Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “How do you feel, Zavalita?” Periquito’s voice asked.

  “Drunk,” Santiago said. “My head aches.”

  “You were lucky,” Periquito said. “The sand held the van back. Another turn and it would have squashed you.”

  “It’s one of the few important things that ever happened to me, Ambrosio,” Santiago says. “Besides, that was how I met the girl who’s now my wife.”

  He was cold, nothing hurt, but he was still groggy. He heard talk and murmuring, the sound of the motor, other motors, and when he opened his eyes they were putting him on a rolling stretcher. He saw the street and the sky that was starting to get dark, he read La Maison de Santé on the façade of the building they were going into. They took him up to a room on the second floor, Periquito and Darío helped undress him. When he was covered up to his chin by sheets and blankets, he thought I’m going to sleep for a thousand hours. Half asleep, he answered the questions of a man with glasses and a white apron.

  “Tell Arispe not to print anything, Periquito.” He barely recognized his voice. “My father mustn’t know about this.”

  “A romantic meeting,” Ambrosio says. “Did she win your love by healing you?”

  “Sneaking me smokes is more like it,” Santiago says.

  *

  “This is your night, Quetita,” Malvina said. “You look positively royal.”

  “You’re going to be picked up by a chauffeur.” Robertito blinked. “Like a queen, Quetita.”

  “It’s true, you’ve won the lottery,” Malvina said.

  “Me too and all of us,” Ivonne said, taking leave of her with a malicious smile. “You know, with golden gloves, Quetita.”

  Earlier, when Quetita was getting ready, Ivonne had come to help her set her hair and oversee her dressing personally: she had even loaned her a necklace that matched her bracelet. Have I won the lottery? Queta was thinking, surprised at not being excited or happy or even curious. She went out and at the door of the house she gave a little start: the same daring and startled eyes from yesterday. But the black man looked at her directly for only a few seconds; he lowered his head, murmured good evening, hastened to open the door of the car, which was black, large and severe like a hearse. She got in without answering his good evening, and she saw another fellow there in front next to the chauffeur. Also tall, also strong, also dressed in blue.

  “If you’re cold and want me to close the window …” the Negro murmured, sitting behind the wheel now, and she saw the whites of his large eyes for an instant.

  The car started up in the direction of the Plaza Dos de Mayo, turned down Alfonso Ugarte toward Bolognesi, went along the Avenida Brasil, and when they went under the lampposts, Queta noticed the greedy little animals still in the rear-view mirror, looking for her. The other man had started to smoke and didn’t turn to look at her or even take a peek in the mirror during the whole drive. Near the Malecón now, they entered Magdalena Nueva along a side street, following the streetcar line toward San Miguel, and every time she looked at the mirror, Queta saw them: burning, fleeing.

  “Have I got monkeys on my face?” she said, thinking this idiot is going to run into something. “For you to keep looking at me?”

  The heads in front turned and went back into place, the black man’s voice came out unbearably confused, him? sorry, was she talking to him? and Queta thought how afraid you are of Cayo Shithead. The car went this way and that down the small, dark, silent streets of San Miguel and finally came to a stop. She saw a garden, a small two-story house, a window with curtains that let the light filter through. The black man got out to open the door. He was there, his ash-colored hand on the door handle, head down and cowardly, trying to open his mouth. Is it here? Queta murmured. The little houses were identical, one after the other in the stingy light, behind the little trees lined up on the gloomy sidewalks. Two policemen were looking at the car from the corner and the fellow inside made a signal as if to tell them it’s us. It wasn’t a large house, it couldn’t be his house, Queta thought: it must be the one he uses for his filthy stuff.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you,” the black man babbled, with an oblique and humble voice. “I wasn’t looking at you. But if you think I was, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Don’t be afraid, I won’t mention it to Cayo Shithead.” Queta laughed. “I just don’t like fresh people.”

  She went through the garden that smelled of damp flowers, and when she rang the bell she heard voices, music from the other side of the door. The lights inside made her blink. She recognized the thin, small figure of the man, his devastated face, the boredom of his mouth and his lifeless eyes: come in, welcome. Thanks for sending the car for me, she said, and was silent: there was a woman there, looking at her with a curious smile, in front of a bar covered with bottles. Queta was motionless, her hands hanging alongside her body, disconcerted suddenly.

  “This is the famous Queta.” Cayo Shithead had closed the door, had sat down, and now he and the woman were observing her. “Come in, famous Queta. This is Hortensia, the mistress of the house.”

  “I thought they were all old, ugly and peasants,” the woman shrilled liquidly and Queta managed to think in confusion, boy, is she drunk. “Or did you lie to me, Cayo?”

