get there on Friday. We don’t want the airplane crashing with no time to send replacements.”

  “The way the roads are in the mountains, I don’t know but that the bus is more dangerous than the plane,” Lozano joked, but he didn’t smile and Lozano became serious at once. “A very good idea, Don Cayo.”

  “Leave all these papers with me.” He stood up and Lozano imitated him immediately. “I’ll give them back to you tomorrow.”

  “I won’t take any more of your time, then, Don Cayo.” Lozano followed him to his desk, his enormous briefcase under his arm.

  “Just a minute, Lozano.” He lighted another cigarette, dragged on it, closing his eyes a little. Lozano was facing him, waiting, smiling. “Don’t squeeze any more money out of old Ivonne.”

  “Beg pardon, Don Cayo?” He saw him blink, become confused, turn pale.

  “I don’t care if you get a few soles out of Lima’s naughty girls,” he said in a friendly way, smiling, “but leave Ivonne alone, and if she ever has a problem, help her out. She’s a good person, understand?”

  The fat face had become covered with sweat, the little pig eyes were anxiously trying to smile. He opened the door for him, patted him on the shoulder, see you tomorrow, Lozano, and went back to his desk. He picked up the phone: connect me with Senator Landa, doctor. He picked up the papers that Lozano had left, put them in his briefcase. A moment later the telephone rang.

  “Hello, Don Cayo?” Landa’s jovial voice. “I was about to call you just now.”

  “So you see, senator, there is such a thing as thought transmission,” he said. “I’ve got some good news for you.”

  “I know, I know, Don Cayo.” Oh so happy, you son of a bitch. “I know, work began again at Olave this morning. You don’t know how grateful I am to you for taking an interest in the matter.”

  “We’ve arrested the ringleaders,” he said. “Those fellows won’t be creating any problems for quite some time.”

  “If the harvest had been delayed it would have been a catastrophe for the whole district,” Senator Landa said. “How’s your free time, Don Cayo? Have you got anything on for tonight?”

  “Come have dinner with me in San Miguel,” he said. “Your admirers are always asking about you.”

  “I’d be delighted, how does around nine o’clock suit you?” Landa’s little laugh. “Fine, Don Cayo. See you later, then.”

  He hung up and dialed a number. Two, three rings, only with the fourth a sleepy voice: yes, hello?

  “I’ve invited Landa for dinner tonight,” he said. “Call Queta too. And tell Ivonne they won’t be squeezing any more money out of her. Go back to sleep.”

  *

  Early in the morning of the twenty-seventh he’d gone with Hipólito and Ludovico to get the buses and trucks, I’m worried Ludovico said but Hipólito there won’t be any problem. From a distance they saw the people from the shantytown all gathered together, waiting, so many that you couldn’t see the shacks, sir. They were burning garbage, ashes and buzzards flying. The committee came to meet them. Calancha had greeted them all milk and honey, what did I tell you? He shook hands, introduced them to the others, they took off their hats, embraced. They had hung pictures of Odría from the roofs and on the doors, and they all had their banners, LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION OF RESTORATION, LONG LIVE ODRÍA, THE SETTLEMENTS FOR ODRÍA, HEALTH, EDUCATION, WORK. The people looked at them and the children grabbed them by the legs.

  “They’re not going to the Plaza de Armas with those funeral faces,” Ludovico had said.

  “They’ll cheer up when the time comes,” Calancha had said, very shifty, sir.

