Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Patients aren’t allowed to smoke,” she said. “You’ll have to bear with it while you’re here. It’s better that way, you’ll get rid of all the poison.”

  “I’m dying for a smoke,” Santiago said. “Don’t be mean. Get me some. Even if it’s just one.”

  “What does your wife think?” Ambrosio says. “Because she must certainly want to have children. Women like being mothers.”

  “What will you do for me in return?” she asked. “Will you print my picture in your newspaper?”

  “I suppose so,” Santiago says. “But Ana’s a good person and does what I like.”

  “If the doctor finds out, he’ll kill me,” the nurse said with the look of an accomplice. “Smoke it on the sly and put the butt in the bedpan.”

  “Ugh, it’s a Country,” Santiago said, coughing. “Do you smoke this crap?”

  “My, how choosy,” she said, laughing. “I don’t smoke. I went out and stole it for you so you could keep up your habit.”

  “The next time steal a Nacional Presidente and I give you my promise I’ll print your picture on the society page,” Santiago said.

  “I stole it off Dr. Franco,” she said, making a face. “God protect you from falling into his hands. He’s the nastiest one here, and stupid besides. All he ever prescribes are suppositories.”

  “What did this poor Dr. Franco ever do to you?” Santiago asked. “Does he flirt with you?”

  “What a thing to think, the old man hasn’t got any wind left.” Two dimples appeared on her cheeks and her laugh was quick and sharp, uncomplicated. “He must be over a hundred.”

  All morning they had him back and forth between one room and another, taking x-rays and giving tests; the hazy doctor from the night before put him through a questioning that was almost a police grilling. There was nothing broken, apparently, but he didn’t like those shooting pains, young man, they’d see what the x-rays said. At noon Arispe came by and joked with him: he’d covered his ears and made a sign against the evil eye, Zavalita, he could imagine the curses he’d gotten. The editor sends his greetings, that you should stay in the hospital all the time you need, the newspaper would also pay for any extras just as long as you didn’t order any banquets from the Hotel Bolívar. You really don’t want your family notified, Zavalita? No, the old man would get a scare and it wasn’t worth it, there was nothing wrong with him. In the afternoon Periquito and Darío came; they only had a few bruises and they were happy. They’d got two days off and that night they were going to a party together. A while later Solórzano, Milton and Norwin arrived, and when they’d all left, there appeared as if just rescued from a shipwreck, cadaverous and lovey-dovey, China and Carlitos.

  “Look at your faces,” Santiago said. “You must have kept that wild time of the other night going right up till now.”

  “We did,” China said, yawning ostentatiously; she flopped onto the foot of the bed and took off her shoes. “I don’t know what day it is or even what time it is.”

  “I haven’t been to La Crónica for two days,” Carlitos said, yellow, his nose red, his eyes jellylike and happy. “I called Arispe and invented an attack of ulcers and he told me about the accident. I didn’t come earlier so I wouldn’t run into anyone from the paper.”

  “Regards from Ada Rosa.” China gave a loud laugh. “Hasn’t she been to see you?”

  “Don’t talk to me about Ada Rosa,” Santiago said. “The other night she turned into a panther.”

  But China interrupted him with her torrential, fluvial laugh: they already knew, she’d told them what happened herself. Ada Rosa was like that, she’d get someone all worked up and back down at the last minute, a tease, crazy. China laughed with contortions, clapping her hands like a seal. Her lips were painted in the shape of a heart, a very high baroque hairdo that gave her face a haughty aggressiveness, and everything about her seemed more excessive than ever that night: her gestures, her curves, her beauty spots. And Carlitos was suffering because of that, he thinks, his anguish, his serenity all depended on that.

  “She made me sleep on the rug,” Santiago said. “My body doesn’t ache from the accident but from that hard floor you’ve got at your place.”

  Carlitos and China stayed and chatted for about an hour, and as soon as they left the nurse came in. She had a malicious smile hovering on her lips, and a devilish look.

  “Well, well, such girl friends as you’ve got,” she said as she arranged the pillows. “Isn’t that María Antonieta Pons who was just here one of the Bim-Bam-Booms?”

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve seen the Bim-Bam-Booms too?” Santiago said.

