Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  *

  The car went down the Paseo Colón, around the Plaza Bolognesi, turned into Brasil. The traffic and the lights delayed him half an hour until Magdalena; then, when they left the avenue, they went rapidly through lonely and poorly lighted streets and in a few minutes were in San Miguel: more sleep, going to bed early tonight. When they saw the car the policemen on the corner saluted. He went into the house and the girl was setting the table. From the stairs he glanced at the living room, the dining room: they’d changed the flowers in the vases, the silverware and the glasses on the table were sparkling, everything was neat and clean. He took off his jacket, went into the bedroom without knocking. Hortensia was at the dressing table putting on makeup.

  “Queta didn’t want to come when she found out that the guest was going to be Landa.” Her face was smiling at him from the mirrors; he threw his jacket onto the bed, aiming at the dragon’s head: the jacket covered it. “The poor girl hears the name Landa and she begins to yawn. She has to spy on all kinds of old-timers for you, you ought to invite some good young blood for her once in a while.”

  “Have them give the chauffeurs something to eat,” he said, loosening his tie. “I’m going to take a bath. Would you get me a glass of water?”

  He went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water, got undressed without closing the door. He watched the bathtub fill up, the room get thick with steam. He heard Hortensia giving orders, saw her come in with a glass of water. He took a pill.

  “Do you want a drink?” she asked from the door.

  “After I bathe. Please lay out some clean clothes for me.”

  He sank into the tub and stretched out, only his head out of the water, absolutely motionless, until the water began to turn cold. He soaped himself, rinsed himself under the shower with cold water, combed his hair, and walked into the bedroom naked. On the dragon’s back there was a clean shirt, underwear, socks. He got dressed slowly, taking puffs on a cigarette that was burning in the ashtray. Then, from the study, he called Lozano, the Palace, Chaclacayo. When he went down to the living room, Queta had arrived. She was wearing a very low-cut black dress and had put her hair in a bun, which made her look older. The two women were sitting with whiskeys in their hands and had put some records on.

  *

  When Ludovico replaced Hinostroza, things had gone a little better, why? because Hinostroza was a bore and Ludovico was a regular fellow. The worst part of being Don Cayo’s chauffeur wasn’t doing those extra little jobs for Mr. Lozano or not having a regular schedule or never knowing what day there’d be a trip, but the bad nights, sir. The nights when they had to take him to San Miguel and wait for him sometimes until the next morning. Regular saddle sores, sir, all that staying awake. Now you’re going to find out what being bored is all about, Ambrosio had told Ludovico the day he started, and he, looking at the small house: so this is where Mr. Bermúdez has his little love nest, so this is where he dips in. It was better because there was conversation with Ludovico, while Hinostroza, on the other hand, would hunch down in the car like a mummy and sleep. With Ludovico they would sit on the garden wall, from there Ludovico could keep an eye on the whole street just in case. They would watch Don Cayo go in, hear the voices inside, Ludovico would entertain Ambrosio by guessing what was going on: they’re probably having their drinks, when the upstairs lights went on, Ludovico would say the orgy’s starting. Sometimes the cops on the corner would come over and the four of them would smoke and chat. At one time one of the policemen was a singer from Ancash. A beautiful voice, sir. “Muñequita Linda” was his best, what are you waiting for, you’re in the wrong profession, they’d tell him. Around midnight the boredom would set in, desperation, because time didn’t pass fast enough. Only Ludovico kept on talking. A terrible dirty mind, he was always telling dirty stories about Hipólito, he was really the big dirty one, sir. Don Cayo must be there already having a ball, he’d point to the balcony and suck in his mouth, I close my eyes and I can see this, that and the other thing, and so on until, begging your pardon, sir, the four of them would end up with a fierce urge to go to a whorehouse. He would go crazy talking about the mistress: this morning when I came alone to bring Don Cayo, I saw her, boy, something to look at, boy, a kind of thin little pink bathrobe you could see right through, with a pair of Chinese slippers, her eyes were sparkling. She takes one look at you and you fall over dead, another and you feel like Lazarus, a third one kills you again, and the fourth one brings you back to life: a funny fellow, sir, a good person. The mistress was Señora Hortensia, sir, naturally.