  They put them in the buses and trucks, there were all kinds, but a predominance of women and mountain people, they had to make several trips. The square was almost full with spontaneous arrivals and people from other shantytowns and from the ranches. A sea of heads could be seen from the cathedral, the signs and pictures floating about them. They took the shantytown people to where Mr. Lozano had said. There were ladies and gentlemen in the windows of the Municipal Building, the shops, the Club de la Unión, Don Fermín had most likely been there, right, sir? and suddenly Ambrosio look, one of those on that balcony was Mr. Bermúdez. Those fairy fishes have got each other by the tail, Hipólito laughed pointing at the fountain, and Ludovico you ought to know, queenie: they always teased Hipólito like that and he never got mad, sir. They began to stir up the people, make them shout and blow horns. They laughed, moved their heads, liven it up Ludovico said, Hipólito was running around like a mouse from one group to another more happiness, more noise. The bands arrived, they were playing waltzes and marineras, finally the balcony of the Palace opened and the President came out along with a lot of gentlemen and military men and the people began to get happy. Then, when Odría talked about the revolution, Peru, they got all worked up. They shouted on their own, when the speech was over there was lots of applause. Did I keep my word or didn’t I? Calancha had asked them at sunset in the shantytown. They gave him his three hundred soles and it was his turn because they had to have some drinks together. Drinks and cigarettes had been handed out, there were a lot of drunks wandering about. They had some piscos with Calancha and then Ludovico and Ambrosio went off, leaving Hipólito in the shantytown.

  “Mr. Bermúdez must be happy, eh, Ambrosio?”

  “He couldn’t help but be, Ludovico.”

  “Couldn’t you fix it so I could work with you in the car instead of Hinostroza?”

  “Taking care of Don Cayo is the worst job in the world, Ludovico. Hinostroza’s half crazy from all the bad nights.”

  “But it’s five hundred soles more, Ambrosio. And besides, they might put my name on the list. And besides, we’d be together, Ambrosio.”

  So Ambrosio had spoken to Don Cayo, sir, so that he’d take Ludovico on in place of Hinostroza, and Don Cayo had laughed: now even you’ve got people to recommend, black boy.

  3

  IT WAS THE DAY AFTER A PARTY that Amalia got her great surprise. She had heard the master come down the stairs, had gone into the living room, had looked out through the Venetian blinds and seen the car leave and the cops on the corner go away. Then she went up to the second floor, gave a little knock on the door, could she pick up the polisher, ma’am? and she opened the door and tiptoed in. There it was, beside the dressing table. The dim light from the window illuminated the crocodile legs, the screen, the closet, everything else was in the shadows and a warm vapor floated about. She didn’t look at the bed while she went toward the dressing table, except when she turned around, pulling the polisher. She froze: there was Miss Queta too. Part of the sheets and blanket had slipped onto the rug, Miss Queta was asleep, turned toward her, one hand on her thigh, the other hanging down, and she was naked, naked. Now she also saw, over Miss Queta’s dark back, a white shoulder, a white arm, the jet black hair of the mistress, who was sleeping on the other side, covered by the sheets. She went on her way, the floor seemed covered with thorns, but before leaving, an invincible curiosity made her look: a light shadow, a dark shadow, the two so quiet, but something strange and sort of dangerous was coming from the bed and she saw the dragon coming apart in the ceiling mirror. She heard one of them murmur something in her sleep and was frightened. She closed the door, breathing fast. On the stairs she began to laugh, she reached the kitchen covering her mouth suffocating with laughter. Carlota, Carlota, Miss Queta’s up there in bed with the mistress, and she lowered her voice and looked into the courtyard, the two of them without anything on, the two of them bare naked. Bah
, Miss Queta always slept over, and suddenly Carlota stopped yawning and lowered her voice too, the two of them without anything on, the two of them bare naked? All morning while they were cleaning the rooms, changing the water in the vases and shaking out the rug, they nudged each other, the master had slept on the couch in the study? dying with laughter, under the bed? and all of a sudden the eyes of one filled with tears and the other slapped her on the back, what could have happened, what could they have been doing the way they were? Carlota’s big eyes looked like horseflies, Amalia was biting her hand to hold back her laughter. That was how Símula found them when she came back from the market, what was wrong with them, nothing, on the radio they’d heard a very funny joke. The mistress and Miss Queta came down at noon, they had some oysters and chili, drank cold beer. Miss Queta had put on one of the mistress’s robes, which was much too small for her. They didn’t make any telephone calls, they listened to records and chatted, Miss Queta left at nightfall.

  *

  Mr. Tallio was there, Don Cayo, should he send him in? Yes, doctor. A moment later the door opened: he recognized his blond curly hair, his beardless, ruddy face, his elastic walk. Opera singer, he thought, spaghetti-bender, eunuch.