  “I’ve seen pictures of them,” she said; and let out a little serpentine laugh. “Is that Ada Rosa another one of the Bim-Bam-Booms?”

  “Ah, you were spying on us.” Santiago laughed. “Did we use a lot of dirty words?”

  “A whole lot, especially that María Antonieta Pons. I had to cover my ears,” the nurse said. “And your little friend, the one who made you sleep on the floor, does she have the same kind of garbage-can mouth?”

  “Even worse than this one,” Santiago said. “She’s nothing to me, she didn’t give me a tumble.”

  “With that saintly little face, no one would have ever thought you were a wild one,” she said, breaking up with laughter.

  “Are they going to discharge me tomorrow?” Santiago asked. “I don’t feel like spending Saturday and Sunday here.”

  “Don’t you like my company?” she asked. “I’ll stay with you, what more could you want. I’m on duty this weekend. But now that I see you hang out with chorus girls, I don’t trust you anymore.”

  “And what have you got against chorus girls?” Santiago asked. “Aren’t they women just like any others?”

  “Are they?” she said, her eyes sparkling. “What are chorus girls like, what do they do? Tell me, you know them so well.”

  It had started like that, gone on like that, Zavalita: jokes, games. You thought what a flirt she is, lucky to have her there, she helped kill time, you thought too bad she isn’t prettier. Why her, Zavalita? She kept coming into the room, bringing meals, and she would stay and chat until the head nurse or nun came and then she would start adjusting the sheets or would stick the thermometer into your mouth and put on a comical professional expression. She would laugh, she loved to tease you, Zavalita. It was impossible to know if her terrible, universal curiosity—how did a person get to be a newspaperman, what was it like being a newspaperman, how were stories written—was sincere or strategic, if her flirting was disinterested and sporting or if she really had zeroed in on you or whether you, the way she was with you, were only helping her kill time. She’d been born in Ica, she lived near the Plaza Bolognesi, she’d finished nursing school a few months before, she was serving her internship at La Maison de Santé. She was talkative and obliging, she sneaked him cigarettes and loaned him newspapers. On Friday the doctor said that the tests were not satisfactory and that the specialist was going to have a look at him. The name of the specialist was Mascaró, and after glancing apathetically at the x-ray pictures, he said they’re no good, take some new ones. Carlitos appeared at dusk on Saturday with a package under his arm, sober and very sad: yes, they’d had a fight, this time it’s over for good. He’d brought some Chinese food, Zavalita, they wouldn’t throw him out, would they? The nurse got them some plates and silverware, chatted with them and even tried a little of the fried rice. When visiting hours were over, she let Carlitos stay a while longer and offered to sneak him out. Carlitos had also brought some liquor in a small bottle without a label, and with the second drink he began to curse La Crónica, China, Lima and the world and Ana was looking at him scandalized. At ten o’clock she made him leave. But she came back to take the plates away and, as she left, she winked at him from the door: I hope you dream about me. She left and Santiago could hear her laughing in the hall. On Monday the specialist examined the new x-rays and said disappointedly you’re healthier than I am. Ana
was off that day. You’d left her a note at the desk, Zavalita. Thanks so much for everything, he thinks, I’ll give you a call one of these days.

  *

  “But what was that Don Hilario like?” Santiago asks. “Besides being a thief, I mean.”

  Ambrosio had come back a little tight from his first talk with Don Hilario Morales. The guy had acted stuck-up at first, he’d told Amalia, he saw my color and thought I didn’t have a cent to my name. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ambrosio was going to propose a business deal between equals, but that he’d come to beg for some little job. But maybe the man had come back tired from Tingo María, Ambrosio, maybe that’s why he didn’t give you a good reception. Maybe, Amalia: the first thing he’d done when he saw Ambrosio was to tell him, panting like a toad and pouring out curses, that the truck he brought back from Tingo María had been stopped eight times by washouts after the storm, and that the trip, God damn it, had taken thirty-five hours. Anyone else would have taken the initiative and said come on, I’ll buy you a beer, but not Don Hilario, Amalia; although in that, Ambrosio had screwed him. Maybe the man didn’t like to drink, Amalia had consoled him.

  “A man of about fifty, son,” Ambrosio says. “He was always picking his teeth.”

