Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” Deputy Saravia said. “I just want to let you know that Cajamarca is going to turn its house inside out to receive General Odría.”

  He smiled, nodded, sure that it would be that way, but there was one detail about which he wanted to get the opinion of those present, Engineer Saravia: the rally on the Plaza de Armas, where the President would speak. Because the ideal thing would be, he coughed, softened his voice, for the rally to come off in such a way, he searched for words, that the President would not feel disappointed. The rally would be an unprecedented success, Don Cayo, the senator interrupted him, and there were confirmatory murmurs and nodding of heads, and behind the curtains it was all muffled sounds, rubbing and soft panting, an agitation of sheets and hands and mouths and skins that sought each other out and came together.

  *

  Mr. Santiago, the taps on the door came again, Mr. Santiago and he opened his eyes, ran a heavy hand across his face and went to open the door, dulled by sleep: Señora Lucía.

  “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry, but did you hear the radio, hear what’s happening?” She was stumbling over her words, her face excited, her eyes alarmed. “A general strike in Arequipa, they say that Odría may name a military cabinet. What’s going to happen, Mr. Santiago?”

  “Nothing, Señora Lucía,” Santiago said. “The strike will last a couple of days and will end and the gentlemen of the Coalition will come back to Lima and everything will go on the same. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But some people were killed, there were some wounded.” Her little eyes sparkled as if they had counted the dead, seen the wounded. “At the Arequipa theater. The Coalition was holding a rally and the Odríists got in and there was a fight and the police threw bombs. It came out in La Prensa, Mr. Santiago. Dead, wounded. Is there going to be a revolution, Mr. Santiago?”

  “No, ma’am,” Santiago said. “Besides, why should you be afraid? If there’s a revolution nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “But I don’t want the Apristas to come back,” Señora Lucía said, frightened. “Do you think they’re going to throw Odría out?”

  “The Coalition has nothing to do with the Apristas.” Santiago laughed. “They’re four millionaires who used to be friends of Odría and have had a falling out with him now. It’s a fight among first cousins. And really, what does it matter to you whether the Apristas come back or not?”

  “They’re atheists, Communists,” Señora Lucía said. “Aren’t they?”

  “No, ma’am, they’re neither atheists nor Communists,” Santiago said. “They’re more right-wing than you are and they hate the Communists more than you do. But don’t worry, they’re not coming back and Odría still has some time left.”

  “You and your jokes all the time, Mr. Santiago,” Señora Lucía said. “Excuse me for waking you up, I thought that as a newspaperman you’d have more news. Lunch will be ready in a little while.”

  Señora Lucía closed the door and he took a long stretch. While he was taking a shower he laughed to himself: silent nocturnal figures were coming through the windows of the old house in Barranco, Señora Lucía woke up howling, the Apristas! out of her mind, stiff with fright, she hugged her mewing cat and watched the invaders opening closets, trunks and dressers and taking away her dusty rags, her holey blankets, her moth-eaten clothes: the Apristas, the atheists, the Communists! They were coming back to steal the possessions of proper people like Señora Lucía, he thinks. He thinks: poor Señora Lucía, if you’d only known that according to my mother you weren’t a proper person either. He was finishing dressing when Señora Lucía returned: lunch was ready. That pea soup and that lonely potato, a shipwrecked sailor in a plate of green water, he thinks, those stale vegetables with slices of shoe sole that Señora Lucía called beef stew. Clock Radio was turned on, Señora Lucía was listening with her forefinger to her lips: all activity in Arequipa was at a standstill, there had been a demonstration on the Plaza de Armas and the leaders of the Coalition had once more called for the resignation of the Minister of Government, Mr. Cayo Bermúdez, whom they held responsible for the serious incidents of the night before at the Municipal Theater, the government had called for calm and warned that it would not tolerate any disorders. Did he see, did he see, Mr. Santiago?

  “You’re probably right, Odría probably is going to fall,” Santiago said. “Radio stations didn’t use to dare broadcast news like that.”

