Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “I’m not going home now, Sparky.” His voice began to protest there, but man you can’t. “Sunday, tell her I’ll come for lunch on Sunday.”

  “O.K., Sunday, Teté and I will prepare her,” Sparky said. “O.K., you crazy kid. I’ll tell her to make you a shrimp stew.”

  “Do you remember the last time we saw each other?” Santiago says. “It must have been ten years ago, in front of the Regatas Club.”

  He left the café, went down the avenue to the Malecón, and instead of taking the stairway that went down to the Regatas Club, he kept on going slowly along the sidewalk, distracted, he thinks, surprised by what you’d just done. Down below he saw the two small empty beaches of the club. It was high tide, the sea had eaten up the sand, the small waves were breaking against the sea walls, a few tongues of foam were licking the terrace, deserted now, where there were so many umbrellas and bathers in summer. How many years had it been since you’d gone swimming at the Regatas, Zavalita? Before you went to San Marcos, five or six years which already seemed like a hundred to you by then. He thinks: a thousand by now.

  “Of course I remember, son,” Ambrosio says. “The day you made up with your papa.”

  Were they building a swimming pool? On the basketball court, two men in blue coveralls were shooting at the basket; the tank where the rowers practiced seemed to be dry, was Sparky still rowing at that time? You were already a stranger to your family, Zavalita, you no longer knew what your brother and sister were like, what they were doing, how and in what way they had changed. He got to the club entrance, sat down on the stone bench where the chain was attached, the gatekeeper’s box was also empty. He could see Agua Dulce from there, the beach without tents, the stands closed, the mist that hid the cliffs of Barranco and Miraflores. On the rocky little beach that separated Agua Dulce from the Regatas Club—peasants from proper people mama would say, he thinks—there were some beached boats, one of them with its hull filled with holes. It was cold, the wind was ruffling his hair and he felt a salty taste on his lips. He took a few steps along the beach, sat down on a boat, lighted a cigarette: if I hadn’t left home, I never would have found out, papa. The gulls were circling above, they would alight for a moment on the rocks and take off, the ducks were diving and sometimes they would dive and sometimes emerge with an almost invisible fish wriggling in their bills. The lead-green color of the sea, he thinks, the earth-colored foam of the waves that were breaking on the rocks, sometimes he could make out a shiny colony of jellyfish, strands of algae, I never should have gone to San Marcos papa. You weren’t crying, Zavalita, your legs weren’t trembling, he would come and you would behave like a man, you wouldn’t run and throw yourself into his arms, tell me it’s a lie papa, tell me it isn’t true papa. The car appeared in the distance, zigzagging to avoid the potholes of Agua Dulce, raising dust, and it stopped and he went to meet it. Do I have to pretend, not let anything be noticed about me, should I not cry? No, he thinks, rather, was he driving, would he see his face? Yes, there was Ambrosio’s big smile in the window, there his voice, Master Santiago how are you, and there the old man’s figure. So many more gray hairs, he thinks, so many wrinkles and he’d gotten so thin, his broken voice there: Skinny. He didn’t say anything else, he thinks, he’d opened his arms, he held him tightly against himself for a long time, there his mouth on your cheek, Zavalita, the smell of cologne, there your broken voice, hello papa, how are you papa: lies, calumnies, nothing was true.

  “You don’t know how happy the master was,” Ambrosio says. “You can’t imagine what it meant to him that the two of you should have finally made up.”

  “You must be frozen to death waiting here on such a nasty day.” His hand on your shoulder, Zavalita, he was speaking very slowly so that his feelings wouldn’t show, he was pushing you toward the Regatas Club. “Come on, let’s go in, you’ve got to have something hot to drink.”

  They crossed the basketball court, walking slowly and in silence, they went into the club building through a side door. There was no one in the dining room, the tables weren’t set. Don Fermín clapped a couple of times and soon a waiter appeared, hurrying, buttoning his jacket. They ordered coffee.

  “A little while later you stopped working at the house, right?” Santiago says.