  She gave another laugh, exaggerated and graceless, and the man, with a weak half-smile, pointed to the chair: sit down, she was going to get tired standing up. She came forward as if over ice or wax, afraid to slip, to fall, and sink into an even worse confusion, and she sat down on the edge of the chair, rigid. Again she heard the music that she had forgotten about or which had stopped; it was a tango by Gardel and the phonograph was there, mounted in a mahogany cabinet. She saw the woman get up weaving and saw her clumsy uncertain fingers manipulating a bottle and glasses at one end of the bar. She studied her tight iridescent silk dress, the whiteness of her shoulders and arms, her coal-black hair, the hand that sparkled, her profile, and, still perplexed, thought how much she looked like her, how much they looked alike. The woman came toward her with two glasses in her hands, walking as if she didn’t have any bones, and Queta looked away.

  “Cayo told me she was quite beautiful and I thought it was a tale.” She was looking at her from the feet up and hesitating, looking at her from the top down with the glassily smiling eyes of a pampered cat, and when she leaned over to give her the glass, she smelled her belligerent, incisive perfume. “But it’s true, the famous Queta is quite beautiful.”

  “Cheers, famous Queta,” Cayo Shithead commanded without emotion. “Let’s see if a drink will lift your spirits.”

  Mechanically, she raised the glass to her mouth, closed her eyes and drank. A spiral of heat, a tickling in her eyes, and she thought straight whiskey. But she took another long sip and took a cigarette from the pack the man offered her. He lit it for her and Queta discovered the woman sitting next to her now, smiling with familiarity. Making an effort, she also smiled.

  “You look just like …” she got the courage to say and a thread of falseness invaded her, a sticky feeling of the ridiculous. “Just like a certain singer.”

  “What singer?” The woman encouraged her, smiling, looking at Cayo Shithead out of the corner of her eye, looking back at her again. “Like?”

  “Yes,” Queta said; she took another sip and breathed deeply. “Like the Muse, the one who used to sing at the Embassy Club. I saw her several times and …”

  She stopped speaking because the woman was laughing. Her eyes were shining, glassy and fascinated.

  “That Muse is an awful singer,” Cayo Shithead commanded, nodding. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t think so,” Queta said. “She sings nice, especially boleros.”

  “You see? Ha! Ha!” the woman broke out, pointing to Queta, making a face at Cayo Shithead. “You see how I’m wasting my time with you? See how you’re ruining my career?”

  It can’t be, Queta thought, and that feeling of the ridiculous came over her again. It burned her face, she
felt the urge to run, break things. She finished her glass in one swallow and felt flames in her throat and a touch of warmth in her stomach. Then a pleasant visceral warmth that gave her back a little of her self-control.

  “I knew it was you, I recognized you,” she said, trying to smile. “Just that …”

  “Just that you’ve finished your drink,” the woman said in a friendly way. She got up like a wave, weaving slowly, and looked at her happily, euphorically, gratefully. “I adore you for what you said. You see, Cayo, you see?”

  While the woman stumbled over to the bar, Queta turned toward Cayo Shithead. He was drinking seriously, looking into the dining room, he seemed absorbed in intimate and grave meditations, far away from there, and she thought it’s absurd, she thought I hate you. When the woman handed her the glass of whiskey, she leaned over and spoke to her in a low voice: could she tell her where the …? Yes, certainly, come along, I’ll show you where. He didn’t look at them. Queta went upstairs behind the woman, who was clutching the railing and feeling the steps with mistrust before putting her foot down, and it occurred to her she’s going to insult me, now that the two of them were alone she was going to throw her out. And she thought: she’s going to offer you money to leave. The Muse opened a door, showed her the inside without smiling now and Queta murmured a quick thanks. But it wasn’t the bathroom, it was the bedroom, one out of a movie or a dream: mirrors, a thick carpet, mirrors, a screen, a black bedcover with an embroidered yellow animal that was spitting fire, more mirrors.

  “There, in the back,” was said behind her, without hostility, in the woman’s insecure, alcoholic voice. “That door.”

  She went into the bathroom, locked the door, breathed with anxiety. What was that all about, what kind of a game was that, what were those people thinking about? She looked in the bathroom mirror; her face, all made up, still had the look of perplexity, upset, surprise. She turned the water on to fake it, sat on the edge of the tub. Was the Muse his …? He’d had her come to …? Did the Muse know that? It occurred to her that they were spying on her through the keyhole and she went to the door, knelt down and looked through the small opening: a circle of rugs, shadows. Cayo Shithead, she had to get out of there, she wanted to get out of there, Shithead Muse. She felt rage, confusion, humiliation, laughter. She stayed inside a short while longer, tiptoeing on the white tiles, wrapped in the bluish light of the phosphorescent tube, trying to put her boiling head in order, but she only got more confused. She flushed the toilet, fixed her hair in front of the mirror, took a breath and opened the door. The woman had lain across the bed, and Queta felt for an instant that she was distracted, looking at the reclining figure motionless with such white skin, in contrast to the jet black shiny bedcover. But the woman had raised her eyes in her direction. She was looking at her slowly, inspecting her with a slow, prolonged relaxation, not smiling, not annoyed. An interested and at the same time thoughtful look, under the drunken mirror of her eyes.