  Don Hilario had received him in his ancient spotted office on the Plaza de Armas without even telling him to have a seat. He’d left him waiting on his feet while he read the letter from Ludovico that Ambrosio had handed him, and only after he had finished reading it had he pointed to a chair, without friendliness, with resignation. He had looked him up and down and finally had deigned to open his mouth: how was that rascal of a Ludovico?

  “Doing fine now, sir,” Ambrosio had said. “After dreaming for so many years about getting on the regular list, he’s finally made it. He’s been going up the ladder and now he’s subchief of the Homicide Division.”

  But Don Hilario didn’t seem the least bit enthusiastic about the news, Amalia. He’d shrugged his shoulders, he’d scratched a black tooth with the nail of his little finger, which he kept very long, spat, and murmured who can figure him out. Because even though he was his nephew, Ludovico had been born dumb and a failure.

  “And a stud horse, son,” Ambrosio says. “Three homes in Pucallpa, each with its own woman and a mob of kids in all three of them.”

  “Well, tell me what I can do for you,” Don Hilario had finally muttered. “What brings you to Pucallpa?”

  “Looking for work, like Ludovico says in the letter,” Ambrosio had said.

  Don Hilario laughed with the croak of a parrot, shaking all over.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he had said, scratching his tooth furiously. “This is the last place on earth to come to looking for work. Haven’t you seen all those guys walking up and down the street with their hands in their pockets? Eighty percent of the people here are unemployed, there’s no work to be had. Unless you want to go work with a hoe on some farm or work as a day laborer for the army men who are building the highway. But it’s not easy and they’re jobs that don’t give you enough to eat. There’s no future here. Get back to Lima as fast as you can go.”

  Ambrosio had felt like telling him to go to hell, Amalia, but he’d held back, smiled amiably, and that was where he’d screwed him: would he like to go somewhere and have a beer, sir? It was hot, why couldn’t they have a little talk while they were drinking something cool, sir. He’d left him surprised with that invitation, Amalia, he’d realized that Ambrosio wasn’t what he thought he was. They’d gone to the Calle Comercio, taken a small table at El Gallo de Oro, ordered two ice-cold beers.

  “I didn’t come to ask you for a job, sir,” Ambrosio had said after the first sip, “But to make you a business proposition.”

  Don Hilario had drunk slowly, looking at him attentively. He’d put his glass down on the table, scratched the back of his neck with its greasy creases, spat into the street, watched the thirsty ground swallow his saliva.

  “Aha,” he had said slowly, nodding, and as if speaking to the halo of buzzing flies. “But in order to do business you need capital, my friend.”

  “I know that, sir,” Ambrosio had said. “I’ve got a little money saved up. I wanted to see if you could help me invest it in something good. Ludovico told me my Uncle Hilario is a fox when it comes to business.”

  “You screwed him again there,” Amalia had said, laughing.

  “He became a different person,” Ambrosio had said. “He began to treat me like a human being.”

  “Oh, that Ludovico,” Don Hilario had rasped with a sudden good-natured air. “He told you the absolute truth. Some people are born to be aviators, others to be singers. I was born for business.”

  He’d smiled roguishly at Ambrosio: he was wise to have come to him, he would pilot him. They would find something where they could make a little money. And out of the blue: let’s go to a Chinese restaurant, he was beginning to get hungry, how about it? All of a sudden as smooth as silk, see the way people are, Amalia?

  “He lived in all three of them at the same time,” Ambrosio says. “And later on I found out that he had a wife and kids in Tingo María too, just imagine, son.”

  “But you still haven’t told me how much you’ve got saved up,” Amalia had dared to ask.

  “Twenty thousand soles,” Don Fermín had said. “Yes, yours, for you. It will help you get started again, help you disappear, you poor devil. No crying, Ambrosio. Go on, on your way. God bless you, Ambrosio.”

  “He bought me a big meal and we had half a dozen beers,” Ambrosio had said. “He paid for everything, Amalia.”

  “In business, the first thing is to know what you’re dealing with,” Don Hilario had said. “The same as in war. You have to know what forces you have to send into battle.”

  “My forces right now are fifteen thousand soles,” Ambrosio had said. “I have more in Lima, and if the deal suits me, I can get that money later.”

  “It isn’t too much,” Don Hilario had reflected, two greedy fingers in his mouth. “But something can be done.”