  “I don’t know why I still keep up my membership here, I never stop by.” He was saying one thing with his mouth, he thinks, and with his eyes how are you, how have you been, I’ve been waiting every day, every month, every year, Skinny. “I don’t think your brother and sister come anymore either. One of these days I’m going to sell my share. They’re worth thirty thousand soles now. It only cost me three thousand.”

  “I can’t remember too well,” Ambrosio says. “Yes, I think it was a little while later.”

  “You’re thin and you’ve got dark circles under your eyes, your mother’s going to have a fright when she sees you.” He was trying to scold you and he couldn’t, Zavalita, his smile was emotional and sad. “Night work isn’t good for you. It isn’t good for you to live alone either, Skinny.”

  “Actually, I’ve put on weight, papa. You’re the one who’s lost a lot.”

  “I was getting to think that you weren’t ever going to call, you’ve made me so happy, Skinny.” It would have been enough for him to open his eyes a little more, Carlitos. “No matter what it was about. What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing with me, papa.” To have closed his hands all of a sudden, Carlitos, or changed his face in a second. “There’s a matter that, I don’t know, it might make things complicated for you all of a sudden, I don’t know. I wanted to warn you.”

  The waiter brought the coffee; Don Fermín offered Santiago a cigarette; through the windows they could see the two men in coveralls passing, shooting at the basket, and Don Fermín waited, his expression, his lack of interest.

  “I don’t know whether you’ve seen the papers, papa, that crime.” But no, nothing, Carlitos, he was looking at me, examining my clothes, my body, was he going to pretend like that, Carlitos? “That singer who was killed in Jesús María, the one who had been Cayo Bermúdez’ mistress in Odría’s time.”

  “Oh, yes.” Don Fermín made a vague gesture, he had the same affectionate look, only curious, as before. “The Muse, that one.”

  “At La Crónica they’re investigating everything they can about her life.” Everything was a story then, Zavalita, you see, I was right, Carlitos said, there wasn’t any reason for you to get so bitter. “They’re digging into the very bottom of that story.”

  “You’re trembling, you didn’t even put a sweater on with this cold.” Almost bored with my story, Carlitos, intent only on my face, reproaching me with his eyes for living alone, for not having called before. “Well, that’s not strange, La Crónica is a little sensationalist as papers go. But what about this business?”

  “Last night an anonymous note arrived at the paper, papa.” Was he going to put on that whole act, loving you so much, Zavalita? “Saying that the one who killed that woman used to be a killer for Cayo Bermúdez, someone who is so-and-so’s chauffeur now, and your name was there, papa. They could have sent the same note to the police, and all of a sudden …” Yes, he thinks, precisely because he loved you so much. “Well, I wanted to warn you, papa.”

  “Ambrosio? Are you talking about him?” His surprised little smile there, Zavalita, his little smile that was so natural, so sure of himself, as if he’d just become interested, as if he’d just understood something. “Ambrosio a killer for Bermúdez?”

  “I don’t mean that anyone will believe that anonymous note, papa,” Santiago said. “I just wanted to warn you.”

  “That poor nigger a killer?” His frank laugh there, Zavalita, merry, that kind of relief on his face there, and his eyes that said I’m glad it was foolishness like that, I’m glad it had nothing to do with you, Skinny. “The poor fellow couldn’t kill a fly even if he wanted to. Bermúdez turned him over to me because he wanted a driver who also belonged to the
police.”

  “I wanted you to know, papa,” Santiago said. “If the reporters and the police start investigating they might bother you at home.”

  “Very well done, Skinny.” He was nodding, Zavalita, smiling, sipping his coffee. “There’s someone who likes to test my endurance. It isn’t the first time, it won’t be the last. People are like that. If the poor black man only knew that people think he’s capable of such a thing.”

  He laughed again, took the last sip of coffee, wiped his mouth: if you only knew the number of stinking anonymous notes your father has got in his lifetime, Skinny. He looked tenderly at Santiago and leaned over to grasp his arm.

  “But there’s something I don’t like at all, Skinny. Do they make you work on stuff like that at La Crónica? Do you have to cover crimes?”

  “No, papa, I don’t have anything to do with that. I’m on the local news section.”

  “But night work isn’t good for you, if you get any thinner you’ll get sick in the lungs. That’s enough of journalism, Skinny. Let’s try to find something that suits you better. Some kind of daytime work.”