  *

  At the door she ran into Carlota, who was going out to buy bread: what happened to you, where were you, what did you do. She’d slept over at her aunt’s in Limoncillo, the poor thing was sick, did the mistress get mad? They walked to the bakery together: she hadn’t even noticed, she’d stayed up all night listening to the news from Arequipa. Amalia felt her soul return to her body. Don’t you know that there’s a revolution in Arequipa? Carlota was saying, all excited, the mistress was so nervous she’d infected their nerves and she and Símula had stayed in the pantry until two o’clock listening to the radio too. But what was going on in Arequipa, crazy girl. Strikes, troubles, people killed, now they were asking for the master to be thrown out of the government. Don Cayo? Yes, and the mistress couldn’t find him anywhere, she’d spent the night cursing and calling Miss Queta. Buy double to have something on hand, the Chinaman at the bakery told them, if the revolution gets here tomorrow I’m not going to open up. They went out whispering, what was going to happen, why did they want to throw the master out, Carlota? The mistress in her rage last night said it was because he was too easygoing, and suddenly she grabbed Amalia by the arm and looked into her eyes: I don’t believe that business about your aunt, you were with a man, I can see it on your face. What man, silly, her aunt had got sick, Amalia was looking at Carlota very seriously and inside she felt a tickling and a happy little heat. They went into the house and Símula was listening to the radio in the living room with an anxious face. Amalia went to her room, took a quick shower, she hoped she wouldn’t ask her any questions, and when she went up to the bedroom with the breakfast, from the stairs she heard the ticking and the voice of the announcer on Clock Radio. The mistress was sitting up in bed smoking and didn’t answer her good morning. The government had had a lot of patience with the people who were sowing unrest and subversion in Arequipa, the radio was saying, workers should return to work, students to their studies, and she saw the eyes of the mistress which were looking at her as if they’d just discovered her: what about the newspapers, fool? Run out and get them. Yes, right now, she ran out of the room, happy, she hadn’t even noticed. She asked Símula for money and went to the newsstand on the corner. Something very serious must have happened, the mistress was so pale. When she saw her come in, she jumped out of bed, snatched the papers and started looking through them. In the kitchen she asked Símula do you think the revolution is going to win, that they’re going to get Odría out? Símula shrugged her shoulders: the one they were going to get out of the Ministry was the master, they all hate him. In a little while they heard the mistress coming down and she and Carlota ran into the pantry: hello, hello, Queta? The newspapers didn’t say anything new, I haven’t closed my eyes all night, and they saw her furiously throw La Prensa onto the floor: these sons of bitches are also calling for Cayo to resign, years flattering him and now they turn on him too, Quetita. She was shouting, cursing, Amalia and Carlota looked at each other. No, Quetita, he hadn’t come by or called, the poor thing must have been very busy with that mess, he’d probably gone to Arequipa. Oh, if they’d only shoot them and make them stop their foolishness once and for all, Quetita.

  *

  “Old Ivonne is going around giving hell to the government and even to you,” Hortensia said.

  “Be careful about saying anything to her, she’d kill me if she knew I was spreading gossip about her,” Queta said. “I don’t want that harpy fo
r an enemy.”

  He passed in front of them on his way to the bar. He poured himself straight whiskey with two cubes of ice and sat down. The maids, in uniform now, were fluttering around the table. Had they given the chauffeurs something to eat? They answered yes. The bath had made him drowsy, he was looking at Hortensia and Queta through a light mist, he barely heard their whispers and laughter. Well, what was the old woman going around saying.

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her saying something bad about you in public,” Queta said. “Up till now she was always pure honey when she mentioned your name.”

  “She was telling Robertito that the money Lozano gets out of her is split with you,” Hortensia said. “Just imagine, telling that to the number one gossip in Lima.”

  “That if they kept on bleeding her like that, she’s going to retire to live an honest life.” Queta laughed.

  He frowned and opened his mouth: oh, if they were only deaf-mutes, if women could only use sign language to communicate. Queta leaned over to reach the pretzel sticks, her neckline dropped and her breasts were exposed.

  “Listen, don’t tempt him.” Hortensia gave her a slap. “Save that for when the old buzzard gets here.”

  “Not even that would wake Landa up.” Queta returned the slap. “He’s ready to retire to live an honest life too.”

