Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “He can’t take the responsibility for everything, they tricked him too,” the woman said, and he thought she’s going to cry. “If he’s not on that plane …”

  “He’ll be behind bars for a long time, and not as a plotter but as a swindler.” He was sorry, shaking his head. “And all the money he got out of it will be rotting away abroad.”

  “He didn’t get a nickel out of it.” The woman raised her voice. “They took advantage of his good faith. This whole business has ruined him.”

  “Now I understand why you had the nerve to come here,” he repeated softly. “A lady like you coming to see me, lowering yourself like that. So you won’t be here when the scandal breaks, so you won’t see your name in the crime news.”

  “Not because of me, because of my children,” the woman roared; but she took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “This is all I’ve been able to put together. Accept this as an advance, then. We’ll sign a paper, whatever you say.”

  “Keep those dollars for your trip, Ferrito and you will need them more than I do,” he said very slowly, and he saw the woman become motionless, and saw her eyes, her teeth. “Besides, you’re worth a lot more than all that money. All right, it’s a deal. Don’t shout, don’t cry, tell me yes or no. We’ll spend a little time together, we’ll go get Ferro out, tomorrow you’ll catch the plane.”

  “How dare you, you swine,” and he looked at her nose, her hands, her shoulders, and he thought she doesn’t shout, doesn’t cry, doesn’t act surprised, doesn’t leave. “You miserable half-breed, you coward.”

  “I’m not a gentleman, that’s the price, you knew that too,” he murmured. “I can guarantee you the most absolute discretion, of course. It’s not a conquest, it’s a business deal, think of it that way. And make up your mind right now, the ten minutes are up, madam.”

  “Chaclacayo?” Ludovico asked. “Very well, Don Cayo, San Miguel.”

  “Yes, I’m going to stay here,” he said. “Go get some sleep, come pick me up at seven o’clock. This way, madam. You’ll freeze to death in the garden. Come in for a while, whenever you want to leave I’ll call a taxi and take you home.”

  “Good evening, sir, excuse the way I look, I was getting ready for bed,” Carlota said. “The mistress isn’t home, she went out early with Miss Queta.”

  “Bring some ice and go to bed, Carlota,” he said. “Come in, don’t stand there in the doorway, sit down, I’ll fix you a drink. Water or soda? Straight, then, just like me.”

  “What does this mean?” the woman finally managed to say, rigid. “Where have you brought me?”

  “You don’t like the house?” He smiled. “Well, you must be used to more elegant places.”

  “Who’s that woman you asked about?” the woman whispered, holding her breath.

  “My mistress, her name is Hortensia,” he said. “One cube or two? Cheers, madam. Well, now, you didn’t want a drink and you downed the whole thing. So I’ll fix you another.”

  “I already knew, they already told me, you’re the lowest, dirtiest person who ever lived,” the woman said in a half-whisper. “What do you want? To humiliate me? Is that why you brought me here?”

  “Just so we can have a few drinks and a little chat,” he said. “Hortensia isn’t a vulgar half-breed like me. She’s not refined and proper like you, but she’s presentable enough.”

  “Go on, what else,” the woman said. “How much more? Go on.”

  “This disgusts you most of all because it has to do with me,” he said. “If I’d been someone like you, maybe you wouldn’t be so repelled, right?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s teeth stopped chattering for a second, her lips stopped trembling. “But a proper man wouldn’t do a swinish thing like this.”

  “It isn’t the idea of going to bed with someone else that makes you sick, it’s the idea of going to bed with a half-breed,” he said, drinking. “Wait, I’ll get you a refill.”

  “What are you waiting for? That’s enough, where have you got the bed you collect your blackmail in?” the woman said. “Do you think that if I keep on drinking I’m going to feel less disgusted?”

  “Here comes Hortensia,” he said. “Don’t get up, it’s not necessary. Hello, girl. Let me introduce you to the nameless lady. This is Hortensia, ma’am. A little high, but you can see, presentable enough.”

  “A little? The truth is I can barely stand.” Hortensia laughed. “Charmed, nameless lady, pleased to meet you. Have you been here long?”

  “We just got here,” he said. “Sit down, I’ll fix you a drink.”

  “Don’t think I’m asking out of jealousy, nameless lady, just out of curiosity.” Hortensia laughed. “I’m never jealous of pretty women. Whew, I’m done in. Do you want a cigarette?”

  “Here, to get you back on your feet,” he said, handing her the glass. “Where were you?”

  “At Lucy’s party,” Hortensia said. “I made Queta take me home because they were already out of their minds. That nut of a Lucy did a complete strip-tease, I swear to you. Cheers, nameless lady.”