  “Work at La Crónica is practically nothing, papa, a few hours a day. Less than at any other job. And I have a day free to go to the university.”

  “Are you attending classes, are you really attending classes? Clodomiro tells me you are, that you pass your exams, but I never know whether to believe him or not. Is it true, Skinny?”

  “Of course, papa.” Without blushing, without hesitating, I probably got that from you, papa. “I can show you my grades. I’m in the third year of Law School already. I’m going to get my degree, you’ll see.”

  “You still don’t want to turn back?” Don Fermín asked slowly.

  “It’s going to be different now, Sunday I’m coming to have lunch at the house, papa. Ask Sparky, I told him to tell mama. I’m going to come see you all very soon, I promise you.”

  There the shadow that clouded his eyes, Zavalita. He sat up straight in his chair, let go of Santiago’s arm and tried to smile, but his face was still downcast, his mouth sorrowful.

  “I’m not demanding anything, but think about it at least and don’t say no until you hear me out,” he murmured. “Stay on at La Crónica if you like it so much. You’ll have a key to the house, we’ll fix up the room next to the study for you. You’ll be completely independent there, just as much as you are now. But in that way your mother will rest more easily.”

  “Your mother is suffering, your mother is crying, your mother is praying,” Santiago said. “But she got over it the first day, Carlitos, I know her. He’s the one who counts the days, he’s the one who can’t get used to it.”

  “You’ve already proven that you can live alone and support yourself,” Don Fermín went on. “Now it’s time to come back home, Skinny.”

  “Give me a little more time, papa. I’ll go to the house every week, I’ve already told Sparky, ask him. I promise you, papa.”

  “You’re not only thin, but you haven’t got anything to wear besides, you must be short of money. Why are you so proud, Santiago? What’s your father for, if not to help you?”

  “I don’t need any money, papa. What I make is plenty for me.”

  “You earn fifteen hundred soles and you’re starving to death.” Lowering his eyes, Zavalita, ashamed that you knew that he knew. “I’m not scolding you, Skinny. But I don’t understand why you don’t want me to help you, I don’t understand.”

  “If I needed money I’d have asked you, papa. But I’ve got enough, I’m not a big spender. The boardinghouse is quite cheap. I’m not in money trouble, I swear I’m not.”

  “You don’t have to be ashamed that your father’s a capitalist anymore.” Don Fermín smiled listlessly. “That swine Bermúdez brought us to the brink of bankruptcy. He canceled our subsidies, several contracts, sent auditors to go over our books with a fine-toothed comb, and ruined us with taxes. And now under Prado the government has become a terrible Mafia. The contracts that we got back when Bermúdez left are being taken away from us again to give to Pradists. At this stage I’m ready to become a Communist like you.”

  “And you still want to give me money.” Santiago tried to joke. “Before you know it, I’ll be the one who’s helping you out, papa.”

  “Everybody complained about Odría because he was stealing,” Don Fermín said. “There’s just as much or even more stealing now and everybody’s happy.”

  “Now they steal but still observe certain niceties, papa. The people don’t notice it so much.”

  “And how can you work for a newspaper that belongs to the Prados?” He was humbling himself, Carlitos, if I’d asked him beg me on your knees to come back and I’ll come back, he would have knelt down. “Aren’t they bigger capitalists than your father? Can you be an unimportant little employee of theirs and not come to work for me in some little businesses that are collapsing?”

  “We were having a nice chat and all of a sudden you’ve got angry, papa.” He was humbling himself, but he was right, Zavalita, Carlitos said. “Maybe we’d better not talk about this anymore.”

  “I’m not angry, Skinny.” Getting frightened, Zavalita, thinking he won’t come on Sunday, he won’t call me, more years will pass and I won’t see him. “I’m just sad that you still despise your father, that’s all.”

  “Don’t say that, papa, you know it isn’t true, papa.”

  “All right, let’s not argue, I’m not angry.” He was calling the waiter, taking out his wallet, trying to hide his disappointment, smiling again. “We can expect you on Sunday, then. Your mother’s going to be so happy.”

