Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Didn’t you ever see her?” Santiago asks. “Didn’t you ever hear Bermúdez mention her?”

  “They were living together and people said a lot of things about them,” Paqueta whispered, winking. “That they were more than just girl friends. It was probably all gossip, of course.”

  “I never heard of her, I never saw her,” Ambrosio says. “Don Cayo wasn’t going to talk to me about his chippies, I was just his chauffeur, son.”

  They went out into the mist, dampness and darkness of Porvenir; Darío was nodding, leaning over the steering wheel of the van. When he started up the motor a dog barked mournfully from the sidewalk.

  “She’d forgotten about the coke, that she’d been arrested with the Muse.” Periquito laughed. “Some nerve, eh?”

  “She’s glad she got killed, you can see that she hated her,” Santiago said. “Did you catch it all, Periquito? That she was a drunk, that she’d lost her voice, that she was a dyke?”

  “But you got some good information from her,” Periquito said. “You can’t complain.”

  “This is all garbage,” Becerrita said. “You’ve got to keep on digging until you hit the pus.”

  Those had been agitated and difficult days, Zavalita, you felt interested, restless, he thinks: alive again. Coming and going without rest: getting in and out of the van, going in and out of nightclubs, radio stations, boardinghouses, brothels, an incessant back and forth among the musty night-walking fauna of the city.

  “The name Muse doesn’t come off too well, we have to rechristen her,” Becerrita said. “On the Track of the Nighttime Butterfly!”

  You wrote long articles, short pieces, boxes, captions for the photographs with a growing excitation, Zavalita. Becerrita would read over the pages with sour eyes, scratching out, adding words with trembling red letters, and he would write the headlines: New Revelations in Dissipated Life of Nighttime Butterfly Murdered in Jesús María. Was Muse a Woman with a Terrible Past? La Crónica Reporters Uncover New Facts in Crime That Has All Lima Shocked, From Show Business Start to Bloody End of One-Time Night-Life Queen, Stabbed Nighttime Butterfly Had Fallen to Lowest Level of Immorality Manager of Nightclub Where Muse Sang Her Last Songs Declares, Did Nighttime Butterfly Lose Voice Because of Drugs?

  “We’ve left Última Hora way behind,” Arispe said. “Keep laying it on, Becerrita.”

  “More swill for the dogs, Zavalita,” Carlitos said. “Those are the orders from the big boss.”

  “You’re doing a good job, Zavalita,” Becerrita said. “In twenty years you’ll be a passable police reporter.”

  “Piling up shit with a great deal of enthusiasm, a small pile today, a little more tomorrow, a fair amount day after tomorrow,” Santiago said. “Until there was a whole mountain of shit. And now to eat it, down to the last crumb. That’s what happened to me, Carlitos.”

  “Are we through now, Mr. Becerra?” Periquito asked. “Can I go get some sleep?”

  “We haven’t even started,” Becerrita said. “Let’s go see Madama to find out if that muff business is true.”

  Robertito had come out to meet them, welcome to this house which is yours, how was life treating him, Mr. Becerra, but Becerrita took away his joy at once: they’d come on business, could they go into the parlor? Come in, Mr. Becerra, all of you.

  “Bring the boys some beer,” Becerrita said. “And bring me Madama. It’s urgent.”

  Robertito shook his chestnut curls, nodded with an unfriendly chuckle, left with the leap of a ballet dancer. Periquito dropped into an easy chair with his legs stretched out, it was nice here, so elegant, and Santiago sat down beside him. The carpeted parlor, he thinks, the indirect lighting, the three paintings on the wall. In the first one a young man with blond hair and a mask was chasing along a tangled path after a very white girl with a wasp waist who was running on tiptoes; in the second one he had caught her and embracing they were sinking into a cascade of willows; in the third one the girl was lying on the grass, her bosom exposed, the young man was tenderly kissing her round shoulders and her expression was half alarmed and half languid. They were on the shore of a lake or a river and in the distance there was a group of long-necked swans.

  “You’re the most rotten younger generation in history,” Becerrita said with satisfaction. “What else interests you besides drinking and whoring?”

