Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  The house was going under, yes, and Mr. Lucas was feeding on those ruins like a buzzard on a garbage pile. The broken glasses and vases weren’t being replaced, but he would show up in a new suit. The mistress told sad tales to the bill collectors from the store and the laundry, but on his birthday he appeared with a ring and at Christmas time Santa Claus brought him a watch. He was never sad or angry: they’ve opened a new restaurant in Magdalena, shall we go, love? He would get up late and settle down in the living room to read the newspaper. Amalia would watch him, a good-looking boy, smiling, in his wine-colored dressing gown, his feet on the sofa, humming, and she hated him: she would spit in his breakfast, put hairs in his soup, in her dreams she would have him sliced up by the wheels of a train.

  One morning, on the way back from the store, she ran into the mistress and Miss Queta, who were coming out in slacks, carrying small bags. They were going to the Turkish bath, they wouldn’t be back for lunch, she should buy a beer for the master. They left and in a little while Amalia heard steps; he was already awake, he probably wanted his breakfast. She went upstairs and Mr. Lucas, in jacket and tie, was hurriedly packing his clothes in a suitcase. He was taking a trip to the provinces, Amalia, he was going to sing in theaters, he’d be back the next Monday, and he spoke as if he was already traveling, singing. Give this note to Hortensia, Amalia, and now call me a taxi. Amalia looked at him open-mouthed. Finally she left the room without saying anything. She got a taxi, brought the master’s suitcase down, good-bye Amalia, see you Monday. She went into the house and sat down in the living room, upset. If only Doña Símula and Carlota could have been here when she gave the mistress the note. She couldn’t do anything all morning, only watch the clock and think. It was five o’clock when Miss Queta’s little car stopped by the door. Her face close to the drapes, she watched them approach, all fresh, all young, as if they hadn’t lost pounds but years at the Turkish bath, and she opened the door and her legs began to quiver. Come in, girl, the mistress said, have some coffee, and they came in and threw their bags onto the sofa. What was wrong, Amalia. The master had gone on a trip, ma’am, and her heart was beating hard, he’d left a note upstairs. She didn’t change color, she didn’t move. She looked at her very quietly, very seriously, finally her mouth trembled a little. On a trip? Lucas on a trip? and before Amalia could answer anything, she took half a turn and went upstairs, followed by Miss Queta. Amalia tried to listen. She hadn’t started to cry or she was crying very low. She heard a noise, a rummaging, Miss Queta’s voice: Amalia! The closet was wide open, the mistress was sitting on the bed. Didn’t he say he was coming back, Amalia? Miss Queta pierced her with her eyes. Yes, miss, and she didn’t dare look at the mistress, he was coming back Monday and she realized she was stammering. He wanted to run off with some girl, Miss Queta said, he felt himself tied down by your jealousy, girl, he’d be back on Monday asking you to forgive him. Please, Queta, the mistress said, stop playing the fool. A thousand times better that he took off, Miss Queta shouted, you’ve freed yourself from a vampire, and the mistress calmed her with her hand: the bureau, Quetita, she didn’t dare look. She sobbed, covered her face, and Miss Queta had already run over and was opening drawers, rummaging through them, tossing letters, bottles and keys onto the floor, did you see if he took the little red box, Amalia? and Amalia was picking up, on her hands and knees, oh Lord, oh missy, didn’t you see that he took the mistress’s jewels? No, indeed, they’d call the police, he wasn’t going to rob you, girl, they’d have him arrested, he’d give them back. The mistress was sobbing loudly and Miss Queta sent Amalia to make a cup of good, hot coffee. When she came back with the tray, trembling, Miss Queta was talking on the phone: you know people, Señora Ivonne, have them look for him, have them catch him. The mistress stayed in her room all afternoon talking to Miss Queta, and at nightfall Señora Ivonne arrived. The next day two fellows from the police appeared and one of them was Ludovico. He pretended not to know Amalia. They both asked questions and more questions about Mr. Lucas and finally they calmed the mistress down: she’d get her jewels back, it was only a matter of a few days.

  They were sad days. Things had been going badly before, but from then on everything got worse, Amalia would think later. The mistress was in bed, pale, her hair dissheveled, and all she had to eat were a few bowls of soup. On the third day Miss Queta left. Do you want me to bring my mattress up to your room, ma’am? No, Amalia, you go ahead and sleep in your own room. But Amalia stayed on the living room sofa, wrapped in her blanket. In the darkness, her face felt damp. She hated Trinidad, Ambrosio, all of them. She would nod and wake up, she was sorry, she was afraid, and one of those times she saw a light in the hall. She went up, put her ear to the door, she didn’t hear anything and she opened it. The mistress was stretched out on the bed, uncovered, her eyes open: had she been calling her, ma’am? She went over, saw the fallen glass, the mistress’s eyes showing white. She ran shouting into the street. She’d killed herself, and she rang the bell next door, she’d killed herself, and she kicked on the door. A man in his bathrobe came, a woman was slapping the mistress’s face, they pressed on her stomach, they wanted her to vomit, they telephoned. It was almost daybreak when the ambulance arrived.