  “Delighted to see you, Mr. Bermúdez.” He came in with his hand outstretched and smiling, let’s see how long your happiness lasts. “I hope you remember me, last year I had …”

  “Of course, we talked right here, didn’t we?” He guided him to the chair that Lozano had been sitting in, sat down opposite him. “Would you like a cigarette?”

  He accepted, hastened to take out his lighter, bowing.

  “I’ve been meaning to come and see you one of these days, Mr. Bermúdez.” He was restless, moving in the chair as if he had worms. “So it was as if …”

  “Your thought had been transmitted to me,” he said. He smiled and saw that Tallio was nodding and opening his mouth, but he didn’t give him time to speak: he handed him the pile of clippings. An exaggerated gesture of surprise, he thumbed through them very seriously, nodded. So, fine, read them, make me believe that you’re reading them, you damned guinea.

  “Oh yes, I saw that, trouble in Buenos Aires, right?” he finally said, no longer restless, not moving around. “Is there some communiqué from the government about this? We’ll send it right out, naturally.”

  “All the newspapers published the Ansa dispatch, you were way ahead of the other agencies,” he said. “You scooped them.”

  He smiled and saw that Tallio was smiling, not with happiness anymore, only because of good manners, eunuch, his cheeks rosier than ever, I’ll make a present of you to Robertito.

  “We thought it was best not to send that news to the papers,” he said. “It’s terrible for the Apristas to stone the embassy of their own country. Why print that here?”

  “Well, the truth is that I was surprised that only the Ansa cable was published.” He shrugged his shoulders, raised his index finger. “We included it in our bulletins because I hadn’t received any indication about it. The news came through the Information Service, Mr. Bermúdez. I hope there wasn’t any mistake.”

  “All the agencies suppressed it except Ansa,” he said, saddened. “In spite of the cordial relations we have with you, Mr. Tallio.”

  “The item came through here with all the others, Mr. Bermúdez.” Red-faced now, really surprised now, without any poses now. “I didn’t get any instructions, any note. I wish you’d call Dr. Alcibíades, I’d like to get this cleared up right now.”

  “The Information Service doesn’t classify good or bad.” He put out his cigarette, calmly lighted another. “It only acknowledges receipt of the bulletins sent to it, Mr. Tallio.”

  “But if Dr. Alcibíades had only asked me, I would have suppressed the item, I’ve always done that.” Anxious now, impatient, perplexed. “Ansa hasn’t got the slightest interest in spreading things that place the government in an uncomfortable position. But we’re not fortune tellers, Mr. Bermúdez.”

  “We don’t give any instructions,” he said, interested in the patterns the smoke was making, the white dots on Tallio’s necktie. “We only suggest in a friendly way, and very rarely, that news items displeasing to the country not be published.”

  “Yes, of course, of course I know that, Mr. Bermúdez.” Now I’ve got him just right for you, Robertito. “I’ve always followed Dr. Alcibíades’ suggestions to the letter. But this time there wasn’t any indication, no suggestion. I beg of you …”

  “The government hasn’t wanted to set up an official censorship system so as not to hurt the agencies, for just that reason,” he said.

  “If you don’t call Dr. Alcibíades this will never be cleared up, Mr. Bermúdez.” Your jar of vaseline and forward, Robertito. “Have him explain to you, have him explain to me. Please, sir. I don’t understand any of this, Mr. Bermúdez.”

  *

  “Let me order,” Carlitos said, and to the waiter: “Two German beers, the kind that comes in cans.”

  He had leaned against the wall that was papered with covers from The New Yorker. The reflector was lighting up his curly hair, his wide eyes, his face darkened by a two-day beard, his reddish nose, of a rummy, he thinks, a person with a cold.

  “Is that beer expensive?” Santiago asked. “I’m a little tight on cash.”

  “I’m treating, I just got an advance out of those bastards,” Carlitos said. “By coming here tonight with me, your reputation as a proper little boy is dead, Zavalita.”

