“You always talk about yourself as being mediocre, but underneath it all I don’t think you really believe it,” Santiago said. “And I don’t believe it either. You may not have any money, but you live a contented life.”
“Contentment isn’t happiness,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “That horror your father has for what my life has been used to seem unjust to me, but I can understand it now. Because sometimes I start thinking and I can’t find one single important memory. Office, home, home, office. Foolish little things, routines, that’s all. Well, let’s not get sad.”
Old Inocencia came into the small living room: dinner was on the table, they could come in. Her slippers, her shawl, the apron that was too big for her small, rachitic body, her weary voice. There was a plate of stew steaming at his place, but at his uncle’s there was only coffee and a sandwich.
“That’s all I can eat at night,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “Go ahead and start in before it gets cold.”
From time to time Inocencia would come in and to Santiago how is it, is it good? She took his face in her hand, how big you’d gotten, what a fine young man you were, and when she left Uncle Clodomiro would wink: poor Inocencia, so warm to you, to everybody, poor old woman.
“I wonder why my Uncle Clodomiro never got married,” Santiago says.
“Tonight you’re letting all your questions out,” Uncle Clodomiro said without rancor. “Well, I made the mistake of spending fifteen years in the provinces, thinking that in that way I’d get ahead faster in the bank. In those small towns I couldn’t find a suitable girl.”
“Don’t be scandalized, what if he was?” Santiago says. “It happens in the best of families, Ambrosio.”
“And when I got to Lima the shoe was on the other foot, the girls didn’t think I was suitable.” Uncle Clodomiro laughed. “After the bank gave me the boot, I had to start all over again at the Ministry with a miserable salary. So I stayed a bachelor. But don’t think I haven’t had my share of fun, nephew.”
“Wait a minute, child, don’t get up yet,” Inocencia shouted from inside. “There’s still dessert to come.”
“She can barely see or hear anymore and the poor thing works all day,” Uncle Clodomiro whispered. “Several times I tried to take on another girl so she could get some rest. Absolutely not, she went into a terrible fit, saying I wanted to get rid of her. She’s as stubborn as a mule. She’ll go straight to heaven, Skinny.”
*
You’re crazy, Amalia said, I haven’t forgiven him and I’m not going to, she hated him. Did they fight a lot? Gertrudis asked. Not much and always because he was such a coward, if he hadn’t been they would have gotten along famously. They’d see each other on their days off, go to the movies, go walking, at night she’d cross the garden in her bare feet and spend an hour with Ambrosio, two hours. All very fine, not even the other maids suspected anything. And Gertrudis: when did you realize he had another woman? The morning she saw him cleaning the car and talking to young Sparky. Amalia was looking at him out of the corner of her eye while she was putting the clothes into the washer, and suddenly she saw that he was confused and she heard what he was saying to young Sparky: me, son? What a thing to say, he could like that one? he wouldn’t take her as a gift, son. Pointing to me, Gertrudis, knowing that I was listening. Amalia felt like dropping the clothes, running over and scratching him. That night she went to his room only to tell him I heard you, who do you think you are, thinking that Ambrosio would ask to be forgiven. But he didn’t, Gertrudis, he didn’t, nothing of the sort: go on, beat it, get out of here. She’d been confused in the darkness, Gertrudis. She wasn’t going to go, why do you treat me like this, what have I done, until he got up from the bed and closed the door. Furious, Gertrudis, full of hate. Amalia had begun to cry, do you think I didn’t hear what you said to the boy about me? and now why are you kicking me out, why are you treating me like this. The boy’s getting suspicious, he shook her by the shoulders, with such fury, don’t ever set foot in my room again, with such desperation, Gertrudis: never again, understand? get out of here. Furious, frightened, crazy, he was shaking her against the wall. It’s not because of the master and the mistress, don’t look for excuses, Amalia was trying to say, you’ve found someone else, but he dragged her to the door, pushed her out and closed it: never again, understand. And still you’ve forgiven him, and you still love him, Gertrudis said, and Amalia are you crazy? She hated him. Who was the other woman? She didn’t know, she’d never seen her. Shamed, humiliated, she ran to her room crying so hard that the cook woke up and came in to her, Amalia had to pretend that it was her period, it always hurts me a lot. And since then never again? Never again. Naturally, he’d tried to make friends, let me explain, let’s still go together, but only seeing each other outside. Hypocrite, coward, liar, damn him, Amalia’s voice rose and he flew off in fright. At least he didn’t leave you pregnant, Gertrudis said. And Amalia: I didn’t speak to him again until later, much later. They would pass in the house and he good morning and she would turn her head away, hello Amalia and she as if a fly had passed. Maybe it wasn’t an excuse, Gertrudis said, maybe he was afraid they’d catch you and fire you both, maybe he didn’t have any other woman. And Amalia: do you think so? The proof that after years he saw you on the street and helped you get a job, Gertrudis said, if not, why had he looked her up, invited her out. Maybe he’d always loved her, maybe while you were with Trinidad he was pining for you, thinking about you, maybe he really was sorry for what he’d done to you. Do you think so? Amalia said, do you think so?