  “What if the Coalition comes to power instead of Odría, will things be better?” Señora Lucía asked.

  “They’ll be the same or worse, ma’am,” Santiago said. “But without military men and without Cayo Bermúdez maybe it wouldn’t be so noticeable.”

  “You’re always joking,” Señora Lucía said. “You don’t even take politics seriously.”

  “And when the old man was in the Coalition?” Santiago asks. “Didn’t you get involved? Didn’t you help out at the demonstrations the Coalition organized against Odría?”

  “Not when I worked for Don Cayo and not when I worked for your papa,” Ambrosio says. “I never got involved in politics, son.”

  “I have to go now,” Santiago said. “I’ll see you later, ma’am.”

  He went into the street and only then did he discover the sun, a cold winter sun that had rejuvenated the geraniums in the tiny garden. A car was parked across from the boardinghouse and Santiago passed by it without looking, but he vaguely noticed that the car started up and was going along beside him. He turned around and looked: hi, Skinny. Sparky was smiling at him from behind the wheel, on his face the expression of a child who has just been into mischief and doesn’t know whether he’ll be celebrated or scolded. He opened the car door, got in, and now Sparky was enthusiastically patting him on the back, God damn it you see I found you, and he was laughing with nervous joy, I did by God.

  “How in hell did you find the boardinghouse?” Santiago asked.

  “Lots of headwork, Superbrain.” Sparky tapped his forehead, gave a big laugh, but he couldn’t hide his emotion, he thinks, his confusion. “It took me a long time, but I finally found you, Skinny.”

  Dressed in beige, a cream-colored shirt, a pale green tie, and he looked tanned, strong and healthy, and you remembered that you hadn’t changed your shirt for three days, Zavalita, that you hadn’t shined your shoes for a month, and that your suit certainly must have been wrinkled and stained, Zavalita.

  “Shall I tell you how I found you, Superbrain? I stationed myself in front of La Crónica for nights on end. The folks thought I was on a spree and there I was waiting to follow you. Twice I got you mixed up with somebody else who got out of the taxi before you. But yesterday I caught you and saw you go into the house. I must say I was a little worried, Superbrain.”

  “Did you think I was going to throw stones at you?” Santiago asked.

  “Not stones, but I did think you’d go half crazy,” and he blushed. “Since you’re such a nut and no one can figure you out, what the hell. I’m glad you behaved like a good guy, Superbrain.”

  *

  The room was large and dirty, cracked and stained walls, an unmade bed, a man’s clothing hanging from hooks nailed to the wall. Amalia saw a screen, a pack of Incas on the night table, a cracked washbasin, a small mirror, it smelled of urine and from being closed up, and she realized that she was crying. Why had he brought her here? she was muttering, and always lies, so low that she could scarcely hear it herself, saying let’s go see my friend, he wanted to trick her, take advantage, give her a kick in the pants like last time. Ambrosio had sat down on the unmade bed, and, through her big tears, Amalia saw him shaking his head, you don’t understand me. What was she crying about? he was speaking lovingly, was it because I pushed you? looking at her with a contrite and mournful expression, you were making a scandal out there with your stubbornness about not coming in, Amalia, the whole neighborhood would have come asking what’s going on, what would Ludovico have said later. He had lighted one of the cigarett
es on the night table and slowly he began to observe her, her feet, her knees, he went unhurriedly up her body and when he reached her eyes he smiled at her and she felt hot and ashamed: what a stupid girl you are. She made her face look as annoyed as she could. Ludovico would be there any minute, Amalia, he’d come and they’d leave, am I doing anything to you? and she you better watch out if you do. Come here, Amalia, sit down, let’s talk awhile. She wasn’t going to sit down, open the door, she wanted to leave. And he: did you start crying when the textile worker took you to his place? Her face grew bitter and Amalia thought he’s jealous, he’s furious, and she felt her anger leaving her. He wasn’t like you, she said looking at the floor, and he wasn’t ashamed of me, thinking he’s going to stand up and hit you, he wouldn’t have thrown me out because he was afraid of losing his job, thinking come on stand up, come on hit me, I came first with him, thinking stupid girl, you’re hoping he’ll kiss you. He twisted his mouth, his eyes were popping, he dropped the butt on the floor and squashed it. Amalia had her pride, you’re not going to trick me twice, and he looked at her anxiously: if that guy hadn’t died I swear to you I would have killed him, Amalia. Now he really was going to dare, now he was. Yes, he jumped up, and anyone else who got in his way too, and she saw him approach decisively, his voice a little hoarse: because you’re my woman, that’s what you’re going to be. She didn’t move, she let him take her by the shoulders and then she pushed him with all her might and saw him stumble and laugh, Amalia, Amalia, and try to grab her again. That’s what they were doing, running around, pushing each other, pulling each other, when the door opened and Ludovico’s face, looking very downcast.