  The mistress spent a week in the Loayza Hospital. The day she went to visit her, Amalia found her with Miss Queta, Miss Lucy and Señora Ivonne. Pale and thin, but more resigned. Here’s my savior, the mistress joked. How can I tell her there isn’t even anything to eat? she thought. Luckily, the mistress remembered: give her something for her expenses, Quetita. That Sunday she went to meet Ambrosio at the car stop and brought him to the house. He already knew that the mistress had tried to kill herself, Amalia. And how did he know? Because Don Fermín was paying the hospital bill. Don Fermín? Yes, she’d called him and he, gentleman that he is, seeing her in that situation had felt sorry for her and was helping her. Amalia fixed him something to eat and then they listened to the radio. They went to bed in the mistress’s room and Amalia had a laughing attack she couldn’t stop. So that’s what the mirrors were for, so that’s what, the mistress was a regular she-devil, and Ambrosio had to shake her by the shoulders and scold her, annoyed by her laughter. He hadn’t spoken about the little house or getting married again, but they got along well, he and she, they never fought. They always did the same thing: the streetcar, Ludovico’s little room, the movies, one of those dances sometimes. One Sunday Ambrosio got into a fight in a native restaurant in Barrios Altos because some drunks came in shouting Long Live APRA! and he Down with It! Elections were coming up and there were rallies on the Plaza San Martín. The downtown area was full of posters, cars with loudspeakers. Vote for Prado, you know him! they said on the radio, fliers, they sang Lavalle is the man Peru wants! with waltz music, photos, and Amalia was taken by the polka Forward with Belaúnde! The Apristas had come back, pictures of Haya de la Torre came out in the newspapers and she remembered Trinidad. Did she love Ambrosio? Yes, but with him it wasn’t the way it was with Trinidad, with him there wasn’t that suffering, that joy, that heat the way there was with Trinidad. Why do you want Lavalle to win? she asked him, and he because Don Fermín was for him. With Ambrosio everything was peaceful, we’re just two friends who also go to bed together crossed her mind once. Months passed without her visiting Señora Rosario, months without seeing Gertrudis Lama or her aunt. During the week she kept storing up everything that happened in her head and on Sunday she would tell Ambrosio, but he was so reserved that sometimes she would get furious. How’s Missy Teté? fine, and Señora Zoila? fine, had young Santiago come back home? no, did they miss him much? yes, especially Don Fermín. What else, what else? Nothing else. Sometimes teasing, she would scare him: I’m going to pay a visit to Señora Zoila, I’m going to tell Señora Hortensia about us. He would start frothing at the mouth: if you go, you’ll be sorry, if you tell her, we’ll never see each other again. Why all the hiding, all the mystery, all the shame? He was strange, he was crazy, he had his ways. Would you fee
l the same sorrow you did for Trinidad if Ambrosio died? Gertrudis asked her once. No, she’d cry over him, but it wouldn’t be like the end of the world, Gertrudis. It must be because we haven’t lived together, she thought. Maybe if she’d washed his clothes and cooked for him and taken care of him when he was sick it would have been different.

  Señora Hortensia came back to San Miguel all skin and bones. Her clothes were floppy on her, her face was sucked in, her eyes didn’t shine the way they had before. Didn’t the police get her jewels back, ma’am? The mistress laughed listlessly, they’d never find them, and her eyes watered. Lucas was sharper than the police. She still loved him, poor thing. The truth was she hadn’t had many left, Amalia, she’d been selling them because of him, for him. How foolish men were, he didn’t have to steal them from her, Amalia, all he had to do was ask me for them. The mistress had changed. Bad things came to her one after the other and she indifferent, serious, quiet. Prado won, ma’am, APRA turned on Lavalle and voted for Prado and Prado won, that’s what the radio said. But the mistress wasn’t listening to her: I lost my job, Amalia, the fat man didn’t renew my contract. She said it without fury, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. And a few days later, to Miss Queta, my debts are going to swamp me. She didn’t seem scared or concerned. Amalia no longer knew what story to make up when Mr. Poncio came to collect the rent: she’s not home, she went out, tomorrow, Monday. Before, Mr. Poncio had been nothing but flirtation and charm; now he was a hyena: he would get red, cough, swallow. So she’s not home, eh? He gave Amalia a shove and barked Señora Hortensia, enough tricks! From the top of the stairs the mistress looked at him as if he were a little cockroach: what right do you have to shout like that, tell Paredes I’ll pay him another time. You haven’t been paying and Colonel Paredes is on my back, Mr. Poncio barked, we’re going to get you out of here legally. I’ll leave when I damned well please, the mistress said without shouting and he, barking, we’ll give you until Monday or we’ll take steps. Amalia went upstairs afterward thinking she’d be furious. But she wasn’t, she was calm, looking at the ceiling with gelatinous eyes. In Cayo’s time, Paredes refused to take any rent, Amalia, and now, what a difference. She was speaking with a terrible languor, as if she were far away or falling asleep. They’d have to move, there was no other way out, Amalia. Those were agitated days. The mistress would leave early, come home late, I looked at a hundred houses and all too expensive, she would call one man, and another, ask them for a note, a loan, and hang up the telephone and twist her mouth: thankless ingrates. On moving day, Mr. Poncio came by and shut himself up with the mistress in the little room that had been Don Cayo’s. Finally the mistress came down and told the truckers to bring the living room and bar furniture back into the house.