  They laughed and he listened to them as he drank. Always the same jokes, had he heard the latest? the same topics of conversation, Ivonne and Robertito were lovers! now Landa would arrive and in the morning he’d have the feeling of having gone through a night just like other nights. Hortensia got up to change the records, Queta to fill up the glasses again, life was such a monotonous gummed label. They had time for still another whiskey before they heard a car stop at the door.

  *

  Thanks to Ludovico’s crazy ideas the wait was less boring for them, sir. Her mouth, her lips, her starry teeth, she smelled like roses, a body to make a person rise up out of his grave: he seemed to be wild about the mistress, sir. But whenever he was in front of her he didn’t dare look at her for fear of Don Cayo. And did the same thing happen to him? No, Ambrosio listened to the things Ludovico said and laughed, that was all, he didn’t say anything about the mistress, he didn’t think she was so much of a gift from heaven either, he was only thinking about day coming so he could get some sleep. The other woman, sir? Whether Miss Queta didn’t seem to be such a hot thing to him either? Not her either, sir. Well, she may have been pretty, but what urge did Ambrosio have to think about women with that killing pace of work, all his head could dream about was the day off he could spend lying in bed, recovering from those bad nights. Ludovico was different, from the moment he went to work for Don Cayo he got all important, now he really would get on the list, boy, and then he’d fuck everybody who’d fucked him because he was just a temporary. The great aim in his life, sir. On those nights, if he wasn’t talking about the mistress, he was talking about that: he’d have a fixed salary, a badge, vacations, they’d respect him everywhere and everybody might even want to propose some little deal with him. No, Ambrosio had never wanted to make a career out of the police, sir, he was too bothered by it, all the boredom of waiting. They’d chat and smoke, around one o’clock in the morning or two they’d be dead tired, freezing to death in winter, when it began to dawn they’d wet their faces at the spigot in the garden and watch the maids going out to buy bread, the first cars, the strong smell of the grass would get into their noses and they’d feel some relief because Don Cayo wouldn’t be long in coming out. When will my luck change, when will I have a normal life, Ambrosio thought. And thanks to you it had changed and now he finally had one, sir.

  *

  The mistress spent the morning in her robe, one cigarette after another, listening to the news. She didn’t want any lunch, she only had a cup of strong coffee and left in a taxi. A little while later Carlota and Símula went out. Amalia lay down on her bed with her clothes on. She felt a great fatigue, her eyelids were heavy, and when she awoke it was nighttime. She sat up and, sitting there, tried to remember what she had dreamed: about him, but she couldn’t remember what, only that while she was dreaming she wanted it to last, don’t stop now. Oh you liked the dream, stupid girl. She was washing her face when the bathroom door opened all of a sudden: Amalia, Amalia, there was a revolution. Carlota’s eyes were popping out, what was going on, what had they seen. Police with rifles and machine guns, Amalia, soldiers everywhere. Amalia combed her hair, put on her apron and Carlota was leaping about, but where, what. At the Parque Universitario, Amalia, Carlota and Símula were getting off the bus when they saw the demonstration. Boys, girls, Signs, FREEDOM, FREEDOM, A-RE-QUI-PA, A-RE-QUI-PA, BERMÚDEZ MUST GO, and they’d just stood there looking like a pair of fools. Hundreds, thousands, and all of a sudden the police appeared, the water cannon, trucks, jeeps, and Colmena was all full of tear gas, streams of water, running, shouting, stones being thrown, and then the cavalry. And they were there, Amalia, they were right in the middle of it not knowing what to do. They’d huddled against a doorway, hugging each other, praying, the gas was making them sneeze and cry, people ran by shouting down with Odría and they’d seen them beating students and stones being thrown at the police. What was going to happen, what was going to happen. They went to listen to the radio and Símula’s eyes were bloodshot and she was crossing herself: what they’d escaped, merciful heavens. The radio didn’t say anything, they changed stations and advertisements, music, quiz shows, telephone-call programs.