*
“You’re losing a lot of money because of that attitude,” Don Fermín said. “It’s absurd for you to be satisfied with a paltry amount, absurd for you to keep your capital tied up in a bank.”
“You still insist on my getting into the world of business.” He smiled. “No, Don Fermín, I learned my lesson before. Never again.”
“For every twenty or fifty thousand soles that you get, there are people getting triple the amount,” Don Fermín said. “And it’s not fair, because you’re the one who decides things. As to the other part, when are you going to make up your mind to invest something? I’ve already proposed four or five things that anybody would have jumped at.”
He was listening to him with a courteous smile on his lips, but his eyes were bored. The steak had been on the table for a few minutes already and he hadn’t touched it.
“I explained it to you already.” He picked up the knife and fork, sat looking at them. “When this government comes to an end, I’ll be the one stuck with the broken dishes.”
“All the more reason to secure your future,” Don Fermín said.
“Everybody will jump on me and the first ones will be the people in the government,” he said, looking at the meat, the salad, depressed. “As if by slinging mud at me they’ll be keeping themselves clean. I’d have to be an idiot to invest a single penny in this country.”
“My, you’re pessimistic today, Don Cayo.” Don Fermín pushed aside his consommé, the waiter brought his corvina. “Someone would think that Odría is about to fall from one moment to the next.”
“Not yet,” he said. “But there’s no such thing as a government that lasts forever, you know that. Besides, I’m not ambitious. When all this comes to an end, I’ll go live quietly outside the country, to die in peace.”
He looked at his watch, tried to get through a few pieces of meat. He was chewing without pleasure, sipping mineral water, and finally he called the waiter to take the plate away.
“I’ve got an appointment with the Minister at three and it’s two-fifteen already. Didn’t we have another little matter to discuss, Don Fermín?”
Don Fermín ordered coffee for both of them, lighted a cigarette. He took an envelope out of his pocket and laid it on the table.
“I’ve prepared a memorandum for you so you can study the facts at your leisure, Don Cayo. A land claim in the Bagua region. They’re young, dynamic engineers who aren’t afraid of hard
work. They want to bring in cattle, you’ll see. The application has been stuck at the Ministry of Agriculture for six months.”
“Did you write down the number of the application?” He put the envelope into his briefcase without looking at it.
“And the date when the whole procedure started and all the departments it’s been through,” Don Fermín said. “This time I haven’t got any interest in the deal. They’re people I want to help. Friends.”
“I can’t promise you anything without looking into it,” he said. “Besides, I’m not too popular at the Ministry of Agriculture. In any case, I’ll let you know.”
“Naturally, these fellows will accept your conditions,” Don Fermín said. “It’s all right for me to do them a favor out of friendship, but not for you to be bothered for nothing by people you don’t know.”
“Naturally,” he said without smiling. “I’m only bothered for nothing by the government.”
They drank their coffee in silence. When the waiter brought the check they both took out their wallets, but Don Fermín paid. They went out onto the Plaza San Martín together.
“I imagine you’re very busy with the President’s trip to Cajamarca,” Don Fermín said.
“Yes, a little. I’ll call you when this matter goes through,” he said, shaking hands. “There’s my car. I’ll see you later, Don Fermín.”