  They went back through the basketball courts and the players were no longer there. The mist had dissipated and they could see the cliffs, distant and gray, and the roofs of the houses along the Malecón. They stopped a few feet away from the car, Ambrosio got out to open the door.

  “I don’t understand you, Skinny.” Without looking at you, Zavalita, head down, as if talking to the damp ground or the mossy stones. “I thought you’d left home because of your ideas, because you were a Communist and wanted to live like a poor man, to fight for the poor. But for this, Skinny? To have a mediocre little job, a mediocre future?”

  “Please, papa. Let’s not argue about it, I beg you, papa.”

  “I’m talking to you like this because I love you, Skinny.” His eyes wide, he thinks, his voice breaking. “You can go a long way, you can get to be somebody, do great things. Why are you throwing your life away like this, Santiago?”

  “I live close by here, papa.” Santiago kissed him, moved away from him. “I’ll see you Sunday, I’ll come by around noontime.”

  He went off toward the small beach with long strides, turned on the court toward the Malecón, when he began to go up the hill he heard the car start: he saw it going off toward Agua Dulce, bouncing on the potholes, disappearing in the dust. He’d never adjusted, Zavalita. He thinks: if you were alive, you’d still be inventing reasons to get me to come home, papa.

  “You see, you’ve read the paper, not a word about that Queta,” Carlitos said. “And besides that, you made up with your father and you’re going to make up with your mother. What a reception you’re going to get on Sunday, Zavalita.”

  With laughter, jokes and weeping, he thinks. It hadn’t been so hard, the ice had broken a moment after the door opened and he heard Teté’s shout there he is now, mami! They’d just watered the garden, he thinks, the grass was damp, the basin dry. Ingrate, my son, my love, your mother’s arms around you there, Zavalita. She was hugging you, sobbing, kissing you, the old man and Sparky and Teté were smiling, the maids were fluttering about, how long is this craziness going to last, son, aren’t you ashamed for putting your mother through this torture, son? But he wasn’t there: they hadn’t been lies, papa.

  “I could see how uncomfortable Becerrita felt when you came into the editorial room,” Carlitos said. “He saw you and almost swallowed his butt. Incredible.”

&nb
sp; “There’s nothing new, except for the stupid things that whore said, we’d better forget about them,” Becerrita grunted, shuffling through some papers in desperation. “Write a page of filler, Zavalita. The investigation goes on, new clues being followed. Anything, one page.”

  “He’s human, that’s the wild thing about all this, Zavalita,” Carlitos said. “To have discovered Becerrita’s heart.”

  You’re thin, you’ve got dark rings under your eyes, they’d gone into the living room, who does your laundry, he’d sat down between Señora Zoila and Teté, was the food at the boardinghouse good? yes mama, and in the old man’s eyes nothing uncomfortable, were you attending classes? no complicity or upset in his voice. He was smiling, joking, hopeful and happy, he was probably thinking he’s going to come back, everything’s going to work out, and Teté tell us the truth, tricker, I can’t believe you haven’t got a girl friend. It was the truth, Teté.

  “Did you know that Ambrosio left?” Sparky asked. “He took off all of a sudden just like that.”

  “Periquito avoids you, Arispe sucks his teeth when he talks to you, Hernández looks mockingly at you?” Carlitos asked. “That’s probably what you wanted, you masochist. They’ve got too many problems of their own to waste their time feeling sorry for you. And besides, feeling sorry for you for what? For what, God damn it?”

  “He went back to his hometown, he says he wants to buy a car and be a taxi driver.” Don Fermín smiled. “Poor nigger. I hope it works out for him.”

  “That’s just what you’d like.” Carlitos laughed. “To have the whole paper talking about you, gossiping about you, giving you a hard time. But either they don’t know or they were so surprised that they haven’t opened their mouths. They screwed you, Zavalita.”

  “Now papa’s started to do his own driving, he doesn’t want to hire another chauffeur.” Teté laughed. “If you could see him driving you’d collapse. Ten miles an hour and stopping at every corner.”

  “All of them so cordial with you, all of them making you feel bad with their smiles and friendliness?” Carlitos asked. “That must be what you wanted. Actually, they don’t know anything at all or they don’t give a shit, Zavalita.”