  “When friend Ferro finds out he’s going to give Lucy a beating,” he said, smiling. “Lucy is one of Hortensia’s girl friends, ma’am, the mistress of a fellow named Ferro.”

  “What do you mean he’ll kill her, just the opposite,” Hortensia said with a loud laugh, turning toward the woman. “He loves for Lucy to do crazy things, he’s depraved. Don’t you remember, boy, that day Ferrito made Lucy dance all naked here on the dining room table? Say, you can really drain a glass, nameless lady. Give your guest another drink, tightwad.”

  “A pleasant fellow, friend Ferro,” he said. “Tireless when it comes to having a wild time.”

  “Especially when women are involved,” Hortensia said. “He wasn’t at the party, Lucy was furious and said that if he didn’t come by twelve o’clock she’d call his home and cause a scandal. This is getting boring, let’s put some music on.”

  “I have to be going,” the woman blurted without getting up, without looking at either of them. “Would you please call me a taxi?”

  “Alone in a taxi at this hour?” Hortensia said. “Aren’t you afraid? The drivers are all a bunch of crooks.”

  “First I have to make a call,” he said. “Hello, Lozano? I want you to let Ferro go at seven o’clock in the morning for me. Yes, see to it personally. Seven o’clock sharp. That’s all, Lozano, good night.”

  “Ferro, Ferrito?” Hortensia asked. “Is Ferrito in jail?”

  “Call a taxi for the nameless lady and keep your mouth shut, Hortensia,” he said. “Don’t worry about the driver, ma’am. I’ll have the policeman on the corner go along with you. Consider the debt paid.”

  3

  HAD THE MISTRESS loved Don Cayo? Not very much. She hadn’t cried over him, but instead, because he’d gone off and left her flat: bum, dog. It’s your own fault, Miss Queta said, she’d told her time and time again, at least get him to buy you a car, a house in your name at least. But during those first weeks there was scarcely any change in life in San Miguel; the pantry and the refrigerator were as chock full as ever, Símula continued to keep her tricky accounts for the mistress, at the end of the month they got their full pay. That Sunday, as soon as they met in the Bertoloto, they began to talk about the mistress. What would become of her now, Amalia said, who would help her. And he: she was a sharp one, she’d get herself another moneybags before the cock crowed three times. Don’t talk about her that way, Amalia said, I don’t like it. They went to see a picture from Argentina and Ambrosio came out talking Argentine slang and putting on the accent; nut, Amalia laughed, and all of a sudden Trinidad’s face appeared. They were in the little room on the Calle Chiclayo, getting undressed, when a woman in her forties with artificial eyelashes came looking for Ludovico. Her expression became sad when Ambrosio told her he’d gone to Arequipa and hadn’t come back. The woman left and Amalia made fun of her lashes and Ambrosio said he likes wild old women. And by the way, what could have happ
ened to Ludovico? He hoped nothing had gone bad for him, the poor guy didn’t feel like going at all. They had a snack downtown and walked until it got dark. Sitting on a bench on the Paseo de la República, they chatted, watching the cars go by. There was a breeze, Amalia cuddled against him and Ambrosio put his arm around her: would you like to have your own little house and me for your husband, Amalia? She looked at him with surprise. Pretty soon the day would come when they could get married and have children, Amalia, he was putting money away for that. Could it be true? Would they have a home, children? It seemed so far away, so difficult, and lying on her back in her bed, Amalia tried to picture herself living with him, cooking his meals and washing his clothes. She couldn’t. But why not, silly? Weren’t a lot of people getting married every day, why not you to him?

  It must have been a month since the master had left when the mistress came into the house like a cyclone one day: all set, Quetita, starting at the fat man’s next week, she would start rehearsing today. She had to take care of her figure, exercises, Turkish baths. Was she really going to sing in a nightclub, ma’am. Of course, just like before. She’d been famous once, Amalia, I gave up my career for that bum, now she was going to pick it up again. Come, let me show you, she took her by the arm, they ran upstairs, and in the study she took out an album of clippings, what she had wanted to see so much at last, Amalia thought, look, look. She was showing them to her, proud: in a long gown, in a bathing suit, with upswept hair, on a stage, as Queen, throwing kisses. And listen to what the newspapers said, Amalia: she was beautiful, she had a tropical voice, she was having success after success. The house became a shambles, all the mistress talked about was rehearsing and she went on a diet, some grapefruit juice and a small steak at noon, a salad with no dressing at night, I’m starving to death but what difference does it make, close the windows, the doors, if I catch cold before my opening I’ll die, she was going to quit smoking, cigarettes were poison to singers. One day Amalia heard her complaining to Miss Queta: not even enough to pay the rent, the fat man was a tightwad. After all, Quetita, the main thing was the chance, she’d get her public back and make some demands. She would leave for the fat man’s around nine o’clock, in slacks and wearing a turban, carrying a small valise, and return at dawn, with heavy makeup on. Her main worry was weight more than cleanliness now. She went through the newspapers with a magnifying glass, listen to what they’re saying about me, Amalia! and she’d get angry if they said something good about someone else: that bitch paid them, she bought them.