He got into the car, ordered the Ministry, hurry. Ambrosio drove around the Plaza San Martín, went toward the Parque Universitario, down Abancay. He was looking through the envelope Don Fermín had given him, and sometimes his eyes would turn away and fasten on the back of Ambrosio’s neck: the cocksucker didn’t want his son to mix with half-breeds, he probably didn’t want him to be infected with bad manners. That’s probably why he invited people like Arévalo or Landa to his house, even the gringos he called boors, everybody but him. He laughed, took a pill out of his pocket and filled his mouth with saliva: he probably didn’t want his wife and children infected with bad manners.
*
“You’ve been asking me questions all night and now it’s my turn,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “How are things going for you at La Crónica?”
“I’m learning to measure my stories now,” Santiago said. “At first they were either too long or too short. I’m already used to working at night and sleeping by day too.”
“That’s something else that terrifies Fermín,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “He thinks you’re going to get sick with a schedule like that. And that you won’t go to the university. Are you really attending classes?”
“No, that’s a lie,” Santiago said. “Since I left home I haven’t been back to the university. Don’t tell papa, uncle.”
Uncle Clodomiro stopped rocking, his small hands moved around in alarm, his eyes were startled.
“Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t explain that either,” Santiago said. “Sometimes I think it’s because I don’t want to run into the fellows that were left behind at Police Headquarters when papa got me out. Other times I realize that it’s not that. I don’t like the law, it all seems stupid to me, I don’t believe in it, uncle. Why should I get a degree?”
“Fermín is right, I’ve done you a great disservice,” Uncle Clodomiro said, downcast. “Now that you’ve got some money in your pockets you don’t want to study.”
“Didn’t your friend Vallejo ever tell you what we get paid?” Santiago laughed. “No, uncle, I’ve got practically no money in my pockets. I’ve got the time, I could attend classes. But it’s stronger than me, just the thought of walking into the university makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Don’t you realize that you can spend the rest of your life as just another little wage earner?” Uncle Clodomiro said, concerned. “A boy like you, Skinny, so bright, such a good student.”
“I’m not bright and I’m not a good student, don’t repeat what papa says, uncle,” Santiago said. “The truth is that I’m mixed up. I know what I don’t want to be, but not what I’d like to be. And I don’t want to be a lawyer or rich or important, uncle. At the age of fifty I don’t want to be what papa is, what papa’s friends are. Can’t you see that, uncle?”
“What I can see is that you’ve got a screw loose,” Uncle Clodomiro said, with his desolate face. “I’m sorry I ever called Vallejo, Skinny. I feel responsible for the whole thing.”
“If I hadn’t gone to work at La Crónica I would have got some other job,” Santiago said. “It would have come out all the same.”
Would it have, Zavalita? No, it probably would have been different, probably poor Uncle Clodomiro was partly responsible. It was ten o’clock, he had to go. He got up.
“Wait, I’ve got to ask you something that Zoilita keeps asking me,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “Every time she sees me she puts me through a terrible grilling. Who washes your clothes, who sews your buttons on?”
“The lady at the boardinghouse takes very good care of me,” Santiago said. “She shouldn’t worry.”
“What about your days off?” Uncle Clodomiro asked. “Who do you see, where do you go? Do you go out with girls? That’s something else that Zoilita loses sleep over. Whether or not you’re having an affair with one of those girls, things like that.”
“I’m not having an affair with anyone, get her to calm down.” Santiago laughed. “Tell her I’m fine, I’m behaving myself. I’ll go see them soon, I really will.”
They went into the kitchen and found Inocencia asleep in her rocker. Uncle Clodomiro scolded her and the two of them helped her to her room as she nodded sleepily. At the street door Uncle Clodomiro gave Santiago an embrace. Would he come to dinner next Monday? Yes, uncle. He took a taxi on the Avenida Arequipa and on the Plaza San Martín he looked for Norwin among the tables of the Zela Bar. He still hadn’t arrived and after waiting for a moment he went to meet him on the Jirón de la Unión. He was at the door of La Prensa talking to another editor from Última Hora.
“What happened?” Santiago asked. “Didn’t we have a date for ten o’clock at the Zela?”
“This is the most bastardly profession there is, make your mind up about that, Zavalita,” Norwin said. “They took away all my writers and I had to fill the page myself. There’s a revolution, some kind of dumb business. Let me introduce you to Castelano, a colleague.”
“A revolution?” Santiago asked. “Here?”