  “Might I know what I’m doing here?” she asked with drive, taking a few resolute steps toward the bed.

  “Come on, all we need is for you to get mad.” The Muse lost her seriousness, her sparkling eyes were looking at her in amusement.

  “Not mad, I just don’t understand.” Queta felt herself reflected, projected on all sides, thrown upward, sent back, attacked by all those mirrors. “Tell me why they had me come here.”

  “Stop your nonsense and talk to me in the familiar form,” the woman whispered; she moved a little on the bed, contracting and expanding her body like an earthworm, and Queta saw that she had taken off her shoes, and for a second, through her stockings, she saw her painted toenails. “You know my name, Hortensia. Come on, sit down here, stop your nonsense.”

  She was speaking to her without hatred or friendship, with her voice a little evasive and calm because of the alcohol, and she kept looking fixedly at her. As if appraising me, Queta thought, nauseous, as if … She hesitated a moment and sat on the edge of the bed, all the pores of her body alert. Hortensia was leaning her head on a hand, her posture was abandoned and soft.

  “You know only too well why,” she said, without anger, without bitterness, with a lascivious trace of mockery in her eyes that she was trying to hide and Queta thought what? Her eyes were large, green, with lashes that didn’t look artificial and which shaded her eyelids; she had thick, moist lips, her throat was smooth and long and the veins could be sensed, thin and blue. She didn’t know what to think, what to say, what? Hortensia fell back, laughed as if in spite of herself, covered her face with her arm, stretched with a kind of avidity and suddenly reached out a hand and took Queta by the wrist: you know only too well why. Like a customer, she thought, frightened and not moving, as if, looking at the white fingers with blood-red nails on her dull skin and now Hortensia was looking at her intensely, without hiding it now, challenging now.

  “I’d better go,” she heard herself say, stammering, quiet and astonished. “You’d rather I left, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m going to tell you something.” She was still holding her, she had got a little closer to her, her voice had grown thicker, and Queta felt her breath. “I was terrified that you’d be old, ugly, that you’d be dirty.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” Queta babbled stupidly, breathing with effort, remembering the mirrors. “Was I brought here for …?”

  “But you’re not,” Hortensia whispered and brought her face even closer and Queta saw the exasperated joy in her eyes, the movement of her mouth as it seemed to smoke. “You’re pretty and young. You’re nice and clean.”

  She put out the other hand and took Queta’s other arm. She was looking at her boldly, mockingly, twisting her body a little to sit up, murmuring you’re going to have to teach me, letting herself fall backward, and looking at her from below, her eyes open, exultant, she was smiling and raving use the intimate form with me right now, if they were going to bed together she couldn’t address her formally, could she? without letting go of her, obliging her with soft pressure to lean over, to let herself go against her. Teach you? Queta thought, me teach you? giving in, feeling her confusion disappearing, laughing.

  “Good,” commanded a voice behind her that was beginning to come out of its boredom. “You finally became friends.”

  *

  He woke up ravenous; his head no longer ached, but he felt jabs in his back and cramps. The room was small, cold and bare, with windows opening on a passageway with columns along which nuns and nurses passed. They brought him his breakfast and he ate voraciously.

  “Please don’t eat the dish,” the nurse said. “I’ll bring you another roll, if you want.”

  “And more coffee too, if you can,” Santiago said. “I haven’t eaten a bite since yesterday noon.”

  The nurse brought him another full breakfast and stayed in the room, watching him eat. There she was, Zavalita, so dark, so neat, so young in her white unwrinkled uniform, her white stockings, her short boy’s bob and her starched cap, standing by the bed with her trim legs and her filiform model’s body, smiling with her hungry teeth.

  “So you’re a newspaperman?” Her eyes were lively and impertinent and she had a thin mocking voice. “How did you happen to turn over?”

  “Ana,” Santiago says. “Yes, very young. Five years younger than I.”

  “The bumps you got, even though nothing is broken, sometimes leave a person a little foolish.” The nurse laughed. “That’s why they’ve kept you under observation.”

  “Don’t lower my morale like that,” Santiago said. “Give me some encouragement instead.”

  “Why does the idea of being a father bother you?” Ambrosio asks. “If everybody in Peru had that idea, there wouldn’t be any people left in the country, son.”

  “So you work for La Crónica?” she repeated; she had one hand on the door as if she were going to leave, but she’d been standing there for five minutes. “Journalism must be very interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Althou
gh I have to confess that when I found out I was going to be a father I got terrified too,” Ambrosio says. “It takes you a while to get used to it, son.”

  “It is, but it’s got its bad points, a person can crack his skull from one moment to the next,” Santiago said. “You can do me a great favor. Could you send someone out to buy some cigarettes?”