  The lack of that furniture wasn’t even noticed in the apartment in Magdalena Vieja, it was smaller than the little house in San Miguel. There were even too many things, and the mistress sold the desk, the easy chairs, the mirrors and the sideboard. The apartment was on the second floor of a green building, it had a dining room, bedroom, bath, kitchen, small patio, and a maid’s room with its little bath. It was new, and once fixed up, it was quite pretty.

  The first Sunday she met Ambrosio on the Avenida Brasil at the Military Hospital stop, they had a fight. Poor mistress, Amalia told him, the trouble she’d been through, they took away her furniture, Mr. Poncio’s rudeness, and Ambrosio said I’m glad. What? Yes, she was a bitch. What? She sponged off people, she spent her time asking Don Fermín for money and he’d already helped her so much, she had no consideration. Drop her, Amalia, look for another house. I’ll drop you first, Amalia said. They argued for about an hour and only half made up. All right, they wouldn’t talk about her anymore, Amalia, it wasn’t worth our fighting because of that crazy woman.

  With the loans and from what she sold, the mistress wasn’t doing too badly while she looked for work. She finally got a job at a place in Barranco, La Laguna. Once more she began to talk about giving up smoking and she awoke in the morning with her makeup still on. She never mentioned Mr. Lucas, only Miss Queta came to see her. She wasn’t the same as before. She didn’t crack jokes, she didn’t have the wit, the grace, that careless, happy way she had before. Now she thought about money a lot. Quiñoncito is crazy about you, girl, and she didn’t even want to look at him, Quetita, he didn’t have a dime. Then, after a while, she began to go out with men, but she never let them in, she kept them waiting at the door or in the street while she got ready. She was ashamed to have them see how she was living now, Amalia thought. She would get up and fix herself her pisco and ginger ale. She listened to the radio, read the newspaper, phoned Miss Queta, and drank two, three. She didn’t look as pretty, as elegant as before.

  That was how days and weeks went by. When the mistress stopped singing at La Laguna, Amalia only found out about it two days later. The mistress stayed home a Monday and a Tuesday, wasn’t she going to sing that night either, ma’am? She wasn’t going back to La Laguna anymore, Amalia, they were exploiting her, she’d look for a better job. But on the days that followed she didn’t seem too anxious to find another job. She’d stay in bed, the curtains drawn, listening to the radio in the shadows. She’d get up wearily and fix herself a pisco and ginger ale and when Amalia went into the bedroom she would see her, motionless, her gaze lost in the smoke, her voice weak and her gestures tired. Around seven o’clock she would start making up her face and fixing her nails, combing her hair, and around eight o’clock Miss Queta would pick her up in her little car. She would return at dawn, all done in, quite drunk, so tired out that sometimes she would wake Amalia up to help her undress. See how thin she’s getting, Amalia said to Miss Queta, tell her to eat more, she’s going to get sick. Miss Queta would tell her, but she didn’t pay any attention to her. She kept taking her clothes to a seamstress on the Avenida Brasil to have them taken in. Every day she gave Amalia the money for the day and paid her wages punctually, where was she getting money from? No man had spent the night in the Magdalena apartment yet. She probably did her things elsewhere. When the mistress started to work at the Montmartre, she no longer talked about giving up smoking or worried about drafts. Now she didn’t even give a hoot about singing. The way she put on her makeup was so dreary. And keeping the house neat and clean didn’t interest her, she who used to get hysterical if she ran her finger across a table and found dust. And she didn’t notice if the ashtrays were full of butts and hadn’t asked her in the morning anymore did you take a shower, did you put on deodorant? The apartment looked a mess, but Amalia didn’t have time for everything. Besides, cleaning was more work now. The mistress has infected me with her laziness, she told Ambrosio. It’s funny seeing the mistress like this, so sloppy, Miss Queta, could it be that she hasn’t gotten over Mr. Lucas? Yes, Miss Queta said, and also because drinking and tranquilizers keep her half dopey.

  One day there was a knock on the door. Amalia opened it and there was Don Fermín. He didn’t recognize her that time either: Hortensia’s expecting me. How old he’d gotten since the last time, all those gray hairs, those sunken eyes. The mistress sent her out for cigarettes, and on Sunday, when Amalia asked what Don Fermín had been doing there, he made an expression of disgust: to bring her money, that damned woman had made a patsy out of him. What did the mistress ever do to you for you to hate her so much? Nothing to Ambrosio, but she was bleeding Don Fermín, taking advantage of his goodness, anyone else would have told her to go to hell. Amalia became furious: what are you sticking your nose in for, what business is it of yours? Look for a different job, he insisted, can’t you see that she’s starving to death? leave her.