“An abortive coup, something like that,” Castelano said. “It seems that Espina was at the head of it, that general who was Minister of Public Order.”
“There isn’t any official communiqué and those bastards took my people away so they could go out and dig up some details,” Norwin said. “Well, let’s forget about it, let’s go have a few drinks.”
“Wait, I want to know,” Santiago said. “Walk me to La Crónica.”
“They’ll put you to work and you’ll lose your night off,” Norwin said. “Let’s go have a drink and we’ll stop by there around two o’clock and pick up Carlitos.”
“But how did it happen?” Santiago asked. “What’s the news?”
“There’s no news, only rumors,” Castelano said. “They started arresting people this afternoon. They say it was in Cuzco and Tumbes. The cabinet’s meeting at the Palace.”
“All reporters have been called in just for the fun of fucking them up,” Norwin said. “They won’t be able to publish anything in any case except the official communiqué and they know it.”
“Instead of going to the Zela why don’t we go to old Ivonne’s?” Castelano asked.
“Who said that General Espina was mixed up in it?” Santiago asked.
“O.K., Ivonne’s, and we can call Carlitos from there to join us,” Norwin said. “There at the cathouse you’ll find out more details of the plot than at La Crónica, Zavalita. And what the hell difference does it make to you? Do you give a damn about politics?”
“I was just curious,” Santiago said. “Besides, I’ve only got about forty soles, Ivonne’s is too expensive.”
“That
should be the least of your worries, working for La Crónica.” Castelano laughed. “As a colleague of Becerrita’s, your credit there is unlimited.”
6
AMBROSIO DIDN’T SHOW UP in San Miguel during the week that followed, but a week later Amalia found him waiting for her at the Chinaman’s shop on the corner. He had sneaked away, for just a little while, to see you, Amalia. They didn’t fight, they had a nice talk. They made a date for Sunday. My, you’ve changed, he told her as he was leaving, how nice you’ve become.
Could she really have got that much better? Carlota told her you’ve got everything a man should like, the mistress teased her along those lines too, the policemen on the block were all smiles, the master’s chauffeurs all looks, even the gardener, the clerk at the food store, and the snotnose of a newsboy kept flirting with her: maybe it was true. In the house she went to look at herself in the mistress’s mirrors with a roguish glow in her eyes: yes, it was true. She’d put on weight, she dressed better and that she owed to the mistress, so good she was. She gave her everything she didn’t wear anymore, but not as if saying take this off my hands, but with affection. This dress doesn’t fit me anymore, try it on, and the mistress would come, it has to be raised here, taken in a little here, these fringes don’t look good on you. She was always telling her to clean your fingernails, comb your hair, wash your apron, a woman who doesn’t take care of herself has had it. Not the way you’d talk to a servant, Amalia thought, she gives me advice as if I was her equal. The mistress had her get her hair cut in a boy’s bob, once, when she had pimples, she put on one of her creams herself and in a week her face all nice and clean, another time she had a toothache and she took her to a dentist in Magdalena herself, had her fixed up, and didn’t take it out of her pay. When had Señora Zoila ever treated her like that, worried about her like that? There wasn’t anybody like Señora Hortensia. What was most important for her was for everything to be clean, for women to be pretty, and for men to be good-looking. It was the first thing she wanted to know about someone, was so-and-so pretty, what was he like? And one thing for sure, she never forgave anyone for being ugly. The way she made fun of Miss Maclovia because of her rabbit teeth, of Mr. Gumucio because of his belly, of the one they called Paqueta because of her artificial eyelashes and fingernails and breasts, and of Señora Ivonne because she was old. How she and Miss Queta made fun of Señora Ivonne! Dyeing her hair so much that she was going bald, how her false teeth fell out at lunch once, how the shots she took were making her more wrinkled instead of younger. They talked so much about her that Amalia was curious and one day Carlota told her there she is, she’s the one who came with Miss Queta. She went out to get a look at her. They were having drinks in the living room. Señora Ivonne wasn’t that old or that ugly, it wasn’t fair. And such elegance, such jewels, everything sparkling all over her. When she left, the mistress came into the kitchen: forget that the old woman had been here. She threatened them with her finger, laughing: if Cayo finds out that she was here, I’ll kill all three of you.
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