  After a while the little parties started up again. Amalia recognized a few elegant old boys who used to come during the master’s time among the guests, but most of the people were different now: younger, not as well dressed, without cars but so gay, such neckties, such bright colors, theater people Carlota buzzed. The mistress could have died she was having such a good time, a native party tonight, Amalia! She told Símula to make chicken and chili or duck and rice, some marinated fish or potato salad as an appetizer and she sent out to the store for beer. She no longer locked the pantry door, she no longer sent them off to bed. Amalia watched the high jinks, the crazy goings-on, the mistress went from the arms of one to those of another, the same as her girl friends, she let herself be kissed, and she was the one who got the most drunk. But in spite of all that, the time she caught a man coming out of the bathroom the day after a party, Amalia felt ashamed and even a little angry. Ambrosio was right, she was a sharp one. In one month she’d caught another one, a month later still another. A sharp one, yes, but very good to her and on her days off Ambrosio asked her what’s the mistress up to, she lied to him very sad since the master went away, so he wouldn’t get a bad idea of her.

  Which one do you think she’ll pick? Carlota sputtered. It was true, the mistress had plenty to choose from: every day there was a flood of phone calls, sometimes flowers were delivered with little cards which the mistress would read to Miss Queta over the phone. She picked one who used to come during the master’s time, one who Amalia had thought was involved with Miss Queta. What a shame, an old man, Carlota said. But a rich one, tall and well built. With his ruddy face and his white hair it didn’t seem right to call him Mr. Urioste but grandpa, papa instead, Carlota laughed. Very fine manners, but when he drank, things would get the better of him and his eyes would pop out and he’d throw himself all over the women. He slept over once, twice, three times, and from then on he often woke up in the morning at the little house in San Miguel and he would leave around nine in his big brick-red car. The old-timer dropped you for me, the mistress would say with a laugh, and Miss Queta laughing: squeeze it out of him, girl. They had a good time making fun of the poor man. Can he still make it with you, girl? No, but it’s better like that because that way I’m not cheating as much on you, Quetita. There was no doubt about it, she was going with him strictly for financial reasons. Mr. Urioste didn’t inspire dislike and fear like Don Cayo, respect, rather, and even affection when he would come down the stairs with his fat cheeks aglow and his eyes tired, and he’d put a few soles into Amalia’s apron pocket. He was more generous than Don Cayo, more proper. So that when he stopped coming after a few months, Amalia, thinking, thought he was right, just because he was an old man, should he let himself be deceived? He found out about the Pichón business, he had an attack of jealousy and took off, the mistress told Miss Queta, he’ll be back soon, tame as a lamb, but he never did come back.

  Is the mistress still so sad? Ambrosio asked her one Sunday. Amalia told him the truth: she’d gotten over it, she’d got herself a lover, had a fight with him, and now she was sleeping with different men. She thought he would say you see, didn’t I tell you? and maybe order her not to work there anymore. But he only shrugged his shoulders: she was earning her three squares, leave her alone. She felt like answering and what if I did the same thing, would you care? but she held back. They saw each other every Sunday, they went to Ludovico’s room, sometimes they would run into him and he would invite them out for a snack or some beers. Had he been in an accident? Amalia asked him the first day she saw him all bandaged up. The Arequipans gave me an accident, he laughed, it’s nothing now, I was worse before. He seems happy, Amalia commented to Ambrosio, and he: because thanks to that beating they put him on the regular list, Amalia, he was making more money on the police force now and he was somebody important.

  Since the mistress scarcely stayed home anymore, life was more relaxed than ever. In the afternoon, with Carlota and Símula, she would sit down to listen to soap operas, records. One morning, as she was taking breakfast up to the mistress, she ran into a face in the hall that left her breathless. Carlota, she came down on the run, all excited, Carlota, a young one, a real good-looker, and when she saw him I just melted away, she said, Carlota. The mistress and the man came down late, Amalia and Carlota looked at him, stupefied, without breathing, he had a look that made your stomach jump. The mistress seemed hypnotized too. All languid, all loving, all vanity and flirting, she touched him on the mouth with her fork, she played the little girl, she mussed his hair, she whispered in his ear, sweet love, honeybunch, lover. Amalia didn’t recognize her, so soft, and those looks, and that tiny voice.