  “With all that family I’m not surprised he was a thief,” Santiago says.

  Ambrosio would have liked something related to the Morales Transportation Co., sir, because he’d been a chauffeur, that was his field. Don Hilario had smiled, Amalia, encouraging him. He explained that the company had been started five years before with two vans, and that now it had two small trucks and three vans, the first for cargo and the second for passengers, which made up the Tingo María–Pucallpa line. Hard work, Ambrosio: the highway a disaster, it ruined tires and motors. But as he could see, he’d brought the business along.

  “I was thinking about a secondhand pickup. I’ve got the down payment, the rest I’ll pay off as I work.”

  “That’s out, because you’d be in competition with me,” Don Hilario had said with a friendly chuckle.

  “Nothing is set yet,” Ambrosio had said. “He said we’ve made the first contacts. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  They’d seen each other the next day and the next and the one after that, and each time Ambrosio had come back to the cabin tight and with the smell of beer, stating that this Don Hilario turned out to be quite a boozer! At the end of a week they’d reached an agreement, Amalia: Ambrosio would drive one of Morales Transportation’s buses with a base salary of five hundred plus ten percent of the fares, and he would go in as Don Hilario’s partner in a little deal that was a sure thing. And Amalia, seeing that he was hesitating, what little deal?

  “Limbo Coffins,” Ambrosio had said, a little drunk. “We bought it for thirty thousand, Don Hilario says the price was a giveaway. I won’t even have to look at the dead people, he’s going to run the funeral parlor and give me my share of the profits every six months. Why are you making that face, what’s wrong with it?”

  “There’s probably nothing wrong with it, but I have a funny feeling,” Amalia had said. “Especially since the dead people are children.”

  “We’ll mak
e boxes for old people too,” Ambrosio had said. “Don Hilario says it’s the safest thing there is because people are always dying. We’ll go fifty-fifty on the profits. He’ll run the place and won’t collect anything for that. What more could I want, isn’t that so?”

  “So you’ll be traveling to Tingo María all the time now,” Amalia had said.

  “Yes, and I won’t be able to keep an eye on the business,” Ambrosio had answered. “You’ll have to keep your eyes wide open, count all the coffins that come out. It’s good we’re so close by. You can keep an eye on it without leaving the house.”

  “All right,” Amalia had said. “But it gives me a funny feeling.”

  “All in all, for months on end I did nothing but start up, put on the brakes, pick up speed,” Ambrosio said. “I was driving the oldest thing on wheels in the world, son. It was called The Jungle Flash.”

  3

  “SO YOU WERE THE FIRST ONE to get married, son,” Ambrosio says. “You set the example for your brother and sister.”

  From La Maison de Santé he went to the boardinghouse in Barranco to shave and change his clothes and then to Miraflores. It was only three in the afternoon, but he saw Don Fermín’s car parked by the outside door. The butler received him with a grave face: the master and mistress had been worried because he hadn’t come to lunch on Sunday, master. Teté and Sparky weren’t there. He found Señora Zoila watching television in the little room she had fixed up under the stairway for the young people’s Thursday canasta parties.

  “It’s about time,” she muttered, raising her furrowed brow. “Have you come to see if we’re still alive?”

  He tried to break through her annoyance with jokes—you were in a good mood, Zavalita, free after being shut up in the hospital—but she, while she cast continuous involuntary glances at her soap opera, kept scolding him: they’d set a place for him on Sunday, Teté and Popeye and Sparky and Cary had waited until three o’clock for you, you ought to be more considerate to your father, who’s not well. Knowing that he counts the days until he can see you, he thinks, knowing how upset he gets when you don’t come. He thinks: he’d listened to the doctors, he wasn’t going to the office, he was resting, you thought he was completely recovered. And still that afternoon you could see he wasn’t, Zavalita. He was in the study, alone, a blanket over his knees, sitting in the usual easy chair. He was thumbing through a magazine and when he saw Santiago come in he smiled at him with affectionate crossness. His skin, still tanned from the summer, had grown old, a strange tic had appeared on his face, and it was as if in a few days he had lost twenty pounds. He was tieless, with a corduroy jacket, and tufts of grayish fuzz peeped through the open collar of his shirt. Santiago sat down beside him.