  *

  He put out his cigarette, lighted another, crossed his legs, those listening leaned their heads forward so as not to lose a single word, and he listening to his own tired voice: the twenty-sixth had been declared a holiday, instructions had been given to the principals of private and public schools to bring their students to the square, that would guarantee a good turnout, and Mrs. Heredia would be watching the rally from a balcony of the City Hall, so tall, so serious, so white, so elegant, and in the meantime, he would already be at the ranch house convincing the maid: a thousand, two thousand, three thousand soles, Quetita? But of course, he smiled and with a glance saw that they were all smiling, it wasn’t a question of the President’s talking to schoolchildren, and the maid would say fine, three thousand, wait here and she’d hide him behind a screen. He had also calculated that civil servants would attend, but that wouldn’t mean many people, and he there, motionless, hidden in the dark, would wait, looking at the vicuña rugs and the pictures and the broad bed with a canopy and curtains. He coughed, uncrossed his legs: the propaganda had been organized, besides. News items in the local press and on the radio, cars and vans with loudspeakers would go through the city passing out handbills and that would attract more people and he would count the minutes, the seconds, and feel his bones dissolving and icy drops running down his back and finally: there she would be, there she would come. But, and he leaned over and faced the men crowded together with charm and humility, since Cajamarca was an agricultural center it was hoped that the main body of those at the rally would come from the countryside, and that depended on you gentlemen. He would see her there, tall, white, elegant, serious, she would come in and sail across the vicuña rug and he would hear I’m so tired and she would call for her Quetita. Permit me, Don Cayo, Senator Heredia said, Don Remigio Saldívar, President of the Reception Committee and one of the most representative figures of those involved in agriculture in Cajamarca, has something to say about the rally, and he saw a heavy-set man, tan as an ant, strangled by a jowly neck, stand up in the second row. And there Quetita would come and she would tell her I’m tired, I want to go to bed, help me and Quetita would help her, would slowly undress her and he would watch, feel every pore in his body grow warm, millions of tiny craters on his skin begin to erupt. You’ll have to excuse me, all of you and especially you, Mr. Bermúdez, Don Remigio Saldívar cleared his throat, he was a man of action, not speeches, that is, I can’t speak as well as Fleafoot Heredia and the senator gave a chuckle and there was an outburst of laughter. He opened his mouth, wrinkled his face, and there she would be, white, naked, serious, elegant, motionless, while Quetita would delicately take off her stockings, kneeling at her feet, and with laughter they all celebrated Don Remigio Saldívar’s oratorical prowess concerning his lack of oratory, and he heard come to the point Remigio, that’s Cajamarca Don Remigio: she would roll them in slow motion and he would see the maid’s hands, so large, so dark, so rough, lowering, lowering them over the legs that were so white, so white, and Don Remigio Saldívar assumed a hieratic expression: getting down to the matter at hand he wanted to tell them that he shouldn’t worry, Mr. Bermúdez, they had thought about it, discussed it and taken all the necessary measures. Now she would have lain down on the bed and he would discern her lying white and perfect behind the curtains, and he would hear her you get undressed too Queta, come here Quetita. There wasn’t even any need for the schoolchildren or the civil servants, there’d be so many people they wouldn’t fit in the square, Mr. Bermúdez: it would be better for them to stick to their books and their jobs. Quetita would get undressed and she quick, quick, and her shoes would fall noiselessly on the vicuña rug. Don Remigio Saldívar made an energetic gesture: we’ll supply the people for the rally, not the government, the people of Cajamarca wanted the President to have a good impression of our region. Now Quetita would run, fly, her long arms would pull and separate the curtains and her big burned body would silently descend onto the sheets: keep that in mind, Mr. Bermúdez. He had changed his merry tone and his rustic mannerisms for a grave, proud voice and solemn gestures and they were all listening: the agricultural community had collaborated magnificently in the preparations, and the business and professional men too, keep that in mind. And he would come out from behind the screen and get closer, his body would be like a torch, he would go up to the curtains, he would look and his heart would be in agony: keep in mind that we’ll have forty thousand men in the square, if not more. There they would be under his eyes, embracing, smelling each other, perspiring on each other, getting all knotted together and Don Remigio Saldívar paused to take out a cigarette and look for matches, but Deputy Azpilcueta lighted it for him: it wasn’t a problem of people, far from it, Mr. Bermúdez, but transportation, as he’d already explained to Fleafoot Heredia, laughter, and he automatically opened his mouth and wrinkled his brow. They couldn’t come up with the number of trucks they needed to bring the people from the ranches and then back again, and Don Remigio Saldívar let out a mouthful of smoke that whitened his face: we’ve found twenty-odd buses and trucks, but they’d need a lot more. He leaned forward in his chair: you don’t have to worry about that part, Mr. Saldívar, they could count on all facilities. The dark hands and the white ones, the thick-lipped mouth and the thin-lipped one, the rough, inflated nipples and the small, crystalline, soft ones, the tanned thighs and the transparent ones with blue veins, the dark straight hair and the golden curls: the military commandant would furnish them with all the trucks they needed, Mr. Saldívar, and he wonderful, Mr. Bermúdez, that’s what we were going to ask for, if they had transportation they’d fill up the square as no one had ever seen in the history of Cajamarca. And he: you can all count on that, Mr. Saldívar. But there was also another matter he wanted to talk to them about.