  Mr. Lucas was so young that even the mistress looked old beside him, so good-looking that Amalia felt warm all over when he looked at her. Dark, with very white teeth, big eyes, a walk as if he owned the world. It wasn’t for financial reasons with him, Amalia told Ambrosio, Mr. Lucas didn’t have a cent. He was a Spaniard, he sang at the same place as the mistress. We met and we fell in love, the mistress confessed to Amalia, lowering her eyes. She was in love with him, she still loves him. Sometimes the master and the mistress, playing around, would sing a duet and Amalia and Carlota they should get married, have children, the mistress looked so happy.

  But Mr. Lucas came to live in San Miguel and showed his claws. He almost never left the house before dark and he spent his time lying on the sofa calling for drinks, coffee. He didn’t like any of the foo
d, he had something bad to say about everything, and the mistress quarreled with Símula. He asked for strange dishes, what in Christ’s hell is gazpacho, Amalia heard Símula grunt, it was the first time she’d ever heard her curse. The good impression of the first day was fading and even Carlota began to detest him. Besides being capricious, he was fresh. He took a free hand with the mistress’s money, he’d send out for something and say ask Hortensia for the money, she’s my bank. Besides that, he held parties every week, he loved them. One night Amalia saw him kissing Miss Queta on the mouth. How could she do that, being such a good friend of the mistress, what would the mistress have done if she’d caught him? Nothing, she would have forgiven him. She was madly in love, she took everything from him, one little loving word from him and her bad mood would disappear, she’d be rejuvenated. And he took advantage of it. Collectors came with bills for things Mr. Lucas had bought and the mistress paid or she told them some tale and to come back another time. That was when Amalia realized for the first time that the mistress was having money troubles. But Mr. Lucas didn’t, every day he’d order more things. He went about all elegant, multicolored ties, made-to-order suits, suede shoes. Life is short, love, he would laugh, you have to live it, love, and he would open his arms. You’re a baby, love, she would say. How can it be, Amalia thought, Mr. Lucas has turned her into a little silk pussycat. She watched her go over to the master, all full of affection, kneel at his feet, lay her head on his knees, and she couldn’t believe it. She heard her say pay some attention to me, sweet, begging him so sweetly, for some love for your old lady who loves you so much, and she couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it.

  During the six months Mr. Lucas was in San Miguel, the comforts slowly disappeared. The pantry emptied out, the refrigerator was left with nothing but milk and the day’s vegetables, the deliveries from the liquor store stopped. The whiskey passed into history and now they drank pisco and ginger ale at the parties and had snacks instead of preparing native dishes. Amalia told Ambrosio about it and he smiled: a little pimp, that Lucas. The mistress took over the accounts for the first time, Amalia laughed inside watching Símula’s face when she was asked for change. And one fine day Símula announced that she and Carlota were leaving. To Huacho, ma’am, they were going to open up a little food store. But the night before they left, seeing Amalia so sad, Carlota consoled her: it’s a lie, they weren’t going to Huacho, we’ll still see each other. Símula had found a place downtown, she was going to be the cook and Carlota the maid. You ought to come too, Amalita, my mama says this house is going under. Would she go? No, the mistress was so good. She stayed and let herself be convinced instead that if she did the cooking she’d make fifty soles more. From then on the master and the mistress almost never ate at home, let’s eat out instead, love. Since I can’t cook, he couldn’t stomach my meals, Amalia told Ambrosio, well done. But the work was tripled: tidying up, shaking out, making beds, washing dishes, sweeping, cooking. The little house wasn’t as well ordered and bright anymore. Amalia could tell by the mistress’s eyes how she suffered if a week went by without washing down the courtyard, three or four days without dusting the living room. She’d let the gardener go and the geraniums withered and the lawn dried up. Ever since Mr. Lucas had been living at the house, Miss Queta hadn’t slept over again, but she still came by, sometimes with that foreign woman, Señora Ivonne, who made jokes about the mistress and Mr. Lucas: how are the lovebirds, the sweethearts. One day, when the master had gone out, Amalia heard Miss Queta arguing with the mistress: he’s ruining you, he’s a sponge, you’ve got to drop him. She ran to the pantry; the mistress was listening to her, hunched in the easy chair, and suddenly she lifted up her face and she was crying. She knew all that, Quetita, and Amalia thought she was going to cry too, but what could she do, Quetita, she loved him, it was the first time in her life she’d ever really been in love. Amalia left the pantry, went to her room and locked the door. There was Trinidad’s face, when he got sick, when they arrested him, when he died. She’d never leave, she’d stay with the mistress always.