  His mouth was twisted in an almost smiling grimace, he was scratching his little mustache with his mustard-colored fingers, he’d pushed back his hat and was pacing up and down with one hand in his pocket, like the villain in a Mexican movie, he thinks. Robertito came in with a tray.

  “The lady will be right along, Mr. Becerra.” He bowed. “She asked me if you’d like some whiskey.”

  “I can’t. My ulcer,” Becerrita grunted. “Every time I take a drink I shit blood the next day.”

  Robertito went out and there was Ivonne, Zavalita. Her long and heavily powdered nose, he thinks, her dress with crepe and noisy spangles. Mature, experienced, smiling, she kissed Becerrita on the cheek, extended a courtly hand to Periquito and Santiago. She looked at the tray, hadn’t Robertito served them? she gave a reproachful look, leaned over and filled the glasses expertly, halfway and without much foam, brought them to them. She sat down on the edge of the chair, stretched out her neck, crossed her legs, the skin was gathered into little folds under her eyes.

  “Don’t look at me with that face full of surprise,” Becerrita said. “You know why we’re here, Madama.”

  “I can’t believe that you don’t want anything to drink.” Her foreign accent, Zavalita, her affected gestures, her ease of a well-to-do matriarch. “You’re an old-time drunk, Becerrita.”

  “I used to be, until my ulcer made mincemeat of my stomach,” Becerrita said. “Now all I can drink is milk. From a cow.”

  “Still the same.” Ivonne turned to Santiago and Periquito. “This old man and I are like a brother and a sister, for centuries now.”

  “A little incestuous at one point.” Becerrita laughed, and opening up with the same intimate tone, “Make believe I’m a priest and you’re making your confession. How long did you have the Muse here?”

  “The Muse, here?” Ivonne smiled. “You make a funny priest, Becerrita.”

  “Now you don’t trust me.” Becerrita sat on the arm of Ivonne’s chair. “Now you’re lying to me.”

  “You’re crazy, Father.” Ivonne smiled and slapped Becerrita on the knee. “If she’d worked here I would have told you.”

  She took a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped her eyes, stopped smiling. She knew her, of course, sometimes she’d come here when she was the girl friend of, well, Becerrita knew who. He’d brought her several times to have some fun, so she could spy from that little window that looked out into the bar. But as far as Ivonne knew she’d never worked in any house. She laughed again, elegantly. The little wrinkles around her eyes, on her neck, he thinks, her hatred: the poor thing worked off the street, like a bitch.

  “It’s easy to see that you had a lot of love for her, Madama,” Becerrita grunted.

  “When she was Bermúdez’ mistress she looked down on everybody.” Ivonne sighed. “She wouldn’t even let me come to her house. That’s why nobody helped her when she lost everything. And it was her own fault that she lost it. Drink and drugs.”

  “You’re delighted she was knocked off.” Becerrita smiled. “Nice feelings, Madama.”

  “When I read the papers I felt bad, crimes like that always make me feel bad,” Ivonne said. “Especially the pictures, seeing the way she was living. If you want to say that she worked here I’d be delighted. Good publicity for the place.”

  “You feel so very confident, Madama,” Becerrita said with a faded smile. “You must have found a protector as good as Cayo Bermúdez.”

  “Gossip. Bermúdez never had anything to do with this house,” Ivonne said. “He was a customer like anyone else.”

  “Let’s get back onto the pot, we’re crapping on the ground,” Bec
errita said. “She didn’t work here, O.K. Call the girl she lived with. She can give us some information and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “The girl she lived with?” Her whole expression changed, Carlitos, she lost control completely, she got livid. “One of my girls living with her?”

  “Oh, the police haven’t found out yet.” Becerrita scratched his little mustache and ran his tongue over his lips avidly. “But they’re going to find out sooner or later and they’ll come to question you and a certain Queta. You’d better be ready, Madama.”

  “With Queta?” Her whole world had collapsed, Carlitos. “What are you saying, Becerrita?”

  “They change their names every day and people always get them mixed up, which one is she?” Becerrita murmured. “Don’t worry, we’re not the police. Call her. All we want is a quiet, confidential chat.”

  “Who told you that Queta was living with her?” Ivonne babbled: she was making an effort to recover her smile, her naturalness.