  *

  “You took me by such surprise I didn’t have time to get all worked up,” Santiago said.

  “The old man’s in hiding,” Sparky said, getting serious. “Popeye’s father took him to his ranch. I came to let you know.”

  “In hiding?” Santiago asked. “Because of the trouble in Arequipa?”

  “That bastard Bermúdez has had the house watched for a month,” Sparky said. “Plainclothesmen follow the old man night and day. Popeye had to sneak him out in his car. Well, I imagine it won’t occur to them to look for hi
m on Arévalo’s ranch. He wanted you to know about it, in case anything happened.”

  “Uncle Clodomiro told me that the old man had joined the Coalition, that he’d broken with Bermúdez,” Santiago said. “But I didn’t know that things were that serious.”

  “You’ve already seen what happened in Arequipa,” Sparky said. “The Arequipans are standing firm. A general strike until Bermúdez resigns. They’re going to get him out, God damn it. Just imagine, the old man was all set to go to that rally. Arévalo talked him out of it at the last minute.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Santiago said. “Did Popeye’s father break with Odría too? Isn’t he still the Odríist leader in the senate?”

  “Officially, yes,” Sparky said. “But underneath he’s fed up with those shitheads too. He’s behaved very well with the old man. Better than you, Superbrain. With all the trouble the old man’s been going through this time, you still didn’t go to see him.”

  “Was he sick?” Santiago asked. “Uncle Clodomiro didn’t …”

  “Not sick, but with a noose around his neck,” Sparky said. “Didn’t you know that after the little trick you played on him by running away that something worse fell on him? That son of a bitch Bermúdez thought he was mixed up in Espina’s plot and set out to fuck him.”