  The covers were brilliant, humorous, multicolored. Most of the tables were empty, but on the other side of the grill work that divided the two parts of the place there were murmurs; at the bar a man in shirtsleeves was drinking a beer. Someone hidden in the darkness was playing the piano.

  “I’ve left whole pay checks behind me here,” Carlitos said. “I feel at home in this den.”

  “It’s my first time at the Negro-Negro,” Santiago said. “A lot of artists and writers come here, don’t they?”

  “Shipwrecked artists and writers,” Carlitos said. “When I was a young squirt I used to come in here like a religious old biddy into church. From that corner I used to spy, listen in, when I recognized a writer my heart would swell up. I wanted to be close to the geniuses, I wanted to be infected by them.”

  “I knew you were a writer too,” Santiago said. “That you’ve published poetry.”

  “I was going to be a writer, I was going to publish poetry,” Carlitos said. “Then I joined La Crónica and switched vocations.”

  “Do you like journalism better than literature?” Santiago asked.

  “I like drinking best.” Carlitos laughed. “Journalism isn’t a vocation, it’s a frustration, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  He shrugged, sketches and caricatures and titles in English where his head had been, and there was the grimace that twisted his face, Zavalita, his clenched fists. He touched his arm: didn’t he feel well? Carlitos straightened up, leaned his head against the wall.

  “Probably my ulcer again.” Now he had a crow-man on one shoulder and a skyscraper on the other. “Probably the lack of alcohol. Because even though I may seem drunk, I haven’t had anything all day.”

  The only one you have left and in the hospital with the d.t.’s, Zavalita. You’d go see him tomorrow without fail, Carlitos, you’d take him a book.

  “I’d come in here and feel I was in Paris,” Carlitos said. “I thought, I’ll get to Paris someday, and boom, a genius, as if by magic. But I never got there, Zavalita, and here I am with stomach cramps of a pregnant woman. What were you going to be when you were cast away on La Crónica?”

  “A lawyer,” Santiago said. “No, a revolutionary, I mean a Communist.”

  “Communist and journalist rhyme at least, but poet and journalist, on the other hand,” Carlitos said, and, starting to laugh: “A Communist? They fired me from a job for being a Communist. If it hadn’t been for that I wouldn’t have got on the paper and I’d probably be writin
g poetry.”

  “Do you know what the d.t.’s are?” Santiago asks. “When you don’t want to know something, nobody will ever get ahead of you, Ambrosio.”

  “What in hell would I be doing being a Communist,” Carlitos said. “That’s the funniest part of it, the truth is I never did find out why they fired me. But they screwed me, and here I am, a drunk with ulcers. Cheers, proper little boy, cheers, Zavalita.”

  *

  Miss Queta was the mistress’s best friend, the one who came the most to the little house in San Miguel, the one who never missed parties. Tall, long-legged, red hair, dyed, Carlota used to say, cinnamon-colored skin, a body that attracted more attention than Señora Hortensia’s, her clothes too, and her way of talking and her antics when she was drinking. She was the liveliest one at the parties, a daredevil for dancing, she really did put herself at the service of the guests, she never stopped provoking them. She would sneak up behind them, muss their hair, pull their ears, sit them down on her knees, a bold one. But she was the one who livened up the night with her madness. The first time she saw Amalia she stood looking at her with a very strange smile, and she examined her and looked at her and was thinking and Amalia what’s the matter with her, what’s wrong with me. So you’re the famous Amalia, I’ve finally met you. Famous for what, ma’am? The one who steals hearts, who destroys men, Miss Queta was laughing, Amalia the passion flower. Crazy but so nice. When she wasn’t playing tricks on the phone with the mistress, she was telling jokes. She would come in with a perverse joy in her eyes, I’ve got a thousand new stories, kid, and from the kitchen Amalia would hear her carrying on, gossiping, making fun of everybody. She also played tricks on Carlota and Amalia which left them mute and with their faces burning. But she was very good, whenever she sent them to the Chinaman’s to buy something she would give them one or two soles. On one day off she had Amalia get into her little white car and she drove her to the streetcar stop.