  “I do trust you, Madama, I am your friend,” Becerrita whispered with an open tone. “Paqueta told us.”

  “The worst kind of a whore’s daughter who ever bore a whore.” At first a wiggy old dame with the airs of a great lady, Carlitos, then a frightened old lady, and, when she heard Paqueta’s name, a panther. “The kind that grew up gargling on her mother’s menstrual blood.”

  “I do enjoy that mouth of yours, Madama.” Becerrita put his arm around her shoulder, happy. “We’ll avenge you, in tomorrow’s article we’ll say that the Montmartre is the joint with the worst reputation in Lima.”

  “Can’t you see that she’ll be ruined?” Ivonne said, grasping Becerrita’s knee, squeezing it. “Can’t you see that the police will bring her in for questioning?”

  “Did she see something?” Becerrita asked, lowering his voice. “Does she know something?”

  “Of course not, she just doesn’t want to get into any trouble,” Ivonne said. “You’ll get her all messed up. Why would you want to do a bad thing like that?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to her, just for her to tell me a few intimate details about the Muse,” Becerrita said. “We won’t say that they lived together, we won’t use her name. Do you trust my word or not?”

  “Of course not,” Ivonne said. “You’re another bastard just like Paqueta.”

  “That’s the way I like you, Madama.” Becerrita looked at Santiago and Periquito with a furtive smile. “The way you really are.”

  “Queta’s a good girl, Becerrita,” Ivonne said in a faint voice. “Don’t torpedo her. It could be bad for you, besides. She’s got a lot of good friends, I warn you.”

  “Just call her and cut out the dramatics.” Becerrita smiled. “I swear to you that nothing’s going to happen to her.”

  “Do you think she feels like coming to work after what happened to her friend?” Ivonne asked.

  “All right, get hold of her and set up a date for me with her,” Becerrita said. “I just want a few facts. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll print her name on the front page and she’ll have to talk to the detectives.”

  “Do you swear that if I can arrange for you to see Queta you won’t mention her at all?” Ivonne asked.

  Becerrita nodded. His face was slowly filling up with satisfaction, his little eyes were gleaming. He stood up, went over to the table, with a determined gesture he picked up Santiago’s glass and emptied it in a swallow. A rim of foam whitened his mouth.

  “I swear to you, Madama, get hold of her and call me,” he said solemnly. “You’ve got my number.”

  “Do you think she’s going to call you, Mr. Becerra?” Periquito asked in the van. “I’ll bet she tells that Queta that the people from La Crónica know that you were living with the Muse, get lost.”

  “But which one is Queta?” Arispe asked. “We must know her, Becerrita.”

  “She must be one of the exclusive ones who work at home,” Becerrita said. “Maybe we do know her, but under a different name.”

  “That woman’s worth her weight in gold, my good sir,” Arispe said. “You’ve got to find her, even if you have to turn over every stone in Lima.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that Madama would call me?” Becerrita looked at them without vanity, mockingly. “Tonight at seven. Let me have the whole centerfold, boss.”

  “Come in, come in,” Robertito said. “Yes, in the parlor. Have a seat.”

  In that way, with the light of dusk coming through the single window, the small parlor had lost its mystery and enchantment. The worn upholstery of the furniture, he thinks, the faded wallpaper, the cigarette burns and rips in the carpet. The girl in the paintings had no features, the swans were misshapen.

  “Hello, Becerrita.” Ivonne didn’t kiss him, didn’t shake hands. “I promised Queta that you’re going to do what you promised. Why did you bring these people with you?”

  “Have Robertito bring us some beers,” Becerrita said without getting up out of his chair, without looking at the woman who’d come in with Ivonne. “I’ll pay for these, Madama.”

  “Tall, beautiful legs, a mulatto girl with reddish hair,” Santiago said. “I’d never seen her at Ivonne’s, Carlitos.”

  “Sit down,” Becerrita said with the air of the master of the house. “Aren’t you people going to have something to drink?”

  Robertito filled the glasses with beer, his hands trembled as he handed them to Becerrita, Periquito and Santiago, his lashes blinked rapidly, his look was frightened. He almost ran out, closing the door behind him. Queta sat down on a sofa, serious, not frightened, he thinks, and Ivonne’s eyes were burning.