  Around eleven o’clock the mistress got out of Miss Queta’s little white car, which left immediately. She came in, very calm, what were they doing up, it was late. And Símula: they were listening to the radio but it didn’t say anything about the revolution, ma’am. What revolution or nonsense like that, Amalia realized that she was a little high, everything had all been taken care of. But they’d seen it, ma’am, Carlota said, the demonstration and the police and everything, and the mistress foolish women, nothing to be frightened about. She’d spoken to the master on the telephone, he was going to teach those Arequipans a lesson and tomorrow everything would probably be calm again. She was hungry and Símula cooked her a steak: the master didn’t lose his calm over anything, the mistress was saying, I’m not going to worry about him like that again. As soon as the table was cleared, Amalia went to bed. There she was, she’d started everything all over again, stupid girl, you’ve made up with him. She felt a soft languor, a warm little weakness. How would they get along now, would they fight every so often? she wouldn’t go to his friend’s room anymore, he should rent a room and they could spend their Sundays there. You’d have it all nicely fixed up, stupid girl. If only she could talk to Carlota and tell her. No, she had to hold back her urge until she saw Gertrudis again.

  *

  Landa arrived with his eyes aglow, very talkative and smelling of alcohol, but as soon as he came in he put on a mournful face: he could only stay for a short while, what a shame. He leaned over to kiss Hortensia’s hand, asked Queta for a little kiss on the cheek, fairying his voice, and he dropped into the chair between the two of them, declaiming: a thorn between two roses, Don Cayo. There he was, balding, dressed in an impeccably cut gray suit that hid his bulges, with a garnet tie, flirting with Hortensia and Queta and he thought the assurance, the ease that comes with money.

  “The Development Commission is meeting at nine in the morning, Don Cayo, imagine what an hour,” Landa said with a tragicomic grimace. “And I have to get eight hours’ sleep on doctor’s orders. What a pity.”

  “All tales, senator,” Queta said, handing him a whiskey. “The truth is that your wife has got you by the neck.”

  Senator Landa drank to the two delights that surround me and to you too, Don Cayo. He drank, smacked his lips and started to laugh.

  “I’m a free man, I can’t even stand the chains of matrimony,” he exclaimed. “My child, I love you very much, but I want to keep my freedom to go on a spree, which is rea
lly what’s most important. And she understood. Thirty years married and she’s never asked me for an explanation. Not a single jealous scene, Don Cayo.”

  “And you’ve taken advantage of that freedom to suit yourself,” Hortensia said. “Tell us about your latest conquest, senator.”

  “Instead I’m going to tell you some jokes against the government I just heard at the club,” Landa said. “Get closer so Don Cayo won’t hear us.”

  He enjoyed himself with deep laughter that mingled with Queta’s and Hortensia’s, and he celebrated the jokes too, his mouth half open and his cheeks wrinkled. Well, if the illustrious senator had to leave soon, they’d better have dinner right away. Hortensia went into the pantry, followed by Queta. To your health, Don Cayo, yours, senator.

  “That Queta’s getting nicer every day,” Landa said. “And Hortensia, well, there’s no need even to say a word, Don Cayo.”

  “I’m very grateful for the Commission’s decision,” he said. “I gave Zavala the news at noon. Without you those gringos wouldn’t have won the bid.”

  “I’m the one who has to give thanks here because of the Olave matter,” Landa said, making a gesture that meant forget it. “Friends are meant to help each other, that’s what friendship’s all about.”

  And he saw the senator become distracted, his look turn toward Queta, who was swaying along as she came in: no talking business or politics here, it was against the law. She sat down beside Landa and he saw the sudden blink, the blush on Landa’s cheeks as he leaned over and put his lips on Queta’s throat for an instant. He wouldn’t leave, he was going to stay, he’d make up a lie, get drunk and only at three or four in the morning would he take Queta home: he moved his thumbs without hesitating and her eyes popped like two grapes. You excited him, he stayed and it’s your fault I didn’t get any sleep today either: pay up. Go into the dining room, Hortensia said, and he still managed to bury the igneous bar between Queta’s thighs and hear the crackle of the singed flesh: pay up. All during dinner, Landa dominated the conversation with an expansion that grew with every glass of wine: gossip, jokes, tales, flirting. Queta and Hortensia asked him questions, answered him, celebrated what he said, and he smiled. When they got up, Landa was talking in a rambling and excited way, he wanted Queta and Hortensia to take a puff on his Havana cigar, he was going to stay. But all of a sudden he looked at his watch and the joy vanished from his face: twelve-thirty, with pain in his soul he had to leave. He kissed Hortensia’s hand and tried to kiss Queta on the mouth, but she turned her face and offered him her cheek. He accompanied Landa to the outside door.