  “Yes, you’re one of the exclusive ones, because you’re not seen much around here,” Becerrita said, taking a sip of beer. “Do you only work outside, with special customers?”

  “It’s no business of yours where I work,” Queta said. “And who gave you permission to use the familiar form with me?”

  “Take it easy, don’t carry on so,” Ivonne said. “He’s someone we can trust and that’s all. He’s only going to ask you a few questions.”

  “You couldn’t be my client even if you wanted to, be happy with that,” Queta said. “You’ll never have enough money to pay what I charge.”

  “I’m not a client anymore, I’ve retired,” Becerrita said with a mocking smile and wiped his mustache. “How long did you live with the Muse in Jesús María?”

  “I didn’t live with her, that’s one of that bitch’s lies,” Queta shouted, but Ivonne took her arm and she lowered her voice. “You’re not going to get me mixed up in this. I warn you that …”

  “We’re not cops, we’re reporters,” Becerrita said with a friendly expression. “It’s not about you, it’s about the Muse. You tell us what you know about her and we’ll go away and forget all about you. There’s no reason to get mad, Queta.”

  “Why the threats, then?” Queta shouted. “Why did you come and tell this lady you’d tell the police? Do you think I’ve got anything to hide?”

  “If you haven’t got anything to hide, there’s no reason to be afraid of the police,” Becerrita said and took another sip of beer. “I’ve come here as a friend, to have a little chat. There’s no reason to get mad.”

  “He’s a man of his word, he’ll do what he says, Queta,” Ivonne said. “He won’t use your name. Answer his questions.”

  “All right, ma’am, I know,” Queta said. “What are the questions?”

  “This is a conversation among friends,” Becerrita said. “I’m a man of my word, Queta. How long did you live with the Muse?”

  “I didn’t live with her.” She was making an effort to control herself, Carlitos, she was trying not to look at Becerrita, when her eyes met his her voice fell apart. “We were friends, sometimes I slept over at her place. She moved to Jesús María, it must have been a little over a year ago.”

  “Did he mount an attack and break her?” Carlitos asked. “That’s Becerrita’s method. Break down the patient’s nerv
es so they let everything out. It’s the method of a detective, not a reporter.”

  Santiago and Periquito hadn’t touched their beer: they were following the conversation from the edge of their seats, silent. He’d broken her, Zavalita, now she was answering everything. Her voice was rising and falling, he thinks, Ivonne was patting her arm, giving her courage. The poor thing was in bad shape, very bad shape, especially when she lost her job at the Montmartre, especially because Paqueta had been so bitchy with her. She’d thrown her out knowing that she’d starve to death, the poor thing. She’d had her affairs, but she couldn’t get a lover anymore, someone who would give her something every month and pay her rent. And all of a sudden she began to cry, Carlitos, not because of Becerrita’s questions, but over the Muse. Or maybe loyalty did still exist, at least among a few whores, Zavalita.

  “The poor thing must have been completely ruined then.” Becerrita grew sad, his hand on his mustache, his sparkling eyes focused on Queta. “From drinking, from snuffing coke, I mean.”

  “Are you going to put that in too?” Queta sobbed. “On top of the horrors they’re printing about her every day, that too?”

  “That she was in bad shape, that she was half a whore, that she drank and screwed around, everything the newspapers have said,” Becerrita sighed. “We’re the only ones who have stressed her good side. That she was a famous singer, that she was elected Queen of the Nightclubs, that she was one of the most beautiful women in Lima.”

  “Instead of digging into her life so much, you ought to be worrying about who killed her, who had her killed,” Queta sobbed and covered her face with her hands. “They don’t talk about them, they don’t dare.”

  At that moment, Zavalita? He thinks: yes, there. Ivonne’s petrified face, he thinks, the suspicion and upset in her eyes, Becerrita’s fingers immobilized on his mustache, Periquito’s elbow on your hip, Zavalita, alerting you. The four had remained silent, looking at Queta, who was sobbing strongly. He thinks: Becerrita’s little eyes perforating the red hair, all